Endo
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By: Ian O'Neill | Other books by Ian O'Neill Categories: General Fiction, FICTION, Contemporary, Suspense/Mystery Word Count: 98,600 Heat Level: No Rating Published By: Siren-Bookstrand, Inc.
After discovering the body of a pro cyclist at the bottom of a cliff, former detective Keely McAdam's mountain bike race ends, plunging him into the start of an evolving mystery. Soon a second cyclist is missing and Keely feels compelled to help solve the murder and find the missing woman. 2 Ratings
Avg - 4.5
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 Endo
Available in: Adobe Acrobat, Microsoft Reader, HTML, Mobipocket Price: $5.50View Larger Cover Image Cover Art by Jinger Heaston 978-1-60601-172-0 |
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Professional ReviewsExcerptPrologue Pepe just earned his paycheque. Todd pulled the small lever under his handlebars with his right index finger like he was rapidly firing a gun. The gears on his bike changed fluidly. His calves tightened and the slim, unseen muscles lining his shins clenched as he pushed and pulled to create fluid circles with his clipped-to-pedals feet. His bike responded nimbly with greater speed. Excitement welled in him with every pedal stroke; pro or not, there was no better place than in the saddle. Pepe had removed the front tire from the rim, spun it around and put it back on with the tread facing in the opposite direction. The tread had greater grip and that was the right move at this time of the night. Moist air was settling on the trail and the dirt would allow a deeper bite without relinquishing too much of its skin. He would thank Pepe when he finished this lap. His mechanic's decision was, as usual, the right one. He clicked twice more on the small lever and urged his bike forward with ease over the flattest part of the course. It was never boring, but the sight of the dim blinking light a hundred yards up the trail was an excitement that fueled Todd through the least technical section of the off-road trail. Here it was flat with no logs or roots or rocks or drops - nothing to challenge him, except catching the blinking light. "You can ride," he said to the night, "but you can't hide." The light was unmistakable. The bike it was attached to was being driven by Kira, his former girlfriend. Where most riders had a series of blinks from their rear warning light, Kira used a light that spun, like a psychedelic painting from the Sixties. He pushed as hard as his body would allow. This was lap nine in hour twelve on a long course. He needed to be cautious about his pace if nothing else. A riding partner would be great for the rest of the lap, he thought and chuckled as he closed in on the little red swirling light. It turned left, away from the course. "What the hell?" His headlamp shone strongest to about twenty feet and dimmed sharply beyond, fading to form a kind of soft halo, unable to penetrate the denseness of the deep forest and the night. Kira's rear swirling light disappeared and Todd coasted along the trail, searching for a way off the course. He slammed on his brakes, skidding, then made a quick twitch of the handlebars. His bike leapt left, just missing the first of a line of birch trees through which was woven yellow tape, not unlike what you'd find at a crime scene. This marked the edge of the course and the beginning of Todd's incredulity. If any other rider had gone off course he wouldn't have given them a second thought - this was a race and he was paid to win. Kira, however, wasn't any other rider. "Kira?" he called out. "Where the hell are you going?" He manoeuvred his machine through a few more trees, over a stretch of ragged, exposed Canadian Shield rock then unclipped his shoes from his pedals and swung free of his bike. He wasn't going to ride too close to the edge of the cliff. The organizers were smart to keep the course twenty or more yards away from the edge. He carefully placed his bike on the ground - it was a part of him and he respected it. The chain jangled a gentle thanks. "Kira, are you-" "Please, Todd, go. It isn't safe here." He turned his head in the direction of her high-pitched, panicked voice and was nearly blinded when his headlamp slammed light against her bright pink cycling jersey. Facing him, the lip of the cliff to her left, she pulled her bike quickly in fornt of her. She stood rigidly, as if she was now part of the jagged rock below her feet. "Todd. Please go. Please." She began to cry. She rolled the bike forward until the front wheel rested over the edge of the cliff. "Kira, what the hell are you doing?" He stepped towards her. "What's wrong? Let me help." "I just want to be left alone." He saw