The Illegal (28 page)

It had been a good effort today, but any positive feelings dissipated when she crossed the finish line and heard that Keita had collapsed at the finish line and been rushed to the hospital. She asked for the race director, but he was gone. She asked for the assistant race director, and some official tried to stall her. She brought out her badge and identified herself as a sergeant with the Clarkson Police Department and said she needed to speak to the assistant race director pronto. That got action.

From him, she found out that Mitch Hitchcock had accompa-nied Keita to the Freedom Hospital. She hailed a cab and changed into street clothes in the back seat. The driver watched through his rear-view mirror. But she couldn’t care less.

Waiting in the emergency area were Hitchcock and, to her surprise, Ivernia Beech. Candace sat down beside the older woman to wait.

“Are you two friends?” Ivernia asked.

“We’ve met,” Candace said. “I heard he had some troubles, and I was worried. You know each other too?”

“We do,” Ivernia said. “I got in by saying that he worked for me, but I’m not really here as his employer.”

“I’m not really here as a police officer,” Candace said.

“I figured as much. He is very handsome.”

Candace blushed.

A couple of hours later, a doctor in scrubs came into the waiting room looking for next of kin. Three people stood up. The doctor looked quizzically at Ivernia, Mitch and Candace, and motioned to Ivernia, who said she was like a mother to him.

“If you don’t mind,” Mitch said. “As the director of the race where Mr. Ali has hurt himself, I really must join you.”

Candace stood. “Clarkson Police,” she said, flashing her badge. “I guess it will be a full party.”

K
EITA, FOR HIS PART, WASN’T FEELING SO BAD NOW.
H
E
wanted to have the IV detached. He wanted to leave. A hospital was not a safe place to hide.

The doctor came in and said that three people wished to join them for a conversation.

“Who are they?” Keita asked.

“An older woman, a guy with a grey ponytail, and a lady cop. I can tell the cop to wait, if you wish.”

“Does she look like she has come to arrest me?” he asked.

“She’s in civilian clothes. I think she just ran the half-marathon too. She probably isn’t planning to arrest you, if she was prepared to sit patiently for two hours in the waiting room.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let them all in.”

“I
T’S THE HERNIA, RIGHT
?”
HE SAID TO THE DOCTOR, A TALL
black man.

Keita wondered how he had come be a doctor in this land. Was he born here? Had he come from elsewhere? He didn’t seem to have a foreign accent.

“I saw your hernia, and another physician checked it out too. It is enlarged. You should have it operated on. But it is not your chief issue here.”

“It has been growing, and I’ve been feeling sick lately when I run. It wasn’t this big before. Are you sure—?”

“Yes,” the doctor said. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Ali, you could have died today.”

“Shit,” Mitch said. “Don’t tell me it’s his heart.”

“His heart is fine,” the doctor said. “Mr. Ali, you have diabetes. And today you suffered from dehydration. It’s not to be ignored.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you don’t get this under control, it could lead to diabetic ketoacidosis.”

“Which is what?”

“If your blood sugar rises too high, and if you suffer from serious dehydration, you could fall into a coma and suffer cardiac arrest. You need medicine to control the levels of sugar in your blood. You need it, starting today.”

Nobody said a word. Keita looked at the faces of the three who had come to see him. He saw Ivernia trying to be calm and strong. She took his hand.

“Are you quite sure?” Mitch finally said.

“Positive. Nobody goes to levels that high without being diabetic. And he responded immediately when we put him on an insulin drip. Plus fluids and electrolytes.”

Keita swallowed hard. “Can I keep running?”

“Yes—
if
you go on insulin and get your blood sugar under control.”

Keita dropped his eyes. Whatever this treatment meant, he knew he did not have the money for it.

“I’m a runner too, by the way,” said the doctor. “Ten kilometres is my max. I am blown away that you could run a sixty-three-minute half-marathon while suffering from dehydration. It would take me sixty-three minutes to jog half that distance in perfect health.” He paused, seemed to read Keita’s mind. “You’re wondering about cost. I don’t know what situation you are in, but we will worry later about the hospital bill. My first job is to treat. Others can worry about money. We can get you some free supplies. Enough to keep you going a few months. Keep the stuff refrigerated, that’s all. Maybe you can work out a solution after that.”

“I’ll help him with the needles,” Ivernia said.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “I’ll set you up with a nurse. It might take another hour or so. Have some water and relax, and we’ll get you out of here before the day ends.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“If I take this insulin, the problem will go away?”

