Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  When I pick up the towel that Marge placed on a chair beside my bed, I realize just how bad I smell right now. It must have been sweating in that car during the night. Then I realize that maybe I've been sweating as I slept right now as well, adding to my musk. I guess that's why Marge suggested I take a wash, I think to myself.

  I take up her advice and creep out of the room and into the bathroom opposite. I move as quietly as possible, hoping to avoid detection until I'm ready to go downstairs. Something tells me, however, that this lovely old couple aren't going to be intrusive.

  I manage to work the shower in the bathtub without too much trouble and am soon smelling as fresh as a daisy. Unfortunately, I've left my bag out in the car, however, so am forced to dress in the clothes I was wearing. I give them a sniff before climbing back into them, and find that they're not too bad.

  I feel strangely nervous as I move back down the stairs. It's so odd waking up in a random person's home, sleeping in the bed their daughter once used night after night. It's like I'm a stand-in for her for a day, giving these people a reminder of what it was like to have their girl in the house. The thought certainly crossed my mind, but I dismiss it, even if it might be true. I have no right to second-guess these people's motives for letting me stay. They've been so kind to me and, even if they are getting something on their end, they've got every right to do so.

  The smell of mint begins to build as I move down the stairs, accompanied by the sound of boiling water. As I round the bottom of the stairs and peer into the room, I can see Marge busily cutting potatoes and dropping them into the froth.

  “Sleep well?” she asks, without turning to look at me. I guess she can hear the goings on in her own house well enough, despite my intention of not making a sound.

  “Brilliantly, thanks.” For some reason, I still find it hard to call her Marge. I wish I knew her surname so I could call her Mrs whatever is it.

  “Well you've timed things very well. Derrick's just outside finishing up with the horses so should be back soon.”

  I look down at the kitchen table and it's already prepared with 3 sets of plates and cutlery. There's a fresh bowl of salad sitting with several dressings and other condiments around it, and a couple of other large plates lying empty in the middle. There's also an opened bottle of red wine and a glass at each place.

  “Please dear, would you pour me a glass of that wine. And one for yourself if you're up to it?”

  “Um...OK,” I say, grabbing the bottle and filling the glasses. I expect to be driving again soon after dinner, but one glass is OK I guess.

  Marge now leans down to open the oven and the smell of beautifully cooked chicken fills the air. It's only now that I realize how hungry I am, so quickly take a sip of wine to sate me.

  For a few moments we talk, mainly about the weather and how beautiful it's been, until Derrick comes in from outside. He looks tired and worn, yet still carries an upbeat tone to his voice.

  “Ah, well, you're up!” he says to me. “I hope you're better rested now?”

  I nod to him as he moves forward and fills his own glass with wine. His first sip drains half his glass, forcing him to top himself back up. He winks at me and gestures to Marge, who's once more got her back to me as she pulls the chicken from the oven.

  “Don't think I don't know what you're doing Derrick. That wine's for sharing, remember.”

  Derrick smiles wide again and looks at me, like a naughty child being told off by his mother. I can't help but laugh at the situation.

  Dinner is delicious. Roast chicken and beautifully boiled potatoes with plenty of greens. It's just what I need. Something that'll keep me satisfied through the night. After the main course Marge pulls something special from the refrigerator – a two tiered chocolate cake covered in wild berries and topped off with thick, white cream. It's stunningly delicious, and I tell her so.

  The time ticks by quicker than I could imagine. By the time Marge starts clearing the plates, insisting I not help her, I notice that it's already nearing 10 PM. Now I'm feeling awkward again. I should leave. I've outstayed my welcome.

  I don't know if the awkwardness tells when I speak, but I certainly don't feel comfortable all of a sudden. “You two have been so kind,” I say, a little out of the blue. “I don't know how to thank you, but I should go. I don't want to be a burden.”

  That last line – it almost forces the other person to say “oh, you're not a burden”, and then guilt trips them into inviting you to enjoy more of what they're offering. In this case, that's safe accommodation for the night. But then, that's not what I was trying to do. I was only trying to be polite, not force them into letting me stay.

  Of course, that's exactly what they do, and after a little jostling, I give in. Their argument – that's it late now and it's much more sensible to leave in the morning – is perfectly valid, and they do seem to genuinely want me to stay.

  By the time the clock ticks by to 10 PM, we've all moved into the living room and are settled in front of the television. They tell me it's their routine – eat late, then watch a bit of TV before bed. Derrick tells me that he usually gets up at about 5 AM, and often goes to bed at midnight, which to me sounds impossible. I could never live on 5 hours of sleep a night. At least, not for an extended period of time.

  “Well, the body needs less sleep as you get older,” he says. “When you get to my age you'll realize that you want to be awake as much as possible to enjoy the time you've got left!”

  We've been watching TV for about 30 minutes when a commercial comes on, interrupting the film we've settled on. “Oh, not this one!” exclaims Derrick, who's got control of the remote. He quickly flicks the channel and it lands on the news, and immediately my heart sinks about a foot into my stomach.

  I sit looking at the pictures of my aunt and uncle on the screen in front of me. A reporter speaks loudly over the images, but I can hardly hear her words. I feel my heart constrict and tighten as my hands turn clammy, while in the background Derrick starts to speak.

  “Oh, terrible this,” he says. “I was watching this earlier, Marge, did you see it? It's not too far from here, you know. Someone apparently killed them as they slept.”

  I can't think, I can't move. I'm frozen, unable to look away from the screen.