her expression change, as if the hard rock inside her had suddenly become molten lava. She looked beyond him. "Leave him alone," she yelled. He spun to see who was approaching and the log struck him full in the face. Pain stabbed from his eyes inward, reaching deeper into him than he'd ever felt it before. He could hear Kira screaming. He felt something warm running down his face. His feet fought for purchase but unlike the dirt, the rock was slick in the dampness. He stumbled and fell, but the ground didn't meet him. Kira's screams grew fainter as the wind picked up in his ears. He felt nothing when he finally landed at the bottom of the cliff. The light of his headlamp tried desperately to break the darkness but the halo remained intact. Chapter 1 "Just don't hurt yourself. I hate having to go the hospital to visit you. Too depressing and so inconvenient." Keely laughed. Elise was always making him laugh. Part of why he married her. "Don't you trust me?" "No. Nyet. Nein-" "Okay, I'll be careful." "That's all I'm asking," she said plainly. "I guess all the pros are there? The weekend warriors, too?" "Yep. I don't have a hope in hell of winning. One guy has ten laps already," Keely said and watched a man wearing a bright red bodysuit and a Viking helmet ride by. "But I think I got the weekend warriors figured out." "Well, at least you can beat someone." "Why'd I marry you again?" "For my money." "You're broke." "Then it must be because I'm great in the sack." "Bingo." "Gotta go, natives are restless. Have fun on your little bicycle and please don't hurt yourself," Elise said with a hint of pleading. "Keely, honey, you're not twenty anymore." "Neither are you, but I still love ya. I'll call you again later." "Love you, too. Bye." * * * * "You okay?" Keely looked up and saw the young girl break the plane of light from his headlamp. He was doing so well until that damned tree. "Sir, are you all right?" Sir. I'm old enough to be your youngish father, he thought and rolled onto his side. "Yeah, I'm good. Bloody Ontario jumping pines will get you every time." "The what?" she asked with a tilted head, more to keep the light from her headlamp out of his eyes, he knew. Still, he couldn't believe she didn't get the joke. "You know. The Ontario jumping pine trees. Trees that jump right out-Never mind." "Well, if you're okay," she said and pushed down on her pedal to roll out of his light's scope. He was so sure he could make that last section of tight single track at a faster speed than on his last lap. He got to his feet and suddenly felt the cool of the night touch his skin. His sweat was doing its job. It helped cool him, but at this time of night, it colded him. He laughed to himself and the jumping pines around him. The night was always cool this far north, even in June. The ground was slightly soggy the farther you ventured from the trail. Keely had ventured about a dozen feet - his bike about six. He walked back and eyed the trail he'd unsuccessfully negotiated. He picked up his bike and gave it a quick glance, running his hand over the seat, checking the handlebars and brakes - everything was in working order. Then he checked himself for any major cuts. Nothing was broken, of that he was certain. At night the temperature dropped enough to play with your senses at skin level. What you thought was a small nick could turn out to be a deep gash. The cold and the adrenalin were great pain inhibitors. He looked down his fairly thick arms. They were crusted with dirt, the dark hairs that usually scattered this way and that were matted and flat. He glanced at his thin wrists, he hated his damned tiny wrists, they made his arms look too Popeye-like. Elise thought he was nuts, since she never saw that at all. He checked his legs and not surprisingly found a few scrapes. He was much happier with his legs, good muscle tone if not a bit bowed. The rest of his 190-pound, six-foot-one frame was intact. His forty-five-year-old body would definitely complain to him at the end of the race and for about a week afterward. He tucked a lock of more salt-than-pepper hair back up under his helmet and made a note to cut his mid-length mop before his next race. He had enough to worry about without hair obscuring his vision. He checked his watch. It was 12:11. Slightly less than twelve hours to go. This was lap four. How many more was he really capable of finishing in another twelve hours? Why the hell did he do this to himself? "You okay?" a disembodied voice yelled from the woods back down the trail accompanied by a light zigging and zagging along the single track towards him. "I'm good. Keep going. Thanks." Keely loved that part of his favourite sport - the moment you put your ass on a mountain bike