Free Grave Surprise by Charlaine Harris Page A

my unspoken question. “It was better than nothing.”
    I hate running on treadmills. It just makes me feel stupid. I’m not really going anywhere. But this morning I was willing, since I needed activity in the worst kind of way. While he poured his own cup of coffee, I was on the elevator in my running shoes and my shorts and my T-shirt.
    There were several treadmills. One was already occupied by a man who was probably in his forties, dark hair just beginning to turn silvery at the edges. He was pounding along, his face set and remote. He gave me an absent nod, which I barely returned.
    I studied the control panel and the instructions, since I couldn’t imagine anything that would make me feel stupider than flying off the back of a treadmill. When I was confident I understood what I was doing, I started off slow, getting used to the feel of the rubber under my feet. I thought of nothing, just the feeling of my shoes hitting the treadmill, and then I reached down and pressed the control to increase the speed. Soon I was going at a good clip—and though I was indoors and not going anywhere and the damn scenery never changed, I was content. I began sweating, and gradually I began to feel that welcome exhaustion that tells you you’ve gone just about your limit. I slowed the pace a bit, and then slowed again, and finally I walked for about five minutes.
    I’d been vaguely aware Mr. Silvertip was still in the room, moving from weight station to weight station, one of the hotel towels around his neck. I headed for the stack on a table by the door as soon as I was through, and while I was patting my face dry, a voice said, “It’s good to run in the mornings, isn’t it? Helps you to start your day on a good note.”
    I lowered the towel to appraise the speaker.
    â€œFBI?” I asked.
    He couldn’t control his jerk of surprise. “You’re really psychic,” he said pleasantly after a moment.
    â€œNo, I’m not,” I said. “Or only in the most limited way. Were you down here when Tolliver ran, too?”
    He had dark blue eyes, and he examined me with themvery carefully. I was exasperated. He’d had plenty of time to look me over while I was running. This wasn’t about him deciding I was a hunkette of burning love. This was about something else.
    â€œI decided you were more approachable,” he said. “And you’re the more interesting, of the two of you.”
    â€œYou’re wrong there,” I said.
    He looked down at my right leg. The top part of the leg is marked with a fine spider’s web of red lines. My Lycra running shorts stopped at mid-thigh, and the web was clearly visible if you looked at the right leg with attention. That’s the leg that gives out, every now and then. That’s another reason I need to run, to keep that leg strong.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” he asked. “I’ve never seen marks like that.” He was quite clinical.
    â€œI was hit by lightning,” I said.
    He made an impatient movement, as if he’d read that and just recalled it. Or maybe he simply didn’t believe me. “How’d it come about?” he asked.
    I explained the circumstances. “I was doing my hair. I had a date,” I said, remotely remembering that detail. “Of course, I never went out with that boy. The blast blew my shoe off and stopped my heart.”
    â€œWhat saved you?”
    â€œMy brother, Tolliver. Gave me CPR.”
    â€œI’ve never met anyone before who was hit by lightning and lived to tell about it.”
    â€œThere are plenty of us around,” I said, and I went out the glass door, towel still clutched in my hand.
    â€œWait,” he said behind me. “I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”
    I turned to face him. A woman stepped past us, ready for her own workout. She was wearing old shorts and a T-shirt dingy with age. She glanced at us curiously. I