“It can be controlled. Lots of high-performance athletes manage diabetes, with the help of medication.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. We’ve run some blood tests already, to figure out the right level of insulin.”

“Doctor,” Keita said.

“Yes?”

He lowered his voice. “I have to be out of here very, very soon.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

“It’s true,” Ivernia said. “He’s in danger.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the doctor said, and he left the room.

“Handsome man,” Ivernia said.

Mitch and Candace laughed.

“I’ve got to get going, now that I see you’re alive,” Mitch said. “I want you to come see me, but I know you’re not going to do that. So I’m going to come to you. I want you to train with the national team. If you can get your health back on track, you could be one helluva marathoner.”

“I appreciate that, and maybe later, but right now I’m facing a crisis. Someone needs me, and I can’t let that person down.”

“I think he needs to consider the matter when he is feeling better,” Ivernia said. “No more pressure.”

Mitch stood. “Okay, okay. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better. And by the way—we’ll take care of your hospital bill and look into getting that hernia fixed.”

Candace stood as well. She asked if she could have a moment with him. Mitch and Ivernia nodded and left the room.

“How you doing?” she said.

“I needed to win that race today.”

“Right now, you need to focus on your health.”

He took her hand.

“You got the wrong idea about me,” she said.

He looked at her. “You didn’t tell me you were a police officer.”

“I am not after you—in that way,” she said.

He smiled. “I have a lot of problems. Too many to tell you about.”

“Try me.”

“I’ll call after things get under control.”

“Or you could let me help you,” Candace said. “You know how to reach me.” She kissed him on the cheek and left the room.

I
T HAD BEEN A GOOD RACE.
H
OT AS
H
ADES OUT THERE.
Rocco must have lost two litres of sweat. He drank at every water station, did not answer the cell while running and finished the half-marathon in ninety-four minutes. Not as fast as he had been hoping, but he didn’t suffer too much. He was fifteenth in his age group—men fifty to fifty-five years old—and that made him feel pretty good. Overall, he finished 250th, which was not bad in a race of five thousand.

Rocco checked the race results posted on the bulletin boards. He was looking for the finishing time of Candace Freixa. He hadn’t seen that babe once in the whole race. Maybe he had beaten her today. Maybe she had wilted in the heat. He watched for her, too, in the finishing area, where they served food and drinks, but she was nowhere to be found. He looked again at the race results board and finally found her name. She had beaten him by eleven minutes. Damn, was she fast.

He checked the top of the bulletin board. No result for Keita Ali. Weird. He checked the bottom of the board. It listed the runners who did not finish—each name had a big
DNF
beside it. Keita Ali was one of them. What had happened?

Someone tapped his shoulder.

Geoffrey. In shades and a Tilley hat that made him look like a Canadian tourist.

“Taken away by ambulance,” Geoffrey said.

“What?”

“Keita Ali collapsed and was taken away by ambulance.”

“What happened?” Rocco asked.

“No idea. Try to find out, would you? And meet me in the office tomorrow. Bossman and I have a few things to go over.”

Geoffrey spun on his heel and walked away. Rocco thought again about the next election. Two more years, and he would be out of there.

I
N THE MORNING,
R
OCCO GOT TO HIS OFFICE EARLY.
J
UNE
was waiting for him. She stood close to him and whispered, “Since you’re interested in that runner fellow, I want you to hear the message that some guy left on the Illegals hotline. Nobody else has heard this.”

On Rocco’s initiative, a five-thousand-dollar reward had been offered to any citizen who reported an Illegal, provided that the report led to the individual being caught and deported. Not many legitimate tips came through the hotline, but this man seemed determined. He identified himself as Jimmy Beech and said, in an angry voice, that an Illegal using the name Roger Bannister was mooching off his mother, Ivernia Beech, at 37 Elixir Bridge in Clarkson. The message ended “I should be entitled to my five-thousand-dollar reward for this and would appreciate receiving it at your earliest convenience.”

Rocco shook his head. He didn’t buy Ivernia Beech’s politics but admired her activism. Too bad the old woman was stuck with a meddling son. She deserved better. But at least Rocco now knew where Keita lived.

“The prime minister is asking to see you now,” June said. “In his office. Shall I delete the message?”

“Good thinking,” Rocco said.

As Rocco walked along the fourth-floor corridor, a black man with opaque sunglasses emerged from the PM’s door and walked
quickly toward him. The man was walking purposefully, but Rocco was tired of mysteries. He stood right in the man’s path.

“Excuse me, who are you?”

