The Front Runner

track where he had lain, there was a wet imprint of sweat from his limbs. It was already drying. I looked at his eyes. They were half-open, gazing softly, so clear, so empty now. The left eye had a film of blood over it.
    Some of the runners had come jogging back up the track to see what the trouble was. Armas, somewhat recovered now, was with them. He bent beside me, looked at Billy, muttered something in Finnish, and put one hand over his eyes. His shoulders started to shake. Someone pulled him to his feet and led him away.
    Someone put his arms across my shoulders. I looked blankly up, into Mike Stella's face. He was dead white, and the tears had run clear down to his jaws. Tay Parker 'was kneeling there with Billy's head on his knees, crying. More and more people were coming across the infield. A photographer shouldered his way through the group and flashed a picture. Then another one.
    It began to occur to me that it was strange—all these tears, but none in my own eyes. I was clenching the broken glasses so hard that my hand was cut.
    Suddenly the voice of the announcer cut through everything.
    "Ladies and gentlemen, Billy Sive is badly hurt . . . the information reaching us from the track is garbled ... a correction, we regret to announce . . ." The announcer's voice was breaking. "We regret . . . Billy Sive is dead . . ."
    A wave of gasps and screams went through that huge place. Even in my benumbed state I felt it.
    "... Dead ... apparently shot from the stands ..."
    Screams of panic at the thought of a gunman loose in the crowd.
    ". . . Ladies and gentlemen, please, no panic . . . the police have arrested the gunman as . . . trying to leave the stadium..."
    The voice was cutting through my head.
    "Billy Sive is dead . . ." The announcer himself breaking up, trying to control his voice.
    The high jumpers and officials beginning to run across the infield, abandoning their event.
    Somebody was prying my hand open, taking away from me the broken glasses, mopping my hand with a handkerchief. I was helping Tay to carry Billy. He was so warm and limp, and his shattered head rolled against my breast. They had killed him, right there on the track where we'd thought he was safest.
    ". . . Dead . . . shocking . . . tragic . . . keep calm ... the athletes are..."
    In the first-aid room, Tay was picking the glass out of my hand and taking a few stitches. Billy was on a stretcher, covered with a sheet. Someone was jabbing
    a sedative shot into Vince's shoulder to quiet him down.
    My eyes were dry. They were almost unblinking. The" times were still up there on the huge scoreboard.
    ARMAS SEPPONAN FINLAND 13:04.5 FRANCOIS GEFFROY FRANCE 13:10.1 JOHN FELTS AUSTRALIA 13:10.9 VITALIY KOSTENKO USSR 13:11.4 BOB BELLINGER USA 13:11.6 It was not until later that I was able to reflect on the irony. Only death could force my front-runner to give away a world record, like the one he gave to Armas.
    It was not until later that I was able to reflect on it as history. At Munich and Mexico City they had slaughtered the innocents out of sight, behind the scenes. Here they had slaughtered the innocent in full sight of the crowd, at the peak of his life.
    NINETEEN
    SLOWLY, in the next couple of days, as Canadian police questioned Billy's killer, the story came out.
    How he became increasingly disturbed at our existence, how his latent, repressed homosexuality made him fear, love, and hate Billy. How he became obsessed with the idea of killing Billy on the track, how he finally decided there was no better place to do it than the Olympics.
    How Richard Mech traveled to Canada weeks before the games. How he posed as a workman, smuggled his weapon into the stadium and concealed it, foreseeing that security would be tight because of all the rumors. How he was not able to carry out his plan during the 10,000 meter, and had to wait till the following Sunday. How he stood in one of the exits off the stands, holding the rifle under his coat. How he snatched it out quickly as Billy and Armas rounded the last turn and no one paid any attention because they were screaming and yelling. How he held his fire because he didn't want to hit Armas by mistake. How he fired as Billy pulled away in his finishing sprint.
    Like me, Mech was a military man and a marksman. Like me, he loved the Bible. But in his fear he saw himself as God's avenging angel, sent to wipe Billy from the earth with the ardor of his own personal fire and brimstone. Insane though he