FriendorFoe, Page 2

  "Yes. I mean, the damage was minimal. Sparky'll have everything ready by the morning."

  "Excellent." Simon stretched his left hamstring and nodded. "I assume we have the men in custody?"

  "Right. Er--most of them. Maximus followed the remaining two as far as the Rutherford estate."

  "Did he manage to connect them to Spaulding?"

  Chief Poole stared openly at him.

  "No? Well, did he at least trail them long enough to lead us to The Spartan's hideout?"

  "No," Poole said. "He didn't."

  Simon shook his head. "I fear, Chief Poole, that we may rely too heavily on this superhero of yours."

  "Right. Well."

  "It's a pity he couldn't get us a solid lead. Still, four goons in the jailhouse isn't a bad thing."

  "Five," Chief Poole corrected.

  "Five?" Simon rolled his eyes and counted to himself. "Right," he said. "Five."

  The two men exchanged smiles. Five goons in the town clink would keep things fairly quiet tomorrow. Unless Spaulding had managed to import a batch of new recruits, he should be running low on manpower.

  "About tomorrow," Poole said. "I plan to start the race immediately following the parade."

  "Of course. Wouldn't have it any other way."

  "And the obstacles this year--"

  "Don't," Simon interrupted. "I want no advantage over Spaulding."

  "I know, but it seems our designer has ties to Rutherford."

  "Of course he does." Simon stretched the other hamstring.

  "Which means that Spaulding already knows what's coming," Chief Poole reiterated. "Simon, he has the advantage over you. If a Rutherford were to win controlling leverage with the town council--"

  "Never going to happen."

  "It's happened before." The chief's eyes narrowed. His jaw tensed at the memory.

  "Not on my watch." Simon returned the man's stare. It was unfair to remind him, unfair to blame any Maxwell for what happened that year. But the chief had been around to see what Rutherford's stint in power had done to the town. Simon couldn't blame the man for his concern. "Don't you worry, Chief. Spaulding can't beat me, regardless of his advantage. He never could."

  "All right, Mr. Maxwell," Poole ran a big hand through his gray hair. "We'll trust in that."

  "Good."

  "Have a restful evening, Mr. Maxwell. I'll see you in the morning."

  "Goodnight." Simon pressed the button and the wall faded to black again.

  He frowned and crossed to the king-sized bed, flopping down and placing both hands behind his head. He never lost. There was no point in worrying about it. He let his gaze drift over the textured ceiling, looking for patterns, faces in the randomness. A Maxwell had never lost a race to a Rutherford, not one that they'd actually ran.

  He'd been thirteen that year, the year Spaulding's father won the annual competition and seized control of the town council. Simon remembered the night his father disappeared. He remembered the week leading up to the race, remembered wondering each night if his dad would ever walk through their front door again.

  He remembered his mother's frown as she watched out the kitchen window ten, fifteen times a day. Even then, Simon noticed her gaze wandering to the far hill where the Rutherford estate sprawled. Even then, he'd suspected what she must have known.

  She'd called on them once during the week, had left him with a kiss on the forehead and walked right up to the Rutherford's front door. Rumor had it she spoke to Rutherford Senior himself, to her husband's business partner, to a family friend who also happened to be a rival both politically and socially. But she'd returned alone and without news.

  It hardly mattered what Rutherford said to his mother. Both she and Simon knew who'd abducted Mr. Maxwell. They knew why. The entire town knew. But every night they went to bed without word from Simon's father. And even after the race had been called and Rutherford announced his controlling interest for the year, Mr. Maxwell remained missing.

  The adult Simon knew more. He knew what the Rutherfords were capable of. He knew Spaulding like no one else did. They might have kept his father locked up there longer, might never have set the man free. If it hadn't been for her.

  His bedroom door rattled as an aging fist knocked against the wood. Simon sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Come in, Mr. Swain."

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir." The ancient butler's face appeared around the door's edge. "But you have a call waiting."

  Simon glanced to where the light flashed again. How long had he ignored it? He smiled at Swain and stood. He didn't have time to relive the past, he had a job to do. "Thank you, Swain. Did you catch who was on the line?"