“Who are
you
?” the man said back.

“Rocco Calder, federal minister of immigration.”

“Saunders,” he said, “and I’m just leaving.”

“Saunders who?”

“It’s just Saunders.”

“What do you do?”

“This and that,” Saunders said.

He had one helluva attitude, and he was not the least bit intimidated by Rocco.

“Who were you just meeting with?” Rocco asked.

“Ask them,” Saunders said, slipping past him and hurrying to the stairwell.

“Hey,” Rocco said.

The man did not answer or slow down.

Rocco knocked on the PM’s door. Inside, he found Wellington and Geoffrey.

“Who was that guy?” Rocco asked.

“And good morning to you too, Rocco,” the PM said.

“The black guy who took off like a shot. Wearing shades.”

“Sit down,” Geoffrey said, “we need to talk.”

Rocco took a chair.

“What can you tell us about this Keita Ali?” the PM asked.

Rocco told him much of what he knew: Keita was apparently from Zantoroland, and he had used an alias to run in Freedom State; he was a talented runner who had collapsed at the Grant Valley Half-Marathon; apparently, he was not registered as a citizen or legal visitor, and his visa to enter the country had expired. All these things Rocco had learned by having his people dig through the files in the immigration department.

“Where does he live?” the PM asked.

“No clue,” Rocco lied.

“We want you to help us find him,” Geoffrey said.

“I’m told he was taken to a hospital after the race,” he said.

“He checked out of the Freedom Hospital late yesterday afternoon,” Geoffrey said. “He left no address.”

“Guy’s fast,” Rocco said.

“We need to talk to him,” Geoffrey said, “so have your people look, and meanwhile, scour the files.”

“And Rocco,” the PM said.

“Yes.”

“Sorry about the mix-up in AfricTown. We had no idea that a police raid would be conducted.”

“It happens,” Rocco said.

“Did you get anything out of Darlene?”

“You know what? Not a single thing! I was just settling in when the raid began. So there was no time. I did catch the wrestling, though. Man. Gotta watch out for snakes.”

“There’s trouble brewing in AfricTown,” the PM said. “They’re unhappy about those raids we’ve been conducting, and they are raising hell about Yvette Peters. Lula DiStefano is threatening to stage a demonstration and name people who have visited the Bombay Booty lately.”

Rocco cleared his throat. “That could mean a lot of trouble, for a lot of people.”

“Just be prepared,” the PM said.

I
NSIDE THE
F
REEDOM BUILDING,
V
IOLA USED HER PRESS
pass, rolled into the elevator, went up a floor, got out and wheeled along the corridor. She was looking for the office of Rocco Calder.

When she found it, she rolled past his secretary and straight into his office, stopping near his desk. Calder was behind it.

The secretary followed, chastising her. “Excuse me, you can’t barge into this office.” But then she saw Viola’s face, and everything changed.

“Hey, June,” Viola said.

“Viola Hill.” June laughed. “Been a very long time. You really got the stuff in that chair. Move like greased lightning.” June had grown up in AfricTown, and like Viola, she had escaped.

“Working girl’s got to move,” Viola said.

“You fast in that thing,” June said. “Ripped arms too. You working out, child?”

“When I ain’t chasing immigration ministers.”

Rocco got up and came around his desk. “Ms. Hill. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Sorry to barge in, Minister, but I’ve been calling and calling, and it just can’t wait.”

“June,” Rocco said, “please, close the door behind you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Viola, go easy on him.” June flashed her a grin.

“Sure thing,” Viola said.

When they were alone, Calder said, “She’s been working for me for two years, and that’s the first time I’ve heard her talk naturally.”

“Don’t you ever speak naturally, Mr. Minister? All alone, with the boys?”

“Not really,” Rocco said. “Not much these days. Anyway, I saw you at the half-marathon, taking notes, interviewing people. You never stop, do you?”

“I saw you running. Ninety-four minutes, right? Not bad for an old white guy running in the heat.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘old dead white guy,’” Rocco said, laughing. “I guess we’re both just working with what we’ve got.”

“Mr. Minister, we all grow. But not everybody loses their legs.”

“When you put it that way,” he said. “I’m sorry if I sounded callous.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I work on being callous every day. But I sure didn’t feel callous when Keita Ali fell on the finishing line.”

“Me neither,” he said. “At the starting line, the guy was stuck in the thick of the runners, just like me. He couldn’t even get up to the front to start with the elite guys.”

“He was beaten up not long before the race.”

“That’s awful.”

“Tell me about Yvette Peters. And Zantoroland.”