seat, no matter your caste or station in life, regardless of gender, age or ability, you were in the club, no questions asked. "Have a good one," said a young and muscled kid, no more than eighteen. He easily negotiated the tight stand of trees responsible for felling Keely. The boy whipped by causing a breeze and making Keely shiver. It was time to get moving. He threw his leg over the frame of the bike he loved so much that he kept it in his room. Elise called it Keely's two-wheeled whore. It was nothing like that at all. They were just very good friends. He felt his feet sink into their pedals and heard the confirmatory click from each. He was back on the trail cruising up a slight rise through trees, rocks, roots and would soon meet up with a few logs if memory of his previous lap served him well. The day Keely brought home his 'rally blue' full-suspension mountain bike was a happy one. Elise was thrilled for him and even took her for a spin down the driveway. Keely never said a word and kept the smile slapped to his face, but the whole time he was shitting bricks that she'd lose her balance and scrape the paint of his other love on the very first day she entered his life. As luck would shine on him, she was fine, and so was Elise. She was a delight from the first time they'd been together, taking every bump with ease and elegance. The Fox front forks were supple but paled to the float of the rear shock. Both offered ten centimetres of travel and that clearance was a godsend at the moment - several nasty roots had spread like long fingers across the trail. When damp or wet, a root at an odd angle could bring down the most seasoned rider. Keely raised himself out of his seat, drove hard through several pedal strokes then bent at the knees and elbows, allowing the suspension to absorb the bulk of the shock, his body merely floating over his bike as it sailed through the obstacle. A few small logs, a few wide turns and a dip into a ninety-degree turn led Keely to the most boring part of the 25-kilometer course - the flats. Though there was no moon, the forest reflected light from somewhere. It gave Keely pause to think of where the light might be coming from, then he simply stopped caring so he could turn his full attention to the experience of being on his bike, late at night, deep in a forest with no other living soul around him. And that solitude would last if he kept a fairly decent pace. The smell was a mix of damp and dirt. He could taste it, too. Only a mountain biker would understand that, or a little kid eating mud pies. Another hearty internal laugh at his own joke, then a rustling to his left brought his head around. He scrutinized the woods where he knew the sound originated but the dark between the trees was more than a blanket, it was a wall easily stopping his light. A branch snapped closer to him and Keely hammered the pedals with all his might. He squeezed his gear lever several times, the succinct clicking followed by a rattling of his chain through the rear cogs to climb gears and put more tension on the chain and pedals, and his legs. He pushed with all his energy to flee the scene of what could be his biggest fear of all, bears. Keely McAdam and bears did not get along. Without warning, he felt the bike stop, his body continuing forward. He let go of the handlebars, having made the quick assessment that he was going end over end. His feet left the pedals without him even having to twist his ankle or manoeuvre them in any way - the joy of clipless pedals - an oxymoron of the highest degree, he thought, as he stretched out his arms and waited for impact. His forearms met soft ground off the trail, and he tucked in preparation for a roll, his chin touching his chest to protect his neck. His back slammed hard against a tree, and Keely felt the air leave his body. He was now a heap of slightly older rider with a great sense of humour trying to breathe. He would eventually take a breath again, he knew that. What worried him was that he hadn't gotten very far from where that bear might be. Through watery eyes he saw his bike on its side off the trail, the front tire pointing at him from the other side of a log. He deserved this one. He wasn't paying attention, he'd turned his head left to check out the forest and the bike turned with him. Cold air seared hot in his lungs. Was that another oxymoron? He rolled over to rest on his hands and knees. "You're not twenty anymore, honey," he said in his best imitation of his wife. He picked himself up and brushed off the dirt that magnetized to him on landing. He gave himself the once over again to discover not a scratch, thankfully. The tree he'd hit was a big one, so it acted more like a wall than a pole to separate his