Hearts Racing (16 page)

On the outskirts of town, the Miami riders began looking around at Buck to see if they needed any directions, but he motioned for them to keep riding. The highway took them directly into the center of town, which was just as free of moving vehicles as the highway had been. The feeling of no cars got more and more eerie as they moved into the city center, however. Buck just expected to see cars on the road. Expected to be cut off or run into by drivers using their cell phones while at the wheel. There was none of that. But it was the middle of the night, after all.

Once Buck moved to the head of his paceline and led off the highway, they saw one or two people walking on the sidewalks—unheard of at this hour. No one had the gas to drive around the city, but life went on anyway. The effect was amazing. What would it be like to live in a city that was like this all the time, with no cars and only bikes? Probably pretty amazing.

Once at the jail building, Buck leapt off his bike. His body protested every movement, but he couldn’t listen to it. He had to find someone he could talk to so he could get this whole situation sorted out for good. He pulled off his cycling shoes so he could walk without his feet clicking and clacking around on his riding cleats. It meant he’d be negotiating Michael’s release in dirty sock feet, but that wasn’t the worst part of his appearance. He was filthy, hadn’t slept, and his brow still showed a trickle of dried blood.

The glass front of the building was tinted heavily, so he couldn’t see inside, but two of the doors had handles on them. He pulled one, expecting it to be locked, but it was open. Jail is open twenty-four hours, he thought. Or closed twenty-four hours, depending on how you look at it. He turned to look at his riders, who were sitting on a curb next to their bikes. He felt bad leaving them, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

Inside, Buck found himself in a linoleum and concrete block reception area, lit brightly with fluorescents that made everything look a shade or two wrong. He caught sight of his reflection again, this time in a dingy, bulletproof window that shielded a uniformed jail employee from whatever acts of violence visitors might attempt. The window had a hole in the middle of it with a metal grate.

The man didn’t look up.

“Excuse me,” Buck said, but the man still didn’t look at him. Buck took a second to consider what he was going to say. Hi, I know I look like a street urchin, but I’m here on behalf of your new Mexican overlords to negotiate the release of . . .

Buck’s thoughts were interrupted when the man behind the desk finally looked up then made a startled noise. “Gah!” 

“Yeah, sorry, I know I look bad,” Buck said. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any food or water. If you want to sleep here, you’ll have to get yourself arrested,” the man said, his interest fading.

“No, I’m not a street person. I’m here to negotiate the release of an inmate.”

“Uh-huh. Sure y’are.”

“No, really. Look, I have documentation from the Mexican government.” Buck reached into a jersey pocket and withdrew his phone, unwrapping it from the plastic bag. The guard looked alarmed for a moment then appeared to realize he was behind bulletproof glass, so even if Buck had a gun it wouldn’t do much good.

“Sir, this isn’t Mexico,” the guard said. “Even if you do have a document, it won’t do any good—”

Buck cut him off, rudely. He didn’t have time for this. “No, listen. A man who’s been pardoned might be about to face execution. I’m here to stay that execution.”

“Okay, buddy. Now you’re pissing me off. I’m signaling my superiors and we’ll have you removed if you don’t leave.”

“No! Wait. I rode a long way to get here because there’s no gas and—”

Buck abandoned the sentence because of his eyes. They were sending images to his brain that were so awful that further speaking was not possible. The whole situation was futile. It didn’t matter anymore what he said, or did, because there, in the window of the door leading into the guard’s little windowed office, was Monsieur Peter Barker. And he was smiling.

Barker pushed the door open. He looked a bit gaunt and had some scrapes here and there, but from his face you’d think he was walking down the stairs from his bedroom on a present-laden Christmas morning. “Well, well, and well again,” he said. “Look who we have here.”

Buck said nothing. His hand holding the cell phone with the pardon document on it fell to his side.

“My goodness, Heart, you look positively terrible. Why are you here? Oh,
mais oui
! Don’t tell me . . . You came to see Michael,
oui
?”