“I cannot speak on the record. I told you that last time, and you quoted me anyway. I caught hell from the PM for saying I had nothing to do with the girl’s deportation. If the PM walked in here now, I’d be thrown out of cabinet.”

“This is off the record,” Viola said.

“Completely?” he asked.

“Completely. I’m going to Zantoroland, and I need to figure a few things out.”

“Okay, but first you tell me something.”

“Okay.”

“Who is Saunders?” Rocco asked.

“Black man, not six foot, thin, attitude as big as his head, packs a revolver?” she said. “That the Saunders you mean?”

“I didn’t know about the revolver.”

“Grew up in AfricTown,” Viola said. “Now he’s a freelance thug. Tells secrets about people in AfricTown. He’s paid by your own government and anyone else who wants the inside scoop on what goes down there.”

“He was just in with the PM,” Rocco said.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Viola said. “That is a very interesting fact.”

“An off-the-record fact. Are we clear?”

“Clear.”

“The PM says there’s gonna be a demonstration soon by Lula what’s-her-name,” Rocco said.

“DiStefano. Also good info. Saunders must be the PM’s snitch. Okay, my turn for questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“You came into office swearing that you’d turn boatloads of refugees right back to Zantoroland.”

“My government did. I only moved into this portfolio recently.”

“You were going to get tough with Illegals and intercept their boats in our territorial waters and send them right back home before they even landed in Zantoroland?”

“Right.”

“And you know how for its first two years in office, your government has been unable to send significant numbers of Illegals back to Zantoroland?”

“Yes. That’s not going so well.”

“It’s well known that traditionally, Zantoroland has only agreed to accept small numbers of the refugees that Freedom State wanted to send back. Why have two big boatloads of refugees suddenly been intercepted in Freedom State waters and been turned back to Zantoroland? Why is Zantoroland now allowing that?”

“Beats me. They told me to crack down on the big numbers, and I’ve been unable to do it.”

“Whose permission is needed to deport someone to Zantoro-land?” she asked.

“Normally my signature is needed. Or that of my deputy minister, but he never signs without my say-so. Or the minister of justice.”

“Anyone else?”

“The head of the Immigration and Refugee Board.”

“And who is that person?” Viola asked.

“The prime minister,” Calder said. “Not many people know that. But the PM took over that role when we came to office.”

“So when Yvette Peters was deported . . .”

“You’re the reporter. You’ll come to your own conclusions. But I will swear on my own life that I did not sign her deportation order.”

“Thank you, Mr. Minister.”

“Off the record, right?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Off the record. Thanks for helping.” As Viola swung her chair around to leave, she said, “I’ve been interviewing scores of Zantorolanders here in Freedom State. Some have close ties to what is going on in their home country. Word on the street is that there’s some sort of secret arrangement between our two countries, which has us shipping dissidents back to Zantoroland.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Would that have to go through cabinet?”

“No. The PM’s Office could handle it. The PM’s Office handles everything.”

T
ODAY, IT SEEMED THAT EVERYBODY WANTED A PIECE OF
Rocco. Mitch Hitchcock was next in line.

“Congratulations, Mr. Minister,” he said when he was seated in Rocco’s office. “I see you ran the half in ninety-four minutes.”

“Thanks,” Rocco said. What did this joker want? The man had recently been named to head up the men’s Olympic marathon team for 2020. What kind of Olympic coach dressed like a hippie?

“It’s about Keita Ali,” Hitchcock said.

“How did one Illegal end up occupying my whole morning?” Rocco said. “What’s with that guy?”

“I just want to help him,” Hitchcock said.

“Nothing in it for you, is there?”

“It’s not about me, but I would bask in his glory if he ran well in the Olympics.”

“Olympics? For Freedom State? Isn’t he an Illegal?”

“Minister, every country in the world makes exceptions for world-class athletes who wish to run in the Olympics.”

“Is he good enough to race in the Olympics?”

“He’s running already at an elite level, without any support in this country.”

“And you want . . .”

“Would you consider granting him citizenship so that he can race for Freedom State?”

“Has he agreed to that?”

“No, but he will.”

Rocco sat up in his chair. The fellow ran beautifully. Once in a while, you had to bend the rules and let someone stay in the country. What a public relations coup it would be, if Keita ran in the Olympics—for Freedom State. By the time the next Games came around, Rocco hoped to be out of politics. He’d be running a car dealership again. Talk about a perfect corporate sponsorship!

“I’ll think it over,” Rocco said.