spine in some gruesome way. His hydration pack, half full of a mix of water and a Drink Pink sports drink, worn like a knapsack, also helped cushion the blow. He managed to get his lungs completely expanded and coughed a few times against the burn. He stuck the end of the plastic tube in his mouth and bit down to open the slit in its end. Then he sucked in warming liquid. Its temperature didn't matter, it was wet and cleansing. He walked back to his bike measuring the distance by steps - ten, to be exact. Another successful launch but he didn't laugh. The trail was empty and he wondered why there were suddenly few riders. He answered his own question without much thought. There were two races going on, each with many different categories. There was the 12-hour race, with its solo riders, and various teams of varying classifications. And, there was the 24-hour race with its soloists and teams. The 12-hour race had finished, so there were far fewer riders on the course now. He shouldered his bike and carried it over the Ontario 'hopping log,' laughed, then placed his bike back on the trail, mounted her and pushed off. He needed to slow down and enjoy the ride. The flats were the perfect place to take a break, especially if you were out to enjoy the race, not win it. In earlier laps he'd been passed by numerous riders cranking high gears but barely sweating. Most said, "On your left," or "On your right," like they were chatting rather than riding their bikes through some of the toughest trail Keely had ever attempted. They'd fly by and make him feel like he was standing still. His ego was only bruised for so long, then his body let him know that it was okay, he was out for the fun of it, there was no way he could ever keep up with those riders. After that, the race was just against himself, and to win, he simply had to finish with as many laps as possible. The trail and everything around it took on a single colour, a dirty grey, yet its depth remained intact; shadows cast from the light of Keely's headlamp danced in rhythm to his pedal strokes. He tucked that loose tendril of hair back under his helmet again. He noticed steam rising from his body, the sweat leaving him in an odd way. Dust particles swam across his vision but never landed in his eyes, or at least they were so small that it didn't hinder his vision. His body ached badly where he'd just hit the tree. His muscles were loose but tired. He'd stopped after every lap to rest and eat. He loved this. Other than lying naked with his wife in his arms, there was no place he'd rather be. Yeah, he was a city boy, but he loved the feel of riding his bike off road. His uneasiness with nature was squelched in comparison to what he was feeling this very moment. A coolness caressed him as he sliced through the air, and beyond the chain gently buzzing against the metal teeth of its ring and cogs, the tires humming their want to eat earth, and his own breathing, there was silence. There was nothing but he and his good friend painted 'rally blue.' The most amazing part of his passion was that though Elise never shared in it, she always encouraged it. When he'd worked a tough case, seen terrible things, made tasteless jokes to pretend and deflect, she'd never scolded him. Instead, she would wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head in the nape of his neck. Her voice was always tinged with empathy and awareness. "Hey, cops are people, too. Go ride your whore." He smiled and felt dirt automatically stick to his teeth. He licked it away then reached for the 'hose' as Elise called it, placing the rubber tip of the plastic tube in his mouth. He rinsed and spit, then drank. He was at the end of the flats and the climb was going to be tough. "Fifth time's a charm," he said, the words carrying no further than the distance of the light that ensconced him. He saw the line of trees arching right before he spotted the yellow tape slaloming through them. He hated the tape they used to mark the course. It reminded him too much of his days as a homicide detective. Here, in his favourite place, he wanted to shed those memories most of all. Keely made a mental decision regarding which of his twenty-seven gears was appropriate. Climbing was not exactly his specialty but it was the one part of his skill set he worked on most. That, and falling properly. He shifted gears and they complained with a loud clang. He powered through it to quickly find his pace again then swung alongside the trees starting his slow ascent up the worst climb on the course. The grade was slow at the bottom but Keely found himself dropping a gear in the first twenty yards. That was okay though, in fact, it was the plan. He'd learned long ago that cadence is one of