Thirst No. 4 by Christopher Pike

the hotel suite and feeling the first stirrings of my thirst. The police are lucky to show up in pairs, or else I might have had one of them for dinner.
    They knock on the door as if they would prefer to kick it in.
    I answer wearing the sweats Teri wore in the Olympics, and leave my gold medal on the living room table. I’m shameless, I know, but the glint of the shiny medal has a powerful effect on them. Their eyes are immediately drawn to it and they smile when I invite them inside. Already, I believe, I’m halfway home.
    They sit on the couch across from me and talk about how they saw my world-record race on TV. They’re detectives; they have on sports coats rather than uniforms.
    “How did you feel going into the last lap?” the taller and older of the two cops asks. His name is Lieutenant William Treach. He’s close to forty, with a thin build but a wiriness that projects strength. He’s friendly but alert, very much in charge. I may have made a strong initial impression, however, I quickly notice that the man prefers clear answers.
    “I was hurting and I was at the rear of the pack. Plus I was boxed in. It looked pretty hopeless. But in running, there’s a burning pain and then there’s a weak kind of pain. The burning kind can actually feel worse than the exhaustive kind, but it means you’ve still got something left. You can still go for it, and that’s what I did. I had to shove two women out of my way to get out of my box. If the race had been in America, I would have been disqualified. But European runners treat races like soccer matches. When it comes to the metric mile, they see pushing and shoving as part of the race.”
    “It must have been a thrill to hit the straightaway and know the gold medal was waiting for you if you could just get in front of that Russian,” Lieutenant Sean Astor says. Short and stout, ten years younger than his partner, he has a boyish innocence that tells me he’ll be easy to fool. He adds, “What was her name?”
    “Olga Stensky. I’m never going to forget Olga. She elbowed me and cut me off in the last eighty yards. I was lucky it backfired on her. As she swung into the second lane to try to block me, I moved inside. She lost a stride trying to stop me, and I won by a stride. Most track experts say if Olga had just ignored me and run her race, she would have won.”
    “How did it feel to stand on the winners’ podium and hear our national anthem?” Treach asks.
    “I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. I still haven’t come down from the high.”
    “I imagine you’ve received a ton of endorsement offers since the Olympics,” Treach says. I notice how he studies the room.
    I shake my head. “Not as many as you would think. I just won one gold medal. Sure, it was in a big event, but it’s like I had my fifteen minutes of fame and now it’s over.”
    Astor is sympathetic. “A lot of Olympic athletes say that. One week they’re getting invited to the White House and the next week they’re back home and bagging groceries.”
    Treach clears his throat, signaling that he wants to getdown to business. “What brings you to Denver, Ms. Raine?” he asks.
    “Teri, please. I’m here with my boyfriend. We’re bumming around the country. Taking a break after all the stress of the Olympics.”
    “That’s Matt Fraiser, isn’t it?” Treach asks.
    “Yes.”
    Matt signed in under a fake name to hide us from the Telar. A minor strategic move that has swollen in size and danger now that the police are looking at me. Treach takes out a tiny notebook and jots down a few words.
    “It’s our understanding that Matt wasn’t here when you ordered room service?” Treach asks.
    “That’s correct. I was alone and starving. But the room service guy never showed up.”
    “Do you mean Ken?” Treach asks.
    “Yes.”
    “Did you call to complain?”
    “No. I was about to but then they called me.”
    “Was that Michael Pollak? The head of room service?”
    “I