Free Cold Frame by P. T. Deutermann

towpath. A cyclist came by, thoughtfully ringing a bell to warn runners ahead. He’d never understood why there were cyclists on this segment of the canal. They had to dismount and then hump their bikes up and over the streets crossing the canal just about every block until they got out of Georgetown.
    He set what the Marines had called a route pace, a gentle jog they used to settle out their packs, belts, and other gear. It was designed to cover the ground but not exhaust the troops. He loved his morning runs, but did not miss humping all that gear. The only things he carried now were his badge, pinned to the waistband of his running shorts under the overlong football jersey, and a .38 special S & W Ladysmith wheel gun in a cross-groin fabric holster. He still could hear the lines of doggerel the gunnies would chant, turning words into a nasal invocation to the running gods. Le-o-w-f-t, le-o-w-f-t, le-o-w-f-t right l-e-o-f-t, beedle l-e-o-w-f-t …
    He became aware of two runners who’d fallen in behind him as if using him as the pace car. He kicked it up to full cardio speed and they appeared to follow suit. He didn’t bother to turn around; some runners just did better with someone in front of them.
    He turned around when he reached lock No. 5 and saw that his “pursuers” were two military-looking guys, with high and tight haircuts and typical runner’s physiques. They were wearing reflective sunglasses, floppy camo hats, dark green tees over black nylon running shorts. He nodded to them as he retraced his steps. They nodded back.
    Two minutes later he became aware of them again as they rejoined him for the jog home. Ten, maybe fifteen feet back, keeping perfect time with him. He wondered about it for a moment, thought briefly about doubling back to see what they’d do, and then dismissed them. This town was full of military people; he’d read somewhere that there were twenty-five thousand in the Pentagon alone. Add to that the Secret Service guys, the Bureau guys, who were rumored to run in place at their desks if they couldn’t get outside, other cops, probably even some spooks from across the river. Having two guys who looked like that following behind you was hardly an uncommon sight. If he’d had that blonde as his running partner there’d probably be a small army behind them by now.
    About a mile from his building, as he closed in on the passage under Key Bridge, he became aware that the two runners had closed it up. He could hear them breathing now, and their footfalls seemed to be no more than six or eight feet away. He assessed his speed, wondering if he’d slacked off, but he could run this pace all day if he had to. Just like people in a crowded room, every runner had his own sense of personal space, and they were just outside of his. He began to wonder if it was his cop sense that was getting worried. Cops were cops twenty-four/seven, and every cop he knew listened to the hairs on the back of his neck if he knew what was good for him. He slowed his pace fractionally, and the two guys behind him drew closer, now definitely inside his personal space, maybe four feet back.
    They ran like that for another hundred yards or so, and then Av raised his right hand, palm out, and dropped into a walk. The two guys behind him kept coming, passing on either side, so close he could smell them. They didn’t touch him, but if he’d swayed a few inches in either direction, they’d have bumped shoulders.
    That was truly odd behavior, he thought, wondering if they’d been deliberately following him or were just screwing around. They trotted off ahead of him while he walked, never breaking pace or looking back. When they were fifty yards ahead, he went back up into his own jog pace to see what they might do, like maybe slow down to a walk until he passed them. They didn’t, but then he became aware of a second pair of runners behind him, back about twenty