She kept it up until her arms and shoulders burned and she felt a twinge in one wrist from hitting the bag at an awkward angle, but her pent-up anxiety slowly leaked away. The familiar and welcome feeling of serenity that came with an intense workout took its place.
Cass was about to wrap it up when the door opened and Anne Klimt came in. She flashed a smile at Cass, then walked by and headed for one of the treadmills. Anne, tall and lithe, was a runner, too, and Cass looked on enviously as the other woman started jogging effortlessly, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail that swung back and forth with her stride. Feeling peevish, Cass forgot about quitting and went back to slugging the bag despite the pain in her wrist.
She has good form , Cass thought grudgingly as she watched Anne segue into a full-stride, six-minute-mile pace after just a few minutes of warm-up. Elbows tucked to the sides. No wasted, bouncy, up-and-down motion. Heel-to-toe rocking motion, minimizing impact and compression.
Cass’s hands slowly dropped to her sides as she watched. The other woman’s running brought another’s stride to mind: a floppy, arm-swinging figure dashing down a tunnel of white ice. She visualized the form over Anne’s, comparing the sleek movement in front of her to the mystery runner’s awkward sprint.
Anne, maybe feeling the weight of Cass’s gaze, turned her head. Caught staring, Cass blushed.
The other woman smiled a little uncertainly. “Are you okay?”
Cass limped over to the treadmill. “Sorry, I was just watching you run. You make it look so easy.”
Anne wiped a hand across her forehead and smiled self-consciously. “Thanks. That’s a real compliment, coming from you. I know you’re a runner yourself.”
“I was.”
“What do you mean?”
Cass gestured at her foot. “I twisted my ankle down in the garage back in February. I’m still worried about putting all my weight on it.”
“That’s why you were beating the hell out of the punching bag. I wondered why I haven’t seen you on a treadmill.”
Cass hesitated. “It’s funny how you can spot another runner, isn’t it? I saw you take three strides and knew you’d run all your life.”
“It’s true.” Anne nodded. Her pace hadn’t slowed one bit and her words came easily.
“There are people who run, but they’re not runners . Do you know what I mean?”
“The ones who do this?” Anne lifted her knees almost to her chest and flapped her arms like a bird. They both broke out laughing at the pantomime of the world’s worst form.
“There’s someone who does this,” Cass said, throwing her elbows out and swinging her hips wide to imitate the run of the mysterious figure she’d seen the day she’d towed the Alpine back to the garage. “But I can’t remember who.”
“Like a model on a runway, but with the arms going, too.”
“Exactly!”
“It looks familiar.” The smile died on Anne’s face. “Oh. Sheryl Larkin used to . . . used to run like that. She was never very good, but she tried awfully hard. Is that who you mean?”
Anne’s words came together like the missing parts of a clock, confirming what Cass had known but hadn’t been able to articulate. A roaring sound flooded her ears. She could see the image of the fleeing figure and over it she superimposed the few times she’d seen Sheryl in the gym.
“Cass? Are you okay?” Anne stopped her treadmill and stared at her, alarmed.
“I’m okay,” Cass heard herself say. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Cass realized she’d put out a hand and grabbed a nearby machine to steady herself. Anne looked like she was a second away from calling for a medic.
“No, I’m really okay. I just . . . you know, I was one of the ones who brought her in that night and I . . .” she babbled, trying to cover the confusion and anger her real thoughts had created. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.”
Anne nodded. “It was a shock for everyone, but it must’ve been really bad for you.”
“It was. I . . . I think I’m going to go back to my berth and lie down for a while.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Anne said, her face sympathetic. “Try to put it out of your mind. Sheryl’s death was just a terrible, tragic accident and it won’t happen again.”
She said a few more things in an attempt to comfort, but Cass didn’t hear any of them as she stumbled out of the gym and down the hall. Images of Sheryl alive—laughing and eating in the galley, nodding to her at a meeting—mingled with those of the body on the sled, frozen and unresponsive, then morphed, in turn, into the shadowy figure sprinting down the ice tunnel. Cass felt sick.
It won’t happen again . . . because it never happened at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“So what does it all mean? What should I do?”
There was a pause before the answer came across, crackling and hissing. “Are you really asking that of a child of Soviet-era dissenters who were sent to Siberia for asking too many questions?”
Lying on her side, cradling her parka’d head in the crook of her elbow, Cass smiled. It wasn’t all that funny, but any joke was welcome these days. “I’m asking you as a scientist and a friend.”