  "It's Mr. Rutherford, sir."

  Simon nodded and crossed to the phone. Spaulding. Of course Spaulding would call tonight.

  * * * *

  Agnes sat in the mauve wingback and watched her brother pace. The chair faced the long, parlor windows that would have let in a lovely slant of light during daylight hours if the Rutherfords had ever let the brocade curtains be drawn.

  She leaned forward in her seat and checked the mirror over the hearth. From this position, Agnes could watch the screen on the opposite wall without moving into range of the machine's cameras. She ran a finger along the chair's upholstery and nodded to her brother to get on with it.

  Spaulding grinned like a fool, halting mid-pace and gesturing with the cigar in his left hand. He nearly skipped away from the hearth, his red smoking jacket glowing in the fire's light like an ember. He looks like Satan, Agnes thought. She swallowed a chuckle and closed her eyes, listened as Spaulding crossed the room and imagined him punching up Maxwell's number.

  Simon Maxwell. How many years had passed since Agnes watched him from her bedroom window? She squeezed the chair arm against a spasm of nervous excitement. How had time dealt with her brother's young friend? Would she even recognize him? How long did the man take to answer his phone for heaven's sake?

  Finally, Agnes heard the faint hum as the screen kicked on. She heard the unfamiliar voice speak her brother's name.

  "Spaulding, my old friend." His words held little friendliness. He spoke in a deep, surprisingly soft, tone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  Agnes peeked. She opened her eyes and sat a touch forward, but the mirror reflected only Spaulding's smoking jacket. Her moron sibling stood directly in the way.

  "I'm afraid that I have some bad news about the race tomorrow."

  Spaulding's voice sounded far too eager for Agnes's taste. She'd have tried a more subtle approach. But then, she'd never shared Spaulding's dramatic streak and Agnes had more patience than he could ever know. She shook her head and waited for Simon's reaction.

  "Really?" Simon's reply sounded staged. He'd expected the call, had expected some last minute trick from her brother. "What news is that? You've used your contacts on the council to hire a biased course designer?"

  Ouch. She watched Spaulding's mouth open and shut like a trout's and wished for the thousandth time that he'd cultivated at least a portion of their mother's finesse. Of course Maxwell knew about the obstacles by now. Spaulding should have expected it.

  By the time he'd recovered, they'd lost the moment. Spaulding tried to salvage it, moved back to the hearth and waved one hand dismissively at the cameras. "I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about." The effect proved far too obvious for him to salvage any dignity from the situation.

  "You have better bad news?"

  Agnes looked to the mirror. With Spaulding out of the way, the face of Simon Maxwell filled the parlor wall. She sucked in a breath and held it while her mind registered the features, compared them to a memory. The boy's face had disappeared, though traces of it remained around the dark eyes that sparkled even through the digital translation. He'd grown into the family features--a strong jaw, elegant nose and honey brown hair.

  Spaulding kept going. "I'm afraid that I'm unable to participate in tomorrow's event."

>   Agnes watched Simon's eyebrow arch and let the air out of her lungs. One corner of his thin mouth twitched and she shivered.

  "You're conceding this year?" The disappointment sounded genuine. "That will save time. Though, I did look forward to stretching my legs a bit."

  "There won't be any concession," Spaulding snapped. His old inferiority complex flared to the foreground. "I've simply injured my leg during training." He patted his right leg where a tightly wrapped sheath of gauze wound from ankle to mid-thigh.

  Agnes cringed. He'd crossed the room seconds earlier and completely forgotten to limp.

  "I see," Simon nodded. "But certainly, if you can't compete."

  "Nothing in the rules states that I must run the race."

  "Enlighten me then. How do you intend to win, if you don't run?"

  Agnes leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Simon's face. His forehead wrinkled as he tried to sort out her brother's clumsily stated puzzle.

  "The contest requires a Rutherford and a Maxwell," Spaulding snickered, a low, raspy noise that crawled up Agnes' spine. "Which Rutherford is up to us."

  "Us?"