Buck just glared. What could he say?

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but he’s
very
busy today. Very busy indeed,
oui
. His schedule is clear tomorrow . . .” he trailed off and tapped his lips with a finger. “Oh, but he won’t be able to talk then, will he?”

Buck looked at the guard for help but saw no possibility there. The man wore a completely blank expression.

Barker went on, obviously savoring every syllable of his speech. “You see, bad things happen sometimes, Heart. Bad things indeed. I walked for days just to get here and take care of this bit of business. But it’s worth it. I am so completely pleased you are here.” Barker was whipping himself into a frenzy now. He was venting his rage at being imprisoned, at being made to walk all the way back to New Lyon, and probably also, Buck thought, his rage at not being able to attract a woman like Faith without death threats to her family—which had failed to get her, anyway. Flecks of spit flew from his lips and landed on the bulletproof glass as he raised a trembling finger at Buck. “Now you will find out what it means to feel the full wrath of New France!”

“What’s going on here?” said another voice. A man poked his head into the room from an office on the other side of the glass and looked around.

“Ah! Warden Voigt,” Barker said. He pointed out the bulletproof glass. “I request you detain this man on my orders.”

Voigt gave Barker a look. “On your orders? Monsieur, it does not really work that way. We have something criminal procedure. Napoleonic code,
non
?”

Barker gave a curt huff. “You are speaking to your mayor, Warden Voigt.”

“You have not been sworn in yet, Monsieur Barker, and this is my jail,” Voigt said. “Now, what is this man asking—hey!” Voigt had turned to look at Buck, who expected heavily armed gendarmes to burst into the room at any second and throw him in the darkest cell in the place.

“Hey!” Warden Voigt  said again. “Aren’t you Buck Heart, cycling champion of New France?”

From there, Buck reflected, things had happened quickly. Barker had emitted some kind of wordless scre
am and made to slap Warden Voigt in the face. The guard at the desk leaped to his feet and restrained Barker, who devolved into his now-familiar routine of screaming, turning red, and distributing spittle. The warden threatened to have the guard arrest Barker, at which point Barker shouted something along the lines of, “I’d like to see him try,” at which point the guard did more than try and hustled Barker into an interrogation room. They left him in there to calm down.

Buck could still hear him shouting through the door, though, demanding his orders be followed and that Michael must be executed today.

Warden Voigt shook his head. “He is making a disgrace of himself. I apologize on his behalf.”

“It’s okay,” Buck said. “I’m sort of used to him acting like that.”

Voigt nodded in a way that gave Buck the impression that the warden was also used to Barker acting like that. “So, tell me everything.”

Buck thought about it. How had he come to be here? He thought about training using CrossFit, about being with the Miami riders under the protection of Miguel. He thought about riding in the van overnight from Denver, and then about the van’s failure and the team time trial down the interstate, but he figured he’d better talk about the most important part of the equation first.

“Well, sir, as you know, New France is close to surrender to the Mexicans. You have Michael Racing here, who is the brother of Faith Racing, who is my, um . . . Well, she’s my friend. I have documents that should enable his release, if you’ll just take a look at this.” Buck held the phone up to show Voigt the documents, but the warden put up a hand and waved him off.

“Yes, okay, we can work all that out politically,” he said. “Do not worry, no one is getting put to death at my jail today. And anyway, that’s not what I meant.”

Buck felt his brow bunch up. “Well, what did you mean?”

“I meant,” Voigt said, smiling, “how did you beat that asshole Polini?”

Chapter 25

Faith, LeMond, and Miguel ended up walking down the highway a few miles to an exit. There was a gas station there with a café. The sun was just coming up, and the café was, thankfully, open. A few people were inside, having a bite to eat. The scene seemed odd to Faith. Then she realized it was odd because there’d been no cars in the parking lot. Then she felt dumb because of course there weren’t any cars. They’d walked too, after all.

