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CHAPTER 12:
The Chase

Richmond Times Features @JenButler
Check out a special report from our Community Heroes series in the new three-part series on Councilman Samuel Garner. Learn how his efforts to revitalize the community are paying off—in more ways than one!

Yvonne A. @AlphaTeam21
@JenButler, he did what?

ChirpChat, April 2042



Jennifer Butler was on vacation; one that had been forced on her by her editor and publisher. She was a journalist who specialized in interviews and human-interest stories, sometimes with an investigative edge. Her news outlet had been doing a special feature on community heroes, and she was assigned to write about a council leader responsible for reducing crime, increasing high school graduation rates, and bringing jobs to a depressed area of Richmond, Virginia. The profile was going great until she discovered that the subject of her story was maintaining two residences—complete with two wives and two sets of kids—and not enough income to account for all of his expenses. It turned out that he was receiving payoffs to under-report crimes and over-report the number of jobs provided by new companies moving into his city. There were some beneficial side-effects—the additional money coming into the community paid for school and recreation center improvements, and the graduation rate was, in fact, slowly improving. Unfortunately, the jobs themselves were largely temporary, and would do more damage in the long-term than if the companies had never come to town. When she presented the story to her editor, she was told to keep it quiet until he could figure out how to handle the bombshell. To his credit, the editor pulled the profile from the special issue, and convinced the publisher to move the story of corruption and scandal to high profile and publish as its own special repot.

The target of her story did not take the revelation well; he shouted his defiance even while being hauled off jail. Soon after, Jen started receiving death threats—most likely from the criminals ultimately behind the corruption. Her publisher assured her that she still had a job, as well as paid leave, but suggested she take a long vacation well out of town . . . out of state . . . and off of the U.S. mainland.

Ever the journalist, Jen’s curiosity was peaked when she noticed one—or possibly two—blacked-out SUVs repeatedly passing below her vantage point overlooking the watersports rental area at the base of Kailua pier. She was sitting at one of the many pubs and restaurants with second-floor, open-air dining rooms that looked out on Ali’i drive along the Kona waterfront, engaged in her favorite past-time of people-watching. There were the usual tourists in loose-fitting flower-print Hawaiian shirts and blouses. Hotel and restaurant employees in tailored Hawaiian prints, and locals in shorts and various types of T-shirts.

The popular beaches were mostly north and south of town, and the recreational sail boats and water skimmers launched from the far side of the pier, so her attention was caught by a man walking out of the water onto small patch of sand at the base of the pier. He walked over to a tan-colored vehicle with military plates which combined features of an SUV and small truck. He climbed into the back of the vehicle, and emerged a few minutes later wearing cycling gear, took a bicycle out of the truck bed, and started to pedal north up the road.

Most of the people down on Ali’i drive and Kaahumalu Place were tourists, but this man didn’t look like either a tourist or a local.

This guy looked familiar, and he had walked funny when he first got out of the water. He reached down and placed his hands on each side of his right thigh, and seemed to squeeze. It looked like a small squirt of water came out in response. He then did the same with his left leg and seemed to walk more easily afterward.

Prosthetics? Would someone go swimming with prosthetic legs? She thought to herself.

As a specialist in writing about interesting persons, she’d once interviewed a lawyer in North Carolina who was an avid triathlete. The image of the competitive athlete was so at-odds with the buttoned-down personal injury lawyer, that she’d probed for more information, and had ended up learning much more than she ever thought she wanted to know about running, cycling, swimming, and the ultimate combination of the three—the ExtremeIron race.

She’d bought binoculars for whale-watching before she’d learned that it was the wrong season, and she was not on the best island for it, anyway. The binocs were in her backpack, though, so she pulled them out and turned to focus on the intersection of Kuakini Highway and Palani Road, behind the restaurant.

There he was, making the turn north onto Kuakini for the first loop.

The tan SUV had pulled out and was following a bit behind the cyclist.

He’s making good time, how fast was he going? Almost as fast as the cars!