  Thoughts flickered across Simon's features. Agnes watched each lovely expression follow the other as he struggled to catch Spaulding's meaning. She held her breath again and waited for him to understand.

  "You're not?" Simon's brows came down. He tilted his head. "You haven't. Are you talking about--"

  "Agnes will run in my place." This time, Spaulding's delivery didn't falter. Simon's shock, his absolute befuddlement, registered in his silent stare.

  For a split second, she knew what he thought, could read the images that passed through Simon Maxwell's mind. How could Agnes, sheltered, fat little Agnes, possibly compete? She dug her nails into the chair arms and closed her eyes.

  "Agnes?" Simon whispered her name. "How? I mean, no one has seen--I'd heard--" He continued to struggle with the idea, stammering.

  Agnes had to peek, to see how much of her guessing proved correct. He looked so much like his father.

  "You shouldn't pay attention to rumors." Spaulding held the reins now and didn't intend to let the opportunity go to waste. "Agnes is alive and well, of course."

  "But I can't."

  "The rules state very clearly."

  The disbelief on Maxwell's face shifted and morphed into a flash of anger that made his eyes sparkle even more. He pressed his delicate lips together. They weren't his father's, she realized, but must have come from his mother's side.

  "Damn the rules, Spaulding!" He growled her brother's name. "This is too far and too low, even for you. Using Agnes, I don't know what your game is, or what trick you've cooked up, but I won't be a party to taking advantage of your poor sister."

  Agnes flinched. Simon's attempt at chivalry paled compared to the pity she heard in his tone. She caved to a surge of indignation and abandoned her intentions to remain silent. She managed to keep her voice level, to let the words slip out slowly and with what dignity she could salvage.

  "Or perhaps," she started. In the mirror, she saw Simon's reflection taken aback by her presence. "Perhaps his poor sister is perfectly capable of taking the advantage for herself."

  Silence rushed in behind her statement, filling the parlor. Spaulding hurried back to the phone console, effectively blocking her view of Simon's face. It didn't matter. She'd seen the shock, the horror at the realization that she'd sat there, listening the entire time. Agnes released her grip on the chair and relaxed back into the padding.

  How long would his pity last, she wondered, after they met tomorrow?

  The Wager

  Simon stared at the blank screen. His hands trembled, clutched at nothing and made useless fists at his sides. He'd managed to make quite the ass of himself. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and caught the thought, poor Agnes, sneaking up on him again. How condescending had he sounded?

  He should call the chief, update the man on Spaulding's plans for the morning, but his hand reached for the intercom panel instead of the phone. Swain's sleepy voice answered immediately.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. Swain. I didn't notice the hour."

  "It's quite all right, sir. Can I get you something?"

  "Gin?"

  "Sir?"

  "Okay, how about a smoothie?"

  "With pollen or wheat grass, sir?"

  "Pollen. Thank you, Mr. Swain."

  The night his father came home, Simon had been watching television. His parents didn't encourage the practice, but since Mr. Maxwell's disappearance, Simon's mother had taken to turning on the machine in the evenings.

  That particular night, he sat absorbed in an episode of the Planet Defenders while his mother kept her vigil at the living room window. Her startled yelp pulled Simon from the TV in a surge of guilty conscience. But Mrs. Maxwell hadn't noticed him at all. Instead she dove for the front door with the skirt of her house dress swirling around her claves.

  Young Simon watched her fling the door wide, certain enough that it would be his father on the other side to quickly switch off the television, but with enough doubt to lodge a lump of fear in his throat. It had to be his father. Neither of the remaining Maxwells entertained any thought of the man failing to return. When Maxwell senior did indeed tumble back into the house and into a flurry of questions and hugs, Simon's body released the pent up tension in a flood of embarrassing tears to match his mother's.

  His father embraced them both, but waved away their questions with a knowing look for his wife and a nod in Simon's direction that meant the details of the incident would be discussed beyond his son's hearing. While Simon believed himself old enough to hear the conversation, he obeyed the dismissal to his bedroom without argument.

