Chapter 2 - THREE NUMBER 418s
“Hold the start!”
The shout came from somewhere near timing control.
A starter lowered his pistol.
The women in the blocks stood.
The runner in lane four did not turn immediately.
Rachel was already moving toward the infield.
A meet official blocked her.
“Stay back.”
“She has my number.”
“I see that.”
Vanessa got to her feet behind them.
Rachel turned toward her.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You told me I already lost.”
“Because I saw the board.”
“You saw somebody wearing my bib.”
“From across the track.”
Security reached lane four.
The unknown runner finally turned away from the giant screen and toward the official beside her.
Rachel saw her face.
And stopped.
“Maya?”
Maya Torres looked just as confused.
Twenty-four.
Former Westbridge sprinter.
Rachel had trained beside her for two seasons.
Maya looked down at 418.
Then at Rachel wearing the same number.
“Oh, no.”
The official asked:
“Ms. Torres, where did you get that bib?”
“Replacement table.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know his name. Green staff shirt.”
Maya pulled the paper number away from her singlet.
A timing chip was attached to the back.
“I told them my original tag wasn’t scanning.”
Rachel pointed toward the screen.
“Why is the system calling you me?”
Maya stared.
“I have no idea.”
Vanessa took one step backward.
Rachel noticed.
So did a woman coming quickly from the operations tent.
Dana Brooks, forty-six, Westbridge’s director of athletics events.
She looked from Rachel—
to Maya—
to Vanessa.
Then up at the earlier result.
“Stop all women’s 400 starts.”
Radios came alive.
Brooks turned to Rachel.
“You’re Rachel Carter?”
Rachel pointed at her chest.
“Yes.”
“Photo ID.”
Rachel handed it over.
Brooks checked.
Then Maya.
Maya handed hers over too.
Brooks looked toward timing control.
“Who ran 56.42?”
Nobody nearby knew.
The race had finished almost an hour earlier.
An assistant pulled up check-in data.
“Number 418 scanned at 10:11.”
Rachel said:
“I was on Interstate 84 at 10:11.”
Brooks looked at her.
“Can you establish that?”
“Parking receipt at eleven thirty-seven. Toll account. My phone.”
“We’ll get there.”
Rachel almost snapped that there was nothing to get to.
Then stopped.
Evidence first.
Brooks ordered the timing operator to isolate every tag mapped to participant Rachel Carter.
Three appeared.
418-A
418-C
418-D
Rachel’s official bib carried A.
The earlier runner had C.
Maya had D.
Brooks stared at the screen.
“Who created C and D?”
Timing technician Leo Grant typed.
His expression changed.
“That can’t be right.”
Vanessa whispered:
“What?”
Leo looked up.
“Both are replacement tags.”
Brooks said:
“Requested by?”
Leo turned the monitor.
Current event request field:
ALUMNI ATHLETE SERVICES
Authorizing user:
VCOLE
Rachel slowly turned toward Vanessa.
Vanessa’s face hardened.
“I requested replacements.”
“For my identity?”
“No.”
“Then what did you request?”
“Two dead-tag replacements. I didn’t select your name.”
Maya looked at her.
“You knew my tag failed?”
“I was working check-in this morning.”
Rachel laughed once.
“So you’re racing and handling athlete identities?”
“I’m an alumni event volunteer.”
Brooks answered sharply:
“You’re done volunteering.”
Vanessa looked at her.
Brooks continued.
“Do not touch another registration terminal.”
Then Leo said:
“There’s something else.”
He enlarged Rachel’s participant record.
A yellow status flag sat beneath her name.
LEGACY REPLACEMENT ELIGIBLE
Maya frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Leo shook his head.
“It’s not supposed to exist in the alumni database.”
Rachel looked at Vanessa.
Vanessa had gone very still.
Rachel knew that look now.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You’ve seen that before.”
Vanessa said nothing.
Rachel stepped closer.
“When?”
Vanessa looked toward Maya.
That was answer enough.
Maya’s expression changed too.
Twenty months disappeared from Rachel’s memory in one second.
A winter meet.
A hamstring strain.
A result under Rachel’s name she had been told was a timing mistake.
Rachel stared at Vanessa.
“You told me they fixed that.”
May you like
Vanessa whispered:
“They were supposed to.”