It took about five minutes for the cyclist to return down Palani Road and turn south on Ali’i Drive. Jen’s gaze lingered on the intersection for a few more minutes. A car turning at the intersection honked at another that had pulled out in front of it. That triggered a memory—there had been some sort of car accident and a picture of a man holding a car one-handed as he lowered it back to the ground.

Glenn Shepard! What was he doing on Hawaii, and why was he running the ExtremeIron course?

It was eleven miles to the southern turnaround at the town of Captain Cook. From there, he would start the climb to Waimea on State Road 180—but that was too far for her to see from here. She signaled the server for her check, paid, then hurried down to the parking lot for her rental car. There was a tiny café nestled right in between Highway 11 and 180 about six miles south of town. She remembered from her research that it was used as the first checkpoint in the ExtremeIron because it was just short of twenty miles into the race. An experienced racer would make that distance in forty-five to sixty minutes.

It took Jen almost twenty minutes to get to the café, and she was quite surprised to see cyclist and chase-car arriving less than ten minutes after her.

Forty miles an hour? I know he’s supposed to have prosthetics, but how was he doing this?

That did it. She waited for a few more minutes to ensure that it wouldn’t be obvious she was following. It was a good thing, too. A couple minutes later, a black SUV passed. It certainly looked like one of the ones she saw before she noticed Shepard walking out of the water. Come to think of it, there had been a black SUV heading up Highway 180 just as she arrived at the waypoint.

Security. Maybe wait a few more minutes, she thought.

It was another forty-five miles to the town of Waimea. At Shepard’s current speed, he’d be there in an hour, but he’d also be climbing more than two-thousand feet in elevation. She had little hope of passing two security vehicles, his chase car and Shepard himself. Not to mention, he was going about as fast as the vehicular traffic. On the other hand, if she took the Hawaii Belt Road to Kawaihae and turned east to Waimea, she could just barely make it in front of the convoy.

The ExtremeIron checkpoint in Waimea was at the elementary school; there, competitors changed to low-gear mountain bikes for the climb up the steep and winding Kohala Mountain Road. She should be able to get in position to watch the changeover—or at worst, arrive during the brief break built into the ExtremeIron course.


She arrived at the Parker Ranch Center next door to the elementary school and got out her binoculars. The tan SUV was waiting in the school parking lot. Shepard arrived a few minutes later. This was her first chance to get a look at the man up close. He was above average height; her practiced eye put him at just short of six feet. He was . . . not stocky, but . . . solid. Certainly not the lean, greyhound look of many athletes and astronauts—on the other hand, with his good looks, he could have been a poster boy for the original Mercury astronauts. His hair was short, in a buzz cut, and she could see that the nape of the neck was uneven and there were a few tufts of longer hair. He cuts it himself, she thought. What she could see of hair color was black flecked with gray on the right side, and solid black on the left side.

Jen checked her watch. Forty-two miles an hour? Uphill? How could he maintain that speed? It had been almost two hours already, and he was showing no sign of slowing.

She watched as Shepard spoke to someone in the SUV, then switched out his road bike for one with a thick sturdy frame and knobby tires. He slapped the side of the vehicle, mounted the bike, and rode way.

The next waypoint was in the town of Hawi. It was only twenty-five miles away, and Jen was uncertain whether she could get there in time. On the other hand, traffic was quite light, and she would . . . push it a little. She made it to Hawi in what she hoped was enough time; a black SUV was leaving town just as she arrived. She parked in front of a shop advertising ice cream, coffee, and homemade fudge to wait for any sign of Shepard and his support.

Not five minutes later, the tan SUV pulled up and parked, and a short man got out. He had slightly wavy hair that was shaved on the sides, but worn longer—and wilder—up top. His dark skin and stubble gave him a Middle Eastern or East Asia look. He had extremely broad shoulders, but was slim in the waist, like a weight lifter. His legs were straight, but he bent slightly above the waist, causing him to be slightly stooped and walk awkwardly. Her reporter instinct suggested he’d suffered a back injury.

