The Paladin Prophecy

#88: ALWAYS LISTEN TO THE PERSON WITH THE WHISTLE.

Will waved to him. He glanced back and saw that Nick hadn’t budged from his spot against the tree.

“Aren’t you coming?” asked Will.

“Meh.”

“Why?”

“Dude, I’m a gymnast. Jericho’s got no authority over us jumpy-springy types.”

“Come on, Nick, give me some cover here. I’ll pay it back.”

Nick calculated. “Show me that freaky room you found—tonight—and I’m in.”

“Okay, okay.”

Nick pushed off and joined him. The two jogged to where Coach Jericho waited by the woods. Arms folded across his chest, motionless as stone, the man towered over them; Jericho had to be at least six foot five. Everything about him was pared clean to the bone. Not an ounce given to waste on his body or being.

“West,” said Coach Jericho.

“That’s me,” said Will, raising his hand slightly.

“That’s him,” said Nick, pointing.

“That’s helpful,” said Jericho. He still hadn’t moved. “Are you two clowns awake?”

“Yes, sir,” said Will.

“I don’t understand the question,” said Nick.

“My practices start at one forty-five,” said Jericho. “Sharp.”

Will looked at his watch: 1:40.

“O-kay,” said Will.

“That means ready and at your marks at one forty-five,” said Jericho.

“I warmed him up, Coach,” said Nick. “He’s good to go.”

Jericho stared at Nick. Nick tried one of his charming smiles.

“Well, aren’t you Susie Citizen. Our greenhorn needs someone to show him the trail, McLeish. We’re running a five-K. You’re going with him.”

Nick’s smile went ker-splat. “But—”

“Wait, don’t tell me: You have practice now. With the gymnasts.”

“Why, yes, Coach, as a matter of fact, I do—”

“That’s a crock of spit. I know the schedule. You want to go for ten K instead, candy cane?”

“Five K sounds good,” said Nick.

“My squad gathers at the Riven Oak,” said Jericho. “That’s our rally point, outbound and inbound. Rain, sleet, snow, or shine. Show him, McLeish.”

“Can do, Coach,” said Nick. He tugged Will’s arm, eager to get away. But Jericho stopped them.

“West: You’re a sophomore and a scrub. Scratch that: You’re what a scrub scrapes off his spikes in a cow pasture. Don’t get in our way. Trip up any of my frontline guys and I’ll bury you in these woods. Stay on the trail. I don’t want to waste a search party. Drag your sorry butts back here, if you can manage, before dark.”

“Come on, Will—”

Will shook him off. Jericho’s tone irked him. “I’ll do better than that, Coach,” said Will.

For the first time, Jericho looked at him with something other than steel-eyed contempt. “Is that a fact? You think you can compete with my team?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not with this screwball as your wingman.”

Nick laughed, and then stopped abruptly when Jericho beamed his death-ray stare at him again.

“I can do better than compete,” said Will. “I can win.”

Jericho gave Will one last almost-interested look. “Move it, McLeish.”

“Showing him now, Coach.”

Nick ran away, fast, and Will sprinted to catch him. They followed a cinder trail until it crested a slight rise. Down below, looming over a clearing on the edge of the forest, stood the massive, towering sprawl of an ancient and ghostly white oak. Its branches formed a canopy that spanned fifty yards. In its center, the heart of the trunk had to be at least fifteen feet thick. Some ancient injury had badly damaged it; a gap ran through its belly from front to back wide enough to drive a motorcycle through.

The Center’s cross-country team waited at the base of the tree. They didn’t look anything like boys. A dozen ripped, wiry, impossibly fit young men, hardly the slight, greyhound body mass prototype of the distance runner. Only a few were Will’s height. The rest stood taller and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. None wore the heavy fleece-lined sweats that Will had put on. They were stripped down to singlets and shorts, socks, and shoes. Their exposed arms and legs were flushed by the numbing cold, but they seemed immune to it. They were warmed up and restless, kicking out excess energy like Thoroughbreds at the starting gate. Sharp snorts of vaporized breath trailed away all around them.

The Paladins. Eyes lit by the same competitive fire as the logo. Road warriors.

As Will joined them, they sized him up, in that aloof, disdainful way runners throw down before a race. Dismissing him: Just another scrub. In the mix at the front, Will saw Todd Hodak staring at him. Will checked the squad’s body language, the way they conceded space to Todd, deferring to him.

He’s their leader.

Will glanced down at Todd’s shoes: black Adidas with three red stripes. The shoes he’d seen outside the closet minutes ago. When Will looked up, he saw something else color Todd’s look: an alarm that he just as quickly tried to still.

Is this the group I stumbled on in that weird room? The ones who chased me back into the locker room? He’d seen Lyle go through the door to that corridor, too. What the hell was going on?

The team turned away, as if drawing a curtain over the idea. The sharp crack of a starter’s gun shattered the silence. Jericho stood back on the rise, smoke circling from the pistol he held in the air.

With Todd Hodak in front, the team thundered single-file through the hole in the oak and uphill toward the woods. Jostling for position, they reached cruising speed on the cinder track in less than fifty yards. Will and Nick were slower to react and by the time they found their stride, the pack had opened up a lead of fifty yards. At the top of the hill, they passed by Coach Jericho.

“That all you got, scrub?” said Jericho, looking at a stopwatch.

Nick pulled next to Will when the path widened as they approached the woods. “Yo, Will-the-Thrill … you forgot to tell me you were Dumpster-dog crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just told Jericho you were gonna win this race.”

“I guess I kind of did.”

“Lame. Well, lots of easier sports to choose from, after Coach Buzz-kill bounces you out on your hein-dorf … volleyball, water polo, golf—”

“Not for me.”

“Dude, trust me, you’d be doing yourself a favor. I’d rather inflate myself with helium and start a sumo wrestling team … than this.” Nick spit into the woods.

“What’s Jericho’s deal? Why’s he such a hard-ass?”

“Dude’s full-blood Oglala Lakota, man,” said Nick. “Back in the day, this whole part of the state belonged to his peeps. Think he’s still cheesed off about it. There’s a rumor he’s a direct descendant from Crazy Horse.”

“Really?”

“So if that’s true … dude’s great-great-great granddaddy killed Custer.”

“Holy crap,” said Will, slowing so Nick could keep up with him.

“They say he inherited some whacked-out warrior-shaman skills from his bloodline … like he gets visions, talks to the Great Spirit.”

“Is that why he makes his team run through the oak?” asked Will.

Nick shook his head. “His ancestors kicked off buffalo hunts riding through that old split tree … so Jericho starts and ends every race that way.”

That was cool, but Will thought of a more practical explanation: There was only room for one runner through there at a time, which set the stage for last-minute heroics and built competitive instincts. There’d be no photo finishes on this course. Whoever made it to that finish line had to win flat-out.

“But first you have to survive Suicide Hill,” said Nick.

“What’s that?”

“Dude, you’ll spoil the surprise.”

Will eyed the pack ahead, calibrating the gap, holding it steady. He thought he could handle their pace from back here as long as he stayed at striking distance, but they were all strong, confident runners. The weakest man on the Center’s squad was better than the best he’d ever faced. On any other day, this might have felt like a bad dream that had dropped him into the state finals without warning, the kind of nightmare where the gun’s up and you can’t find your shoes or you don’t know how to tie them.

He didn’t stress about it. Kujawa’s test results had changed all that. Don’t hold back. Screw it, no reason to now. For the first time in a real race, he could bust out the full RPMs of his turbo-charged system. But to make it count, he still had to run smart and wait for his moment.

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