the keys to climbing successfully, it didn't matter if you had to drop ten gears to your lowest, what mattered was that you kept the pedals stroking as piston-like as possible, not losing your rhythm or speed. The trail wound through pines and Keely concentrated to make each tight turn. Ripples on the ground made maintaining speed nearly impossible, rocking him forward and backward, the stresses on his lower back beginning to tighten in his muscles. Standing was a short relief. He tried to keep his weight centred over the frame. He clicked down two more gears and knew he was going to have to shift next to his lowest front ring if he wanted to access his lowest gears. Trees lined only the right side of the ever rising trail. He moved his ass up slightly on his seat, shifting his weight forward to give the rear tire more bite into the angled trail. A quick head flick and Keely saw the start of the long drop through brush on his left. During the day it was even more unnerving since he could see not only the distance he'd climbed thus far, but added to that was the cliff of eighty or so feet as well. He had to be 120 feet up now and still climbing. He thanked the darkness for hiding the truth. The cliff ran through the park and was part of a fairly long escarpment. It ran about forty kilometres from south to north. Right now, Keely was only concerned about this kilometre. As if the ever increasing slant of the trail wasn't enough, the erosion from water spilling across the single track caused it to slant with the hill face in several places. Keely leaned right slightly and prayed his tires would continue to grip. He clicked down another gear desperately attempting to maintain his cadence - it wasn't working. He was losing momentum and his legs were taking far greater strain. The front wheel was popping up and he was losing grip and balance. The biggest problem with gear design was when you went from the middle ring to the lower ring - you didn't go from tenth gear to ninth gear. No, you went from tenth gear to first gear. Keely was ready for that and as he pulled the lever with his left index finger sending the chain down to the lowest ring in front, he rapidly fired the lever on his right with his index finger trying to get the chain onto the biggest cog in the set attached to his rear wheel. He could feel the chain move down in front and up in back, but it was too fast or there was too much dirt between cogs or the chain didn't have enough lube on it - for whatever reason, the chain got sucked between cogs and jammed. The bike stopped. His forward momentum swung sideways, to the right because of his lean to compensate for the wonky trail. The bike was sliding left, down the slope off the trail, pulling Keely with it. A quick twist of his ankle and his foot was free of the pedal searching for a hold on the slanted trail. "Shit." He was on grass and it was wet and then the hill sloped even more and Keely tried to remove his left foot from his pedal but it was no use, he was going down with the bike. He reached up and tried to grab at shrubs now flying past him but he couldn't grasp one. All he managed to do was get cuts on his arms and legs, the harsh brush like wire against his skin. He felt a jolt against his crotch, pain shot from his abdomen, and he was airborne, free form his bike. He landed farther down the steep hill and heard the crash of bushes and small saplings snapping under his weight. He had to slow down. The slope levelled to a ledge before the cliff but it was only about a dozen feet wide. If he hit that slope at this speed he was doomed. He did the complete opposite to what he'd been taught - he spread out wide, stopped rolling and started sliding. He'd much rather have a broken limb than hit the bottom of that cliff. Tall grass ripped at his skin and caused a fire of pain. He could hear it whip and snap against his flesh and grimaced with every strike but happily so - he was slowing. But was it slow enough? He looked down the length of his body as the ledge rushed up to meet the light from his lamp. His right leg buckled on impact and it was that more than anything that slowed him. Pain like lightning struck out from his ankle. He was flying again, but it was a short flight. His entire body crashed onto the moss-covered rock of the ledge and bounced once, flipping him onto his back. He came to rest with his head leaning back over the edge of the cliff. He took stock of the multiple bumps, bruises and cuts, but nothing hurt as bad as his right ankle. He rolled slowly onto his stomach and let out his first moan. He deserved that much. That's when he saw the light of a fallen rider at the bottom of the cliff. |
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