Is this another injured astronaut? Or perhaps a fellow patient?

The man pulled a small backpack out of the back seat, followed by several water bottles glistening with condensation. He put four bottles in the pack, keeping two out.

Jen now recognized the man from the same news article about the rescue of the woman and children. That made her a bit unsure; should she attempt to contact Shepard directly or try to talk to this man first?

Given the speed at which Shepard had been traveling, she was unsurprised to see him appear less than five minutes later. He stopped next to the SUV and dismounted to change bikes. The racing bike looked like a rocket scientist had been given free-rein to redesign a bicycle. It was long and low—the cyclist practically lay over the solid, disk-like wheels behind a motorcycle-like windshield. She stayed just long enough to watch the two men trade backpacks, and for Shepard to drink an entire bottle of water and reach for another. Before they completed the hand-over, she pulled her car out of its parking spot to head back to Kona.

Traffic on the road had been running between fifty and fifty-five miles per hour. Auto-drive cars were not common in Hawaii, and many tourists came just for the experience of being able to stop at roadside stands, scenic lookouts and enjoy the relaxed experience the locals called “island time.” To this point, Shepard had been maintaining a speed—on level ground—not much slower than the cars. He would be even faster on this bike; if Jen wanted to get back to Kona ahead of him, she needed to stay ahead of him on the return route.

She was back on Ali’i Drive in Kona an hour later, sitting casually on a low stone wall in front of the Kona Wave Café, eating a “shave ice” and getting sweet syrup on her hand. Across the street was a kiosk selling ExtremeIron souvenirs. If Shepard was going to attempt the ultra-marathon run today, the changeover should happen right here.

Sure enough, the tan SUV pulled up five minutes later. This time the man got out, pulled a pair of crutches out of the back along with a duffel bag. He came over and sat about five feet away from Jen on the same rock wall.

Was—was he suspicious?


Nik pulled up to the street in front of the Kailua Pier. There were traffic cones reserving his parking spot, courtesy of General Boatright’s advance security team. He’d laughed at the thought of them running around in their black SUVs and black suits in the tropical sun, but they’d surprised him by blending in fairly well in tailored Hawaiian shirts, looking like every other resort employee in the area. They were efficient, and he was glad of their efforts in clearing the way, given the heavy vehicular traffic in the tourist town.

There was a woman across the street, brown skin—not as dark as his own, but darker than Shep. Brown hair, worn shoulder length, slight figure, she probably had to exercise a lot to keep it, too. He’d seen her before, and the “suits” reported that she’d been seen at several of the waypoints along the race course.

Before getting out of the vehicle, Nik took a picture with his wristcomm and sent it to General Boatright for an I.D. The answer came back almost immediately: Jennifer Butler. Reporter. Low threat level; no need to drive her off—yet. Be cautious for now and call me as soon as you’re back on the road—Boatright.

He grabbed a duffel bag and went over to sit on the rock wall a few feet away from the woman. It was another fifteen minutes before Shep arrived. By Nik’s timing, it was right around four hours since he’d left this exact point on his first bike. Total time since starting the ExtremeIron course was a bit over six hours.

Shep stopped his bike midway between Nik and the reporter. Nik tried to motion him closer, but Shep didn’t pick up on the signal. He was preoccupied with getting disengaged from the aerodynamic shell of the speed-bike and wasn’t paying too much attention—to Nik or the woman. He finally got off the bike and leaned it against the wall as he took the duffle from Nik and sat down to change into running shoes. “That looks like hard work,” the woman said to Shep. “Hey, I’ve got an extra bottle of water here. It’s cold, do you want one?”

Shepard eyed her uncertainly. “No problem. I’m good,” he said. Nik waved his own bottle of cold water at his friend and gave her a sharp look.

Once Shep had drunk Nik’s water and eaten a protein bar, he handed the bike off, and started running back the way he’d come.

As Nik started to walk the bike across to the SUV, he turned to look at the reporter. “He’ll be back in about two and a half hours. Will we see you then, Ms. Butler?”

Busted.


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