  On his painstakingly slow ascent up the staircase, however, he managed to overhear a brief exchange between his parents. His mother's trembling voice not hiding her anger, "Rutherford?"

  "Yes," Maxwell Senior kept his reply flat, as if pronouncing some final verdict.

  "They let you go?"

  "No."

  "Then how?"

  Simon had stopped completely then, for a moment risking outright disobedience. He waited on the stair, his hand clutching the smooth wood of the railing and his ears straining for the answer. Maybe Spaulding had come to his senses, had finally seen the error in his family's methods. He held his breath.

  "Agnes," his father said.

  * * * *

  Agnes sipped her tea and thumbed through the stack of newspaper clippings. She'd snagged the folder from Spaulding's desk drawer and, in each rumpled, yellowing article, that Maxwell boy grinned and posed for the media. She recognized Simon even though each caption labeled him Maximus, the town hero.

  She smiled and turned back to her window. She'd chosen the guest room. Her old bed and dusty toys seemed far too melancholy this evening. This view showed the family vineyards stretching down the hill in neatly wired rows. The grapes never saw the press these days. What a shame. She'd never tasted the Rutherford label, had been sent away long before she'd attained a drinking age.

  She looked back to Maximus, selected her favorite of the clippings and slid the others back into the file. The town hero wore a royal blue spandex suit that outlined every one of his chiseled muscles. He certainly possessed the body of a superhero. Her smile curled deeper. She could still see the boy in the staggered stance, the crossed arms and the cocky tilt of the head. Maximus and The Spartan, hell, Agnes saw two grown men still playing childhood games.

  She closed her eyes and let the next sip linger in her mouth for a moment. He had a voice that could undo bodice laces. She'd read the phrase somewhere, hadn't expected that any more than she'd expected his chivalry. His father. What had his father told him about her? Poor Agnes, no doubt. Poor, pudgy Agnes kept prisoner in her own home.

  Years ago, Poor Agnes slipped down the basement stairs long after the rest of her family left the house. Mrs. Rutherford hadn't yet guessed about t
he new nanny's afternoon naps and Agnes wouldn't be the one to give away the woman's neglect. Usually, she took advantage of the rare freedom to sneak a second afternoon snack, or to browse through her mother's jewelry box and try on the chunky jewels that, even at ten, Agnes knew she'd never wear.

  That day she'd skipped the stolen food and the fashion show and sidled down the long hallway on the main floor to the basement door. She might have been young and more sheltered than the normal child, but Agnes had enough brains to know when something was going on in her own household. The house, after all, encompassed her whole universe, and that day Agnes knew she'd find something in their basement--something big.

  Whispered arguments between her parents and the shuffle of activity and footsteps to and from the basement might have tipped her off on their own. But Agnes had the addition of Spaulding, twitching in excitement and flittering around the mansion like a mosquito with no target to land on. She'd watched him for three days, wandering past, lingering beside the basement door, shadowing his parents' every step and whimpering under his breath at any audience they might spare him.

  Whatever they'd hidden in the basement, Spaulding wanted at it. Young Agnes smiled as she slipped into the dark stairwell. She'd see it first and then she'd have something her brother didn't.

  She set down her tea and shook away the memory. The picture of Maximus grinned up at her and she could almost see his eyes sparkle. Definitely his father's eyes. She laughed. Whatever she'd expected at ten years old, Agnes had never guessed she'd find Simon's father held prisoner in her parents' basement.

  * * * *

  The parade lasted eighteen minutes from the first flashing police car to the last swish of Joe Hinkley's Clydesdale's tail. Eighteen minutes--three longer than the year before, thanks to the fourth grade class marching down Main Street with their beagles and retrievers in tow. Simon grinned and wove through the dispersing crowd.

  The majority of the population had turned out for the event, which meant more that he had to stop and discuss weather, business and local gossip with each passerby than it made the street actually crowded. He shook hands and accepted victory wishes for the race ahead. He admired new babies and ignored the cow-eyed flirting of his underage admirers. He deftly dodged a few loose-lipped Maximus fans, and kept moving steadily toward to mayor's podium.