  “Yes, I heard about it on the radio. Awful, terrible tragedy. The things that happen in this world, in this country. You wonder how some people can be driven to such acts.”

  “Money,” I hear Derrick say quickly. “This is about money, I know it.”

  My breathing is slightly abbreviated now and I've managed to turn my eyes down away from the screen. I'm trying to stay calm, but I can feel a panic attack coming, like back at the movie theater.

  Then I hear my name. Not from Derrick. Not from Marge. It's coming from the TV.

  I lift my eyes slowly and my heart stops. It's my image on the screen now. It's me plastered all over the news.

  Now things are happening all at once. I'm standing, suddenly, my legs wobbly and heavy. I can hear my name being said again and again. This time it's from Derrick and Marge.

  “Kitty....Kitty....what's going on...”

  That's all I hear. It's all I dare hear.

  I don't look at Derrick or Marge as I run to the door. I don't thank them for what they've done. I don't wait to tell them the truth. I just run. Out of the living room door, down the hall, straight through the main entrance to the house.

  Now I'm on the dirt track, and I can still hear voices behind me. They're making an attempt to stop me, but they can't keep up. I'm sprinting, as fast as I can, my heart pounding, my lungs burning. When I reach the car I open it and fall in, fumbling my hands on the keys to start the ignition. Only now do I look up to see Derrick coming towards me, waving his hands around in the air. He's shaking his head and shouting, “no, no, stop, come back.”

  But I don't stop, I don't come back. The engine roars to life and I'm quickly reversing down the track, picking up some speed
. The sound drowns out Derrick's voice, but he's still running, still shaking his arms. When I'm a good enough distance away I turn the wheel and spin the car. The back end hurtles off the track and into the field, ripping up the crops. Then I slam on the accelerator and the wheels begin to spin, churning up the soil, sending crops flying from the back of the car. I can see Derrick approaching just as the tires catch and the car hurtles forward, storming off down the track and back towards the open road.

  Chapter 7 - Colt

  Colt

  I'm sitting in a cafe off the main road in the countryside north of Bakersfield. A large, black coffee sits in front of me, a swirl of steam gushing from the top of it. Outside it's dusty and warm, the late afternoon sun burning down from above. I take a large gulp and feel the hot liquid slide down my throat and into my stomach. I've always taken my coffee piping hot.

  It's been a slow afternoon. I have a radio, one that monitors police chatter, and it's going to come in handy now. Kitty. I've seen her on the news, and the full story is beginning to come together in my mind.

  It's not just the fact that her auntie and uncle were murdered in their home. It's the fact that Kitty's own apartment in LA was subject to the same treatment only a few nights ago. According to the news report, a young woman was found shot dead in Kitty's apartment on Friday evening. Naturally, with Kitty missing, the police are going to think one of two things: that she's dead too, or that she's a suspect. In fact, both theories are probably being considered.

  Then her auntie and uncle turn up dead and there are local reports from neighbors that Kitty was seen staying with them for the night. All of a sudden, the mindset of the police goes from missing, possibly dead, to full on suspect. She's alive – they know that now – and three people are dead in her wake.

  I sit and consider why the girl in her apartment was killed. Did Kitty manage to escape as she did at her auntie and uncle's house? Was it simply a case of mistaken identity, where the hired gun mistook the girl for Kitty herself? The evidence suggests the latter – that this was a botched job and that's why Michael Carmine brought me in.

  The trail, for now, has gone cold. She hasn't been seen, she hasn't used her credit cards. Until she pops up somewhere on the grid it'll be impossible to trace her. If she's smart, she'll have realized by now that her phone is her enemy. It can be tracked and traced, so I'm guessing she will have disposed of it.

  Why hasn't she gone to the police? Is it through fear that they'll think she was the culprit? Has she panicked and run off without considering her actions? Or is it fear of Michael Carmine? Perhaps she knows that if he wants her dead, she's dead, and the police can do nothing to stop it.

  Where would she have gone after escaping her aunt and uncle's house? It's the one question that continues to burn in my mind more fiercely than any other. Not back to LA, she wouldn't risk going back there. North, most likely, in the opposite direction. Fight or flight: she'll have chosen flight, and will be looking to put as much distance as possible between herself and the mess behind her.

  But it's risky, especially in her car. Has she seen herself on the news? Does she know that every cop in the state knows what she looks like and will be scanning for her license plate? As soon as she pops up on the grid she'll be caught, you can guarantee it. She'll have had no experience at evading the police, at disappearing and moving around unseen. It really is only a matter of time, and when the police find her, Michael Carmine finds her too.

  I reach onto the table and unfold a map of the region. When she escaped the house it will have been the middle of the night. She'll be tired, she'll be afraid, and she'll need to rest. It's possible that she managed to find a motel somewhere for the time being. If she's smart, she'll realize that using a credit card anywhere is like setting off a beacon for anyone chasing her. In any case, I've already run some checks, and she hasn't.

  That leaves a simple case of trial and error. Over the years I've had to trust my judgment repeatedly, and it rarely leads me astray. It's easy to find someone when they don't know they're being tracked. When you give them a head-start, however, and they know you're coming, things become a whole lot more difficult. But then, I never fail to bring in a job. It's a point of pride and the main reason why people hire me over anyone else. When the evidence is thin on the ground, instinct can be your most potent weapon. And mine is sharp as a butchers knife.

  The afternoon is drawing on when I rise from my booth and step out from the diner. It's still warm, but the air is beginning to cool as