A man who’d been standing behind the grill took their order. He said the staff hadn’t made it in because gas was so short, but he did most of the cooking anyway. As he was headed back toward the grill, he stopped and stared at a television mounted near the ceiling then shushed everyone with a hissing noise and wave of his arm.

He hurried behind the counter, fumbled around for the remote that went to the television, and turned up the sound.

The President of Mexico was on screen.

“ . . . have a long history of alliance with the former United States, which we expect will continue in the future. As of now, if you are seeing this, you are no longer New France. The New France Prime Minister surrendered control of New France this morning to me.”

He paused a moment to let that sink in, as if anyone could absorb this information in a few moments, then went on. “The French made a mistake when they attempted an attack on Mexico, a mistake they have paid for with the loss of your great nation. We have no desire to rule over you, as they did, only to protect ourselves and you from further French hegemony.

“The coming weeks and months will present challenges. Challenges we will work hard to overcome, with your help. But I know we will prevail. You are strong. We are strong. And now we are together.”

Everyone at the table looked at one another. Faith looked from LeMond’s exhausted face to Miguel’s. Miguel was beaming. He clenched a fist and shook it at his side in victory then he and LeMond slapped each other on the back. Faith could only hope Buck made it in time. By now he should be close to the jail. Her brother could be walking free this very moment.

“So, wait,” said the café owner. “No more French? We’re Mexico now?”

“No more French,” Miguel said, loud enough for everyone to hear. His smooth accent gave his words gravitas, as though he were speaking on behalf of all of Mexico.

At this, everyone cheered. The owner jumped up and down, making his apron flap. An elderly couple eating pie in the corner reached for each other’s hands.

The owner then ran to the end of the counter to a pie case, and flung open the door.

“Do you know what this means?” he asked, sounding a bit manic. “I can stop making quiche!” He pulled several pies from inside the cache and dumped two out on the counter. He grabbed one in each hand and smashed them together, making an eggy mush in his hands. He laughed like a schoolboy then yelled:

“I fucking hate quiche!”

Chapter 26

Warden Voigt took Buck on a tour of the jail and even brought him to see Michael. Never having met, they didn’t know quite what to say to each other. Michael looked healthy enough, as though he’d been eating regularly and even spending a bit of time at the gym. Buck looked like he’d never slept in his life and had slid to the jail down a big hill using his face as a brake. The jail’s medical staff gave his cut a look, and they all had a bite to eat in the cafeteria. Buck asked if the Miami riders could come in and eat too, and Voigt sent for them.

Buck felt a bit awkward. But Voigt was a cycling fan, and he wanted to show off his facility. During the tour, they received the word that the French were no longer in control.

“Well,” Voigt said, “I hope the Mexicans let me keep my job. I like it here.”

Buck participated in the tour as politely as he could but was glad when he could finally take his leave. His body ached, his head throbbed, and he was as tired as he’d even been in his life. Voigt said he didn’t know how long it would take to process Michael’s release, but that he would do his best to make it as quick as possible.

As for Barker, Voigt couldn’t say what would happen to him. He did say the facility had a lot of video of Barker yelling at people.

“There are a lot of cameras in this facility,” Voigt explained. “Whenever he’s had an outburst at one of my people, I saved the video. I think I’ll show it to him and see how he reacts.”

Buck didn’t quite know how to process this information, so he just thanked Voigt and traded contact information with him. Voigt was thrilled at this.

“When you are in the Tour, I want a phone call. Promise me.”

Buck laughed. How was he ever going to get to the Tour de France? He’d probably never be allowed to set foot in the country, let alone race. But he said he would call anyway.

Outside, he had a startling realization. Again. There were no cars. As tired as he was, he had to ride back to his flat. All the way back through town. Ugh. He and the Miami riders rolled straight through New Lyon, looking at its streets empty of cars with new eyes. Buck wondered if the city would go back to being called Atlanta.

He hoped so.