It was over. Spaulding had lost for the last time and the town would be free of the Rutherfords. Simon turned in a circle. Shouldn't that free him as well? He caught a flash of lights as Oliver Jones drove the aid car through the throng, heading out across the homestretch to Agnes. He tried to follow, but the stands emptied, spilling into a sea of surrounding bodies. He couldn't move a step against the tide.
The cheers of the town drowned out the sound of the siren. Simon watched it flash over their heads and willed it to hurry to Agnes's side. The crowd pushed him toward the stands where the Mayor waited. Spaulding and a gaggle of both Maxwell and Rutherford business associates huddled around him. Simon sagged in defeat and let the people drive him where they would.
The fanfare continued as he reached the steps. The mayor smiled and waved him forward. The crowd cheered and Simon took a step up. He looked over his shoulder at the ambulance in the distance. Oliver would take good care of her. He nodded. Oliver would be absolutely thorough, which was why she'd known better than to fake a sprain, why she'd committed fully to a plan that would be fail proof. And Spaulding couldn't blame her, not with a real injury to back up her claim. Agnes thought of everything. Simon looked at Spaulding. Had she accurately estimated her brother's reaction? Had she compensated for that shaking-white rage, that murderous glare? He feared she'd overestimated her ability to handle her brother. A knot of concern curled up in his stomach.
Simon climbed to the top of the platform, stood beside the mayor while the crowd roared and chanted his name. He cringed at one, erroneously hollered, "Maximus!" and plastered on a thin, unflinching smile. Over the assembly he could see the white van returning, this time without the light show. Simon waved as the mayor pronounced him the victor and watched Oliver's ambulance carry Agnes across the finish line.
"Did you trip her, Maxwell?" Spaulding snarled from the back of the stage. "Too much for you to lose to a girl?"
The mayor slid between them before he reached Spaulding. His grab closed around air six inches from Rutherford's face. Spaulding turned three shades whiter, his expression pinched into a furious mask, but the proximity of Simon's fist stalled any further accusations.
"Simon!" the mayor chastised. He pushed on Simon's chest. "Control, Simon. The town is watching."
He wanted to say,
Bugger the town,
but knew he'd never utter the words. Control. For Agnes, Simon. He let his fist drop and stepped back with the mayor's help. "Later, Spaulding," he said through his teeth.
"There won't be any later," the mayor interjected. Satisfied that Simon would stand down, he turned to Spaulding and raised his voice for the entire crowd to hear. "You have twenty-four hours, Rutherford. Pack up your family's things and get out of town."
The crowd roared from the arena.
Simon watched Spaulding search the throng. He could see the indecision, the desire to argue shadowing the sharp features.
"Surely you don't expect," Spaulding kept his voice low enough for only those in his immediate vicinity. "You don't think my sister's wager--you can't."
"I most certainly do."
The joy in the mayor's words convinced Simon he needn't have feared the man's loyalty.
"I expect you gone by morning."
Two days before, Simon might have cheered that victory. He'd have reveled in Spaulding's expression at that moment. Instead, he looked past his foe, over his left shoulder to where Oliver's ambulance crawled past the stage. Gone by morning. All the years of familiar warfare ended here and now and Simon Maxwell had little reason for celebration.
* * * *
The ambulance rolled past the grandstand. Each rut in the hard-packed arena sent the van bouncing and caused little lances of pain to jolt through her lower leg. Broken, Agnes? She might have gone a little overboard there. She'd meant to twist it good and hard, sure, but she'd never intended to leave the scene this way, heading for the hospital and completely isolated from the action up on that stage.
Isolated from Simon. She caught a glimpse of him through the dirty window. The dust of the rodeo grounds hazed over her view so that his blue suit looked muddied standing over the crowd. She turned away from the window and studied the gauze woven around her ankle.
She could call her driver from the hospital and arrange to have all of her things brought from the house. Agnes nodded. She could be out of town before dawn. The mayor and Maximus would see that Spaulding also complied and justice would be done. Agnes smiled despite the empty feeling in her chest. She'd done what she set out to do. She'd given the town to the Maxwells for good.
The year her father ran the race alone, Agnes visited the prisoner in her basement every day. After the race, when her parents made no move to set Mr. Maxwell free, she began to fear they'd bitten off a touch more than they knew how to chew.
The arguments, in hushed tones whenever one of the children entered, convinced her that her family had crossed into a place from which they wouldn't be returning. They feared the law, though not enough to obey it, and the repercussions of kidnapping hovered over the house and drove everyone's nerves toward snappish.
She thought about this and about her own future as she watched Mr. Maxwell do pull-ups on the cage bars.
"Why do you think they're keeping you?" She tilted her head to one side and examined his form. Agnes had learned a great deal about form in the last week. "Are you exhaling on the lift or the drop, Mr. Maxwell?"
"Lift," he said, grunting. "I think they don't know what to do with me, Agnes. I think they've got themselves in quite a pickle."
"Me, too." She sank into her cross-legged meditation, elbows on knees, chin in hands. "Do you think Simon misses you?"
"I suspect he does, Agnes."
"Do you think I should let you out?" She'd been saving that question for last, afraid of the answer he was bound to give. Still, she'd decided his family and Simon in particular most definitely missed him by now.
"Well." He dropped out of form and rolled his shoulders. Crossing to the bunks, he sat down on the lower one and gave Agnes a very serious look. "What do you suppose would happen to you if you did let me out?"
"I don't know," she told him the truth. "I'm scared to find out."
"Then I think you'd better not." Just like that, he absolved her of any responsibility. "I don't want you to suffer, Agnes, not for me."
"Spaulding caught me doing sit-ups," she blurted it and then immediately turned scarlet.
Mr. Maxwell only nodded and made a thoughtful face.
"He just poked fun," Agnes added.
"I'm sorry about that, Agnes."
"I can handle Spaulding."
"I know you can."
"I think I want to let you out."
"Are you sure, Agnes?"
"Yes."
Oliver's ambulance jolted over the curb in front of the hospital, effectively ruining her daydream. Her ankle throbbed beneath the gauze and little tingles in her backside said her butt had gone to sleep somewhere along the way.
She sighed and waited for someone to open the van. She'd call her driver as soon as she got her hands on a phone. If things went smoothly, she could be out of town by the time the cast set.
Justice
Maximus crouched on the stone wall, watching the house empty. Goons redesigned as movers flowed in a steady stream in and out of the Rutherford estate, carting boxes and furniture to the waiting vans. It looked like Spaulding would hold good on his end of the deal--at least for now.
Simon figured he'd set up shop a few miles past the town limits. He entertained no illusion that The Spartan would give up the town without a fight. He should have mentioned that to Agnes. His snort cracked through the darkness. Not that they'd had any time to really debate the matter.
Either way, he didn't figure Spaulding would go far and he didn't care. He wanted to know where Agnes would go and that was proving more difficult to ascertain than he'd hoped. The mayor clammed up on him, swore he'd promised to keep her location, her donations and her involvement anonymous. Simon growled. Of all the times for the man to learn discretion.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and watched the remnants of the estate vanish into the line of moving vans. So far, he'd seen no sign of either Rutherford. A few of the staff appeared now and again, ordering the movers to use caution or to shift an item from one truck to the other.
His gaze wandered to the upstairs window. Still no movement, nor any light from that particular room. He considered wandering closer. The shadows from the old tree fell out from the house, would provide enough cover to slip into the play yard.
His belt bleeped. Simon pressed the call button and waited for the chief's voice to crackle from the comm.
"Sim--Maximus?"
"Yeah." Simon sighed and watched the swing twirl from its ragged tether.
"Any problems out there?" The chief expected Spaulding to try something.
"Not yet."
"Good. Well, just keep an eye on them."
"Of course." Simon bit his tongue. He'd rather be watching the hospital tonight. "Chief?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you find any leads on where she--where they may be heading?"
"Sorry. The last living Rutherford I could locate was Spaulding Senior's sister. She lived upstate, but passed away four years ago."
"An aunt upstate. Get me an address on that, will you?"
"Sure, though it's far enough away, I think we'd be lucky to see The Spartan relocate there."
"An address," Simon spied a flutter of red beside the swing. "I'll get back to you." He clicked off the comm and sprang down from the wall into the tree's shadow. The dying lawn crackled under his weight and the figure hiding behind the tree stepped out into the moonlight and peered in his direction. Simon stood up. He abandoned any hope of stealth and walked, chest out and head high, directly up the slope.
"Good evening, Maximus," The Spartan sniveled from the tree trunk. He waited for Simon to reach the edge of the spread branches and then struck a villainous pose. "I figured you'd be here."
"Can it, Spaulding," Simon said. "I'm not in the mood."
"What?" The Spartan held the stance for a second and then deflated, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the tree trunk. "Jesus, Simon, you pout more when you win that you do when you lose."
"How would you know? You've never seen me lose."
"Funny."
"It's not." Simon sighed and closed the gap between them, catching the swing and holding the old rope in one hand. "Has Agnes left already?"
"Hell if I know."
"Are you really leaving town?"
"Maybe." Spaulding stood a little taller and grinned. He looked like the devil, all sharp features and shadow. "Maybe I'll try my hand at a bigger town."
"Maybe." Simon didn't believe it. They stood there under the tree, two boys in moonlight and shadow, until one of the vans turned over and the sound of engines filled the night air. "What happened, Spaulding?" Simon asked. "I mean, why?"
Spaulding shrugged and turned back toward the house. "I don't know. You always won." He stared up toward the empty, second story window. "She watched us, you know? She always watched us."
"I know."
"Is that why you always had to win?"
Simon didn't answer. He watched The Spartan sneak back toward his family's home for the last time. "Hey, Spaulding!" he called after him, waited for the man to turn before continuing. "If it makes you feel any better, I think I just lost."
The Spartan laughed--a high squeaky sound that continued to vibrate around Simon long after his foe had disappeared.
* * * *
Agnes glared at the cast and sighed. She'd never pull off the elliptical machine and the stationary bike was right out. She scanned the room for possibilities and drummed her fingers against the desk. Sit-ups, she thought. She could manage sit-ups.
As much as she needed the workout, she hesitated. The doctor hadn't exactly said not to exercise. She stared at the pile of bills, the receipts and the rubbish on the desk and sighed again. She'd been home three days and she hadn't had a workout since the race. The restlessness could be easily excused as pent up energy.
She should try the sit-ups. Instead she drummed her fingers and scowled at the pile of paperwork. She'd converted the study to a gym after her aunt passed. But the heavy desk remained stationed in the corner, opposite the mirrors and standing guard between two second story windows. Agnes liked it there. She enjoyed doing her business in the one room she felt most comfortable in. She stared across at her reflection. It had been three days.
She stood. The inclined bench would increase the difficulty. She left her crutch leaning against the wall and hobbled past the elliptical to the weight module. She hooked her good leg under the padded bar and lay back on the board so that her head nearly touched the floor. The doctor had said to elevate the limb. She smiled and crunched upward, touching her left knee with the right elbow.
Something slid past the windows.
Agnes ignored the surge of adrenaline and forced herself to lie back slowly. She exhaled, tightened her abs and lifted again, this time turning toward the mirror just in time to spy the window sliding up a few inches. Holding the posture, she waited, eyed the light switch and cursed the crutch she'd left leaning against the desk.
She could reach the switch, but the cast would make any movement a serious disadvantage. She exhaled and lay back, completing the exercise. She pointed her uninjured toe and moved her leg in the direction of the wall.
Would Spaulding send a goon into her house? If he had, Agnes would teach the bastard one hell of a lesson. She flicked her lower leg out and kicked the light switch. The room went dark and she rolled herself onto her stomach and off the bench in a single motion. She heard the window thunk open, the shuffle of cloth against the sill, and her anger flared. After the goon, she'd find Spaulding and she'd put him out of her misery.
Agnes waited for the intruder to move. She held her breath until she heard him land on the carpet. Then she pulled up onto her knees while his action masked any noise she might make. Her injured leg might hamper her movements, but Agnes knew her own house. She reached out and grabbed the elliptical on the first try, pulling herself into a crouch supported by her good leg. She had the element of surprise, the home field advantage, and if necessary, the cast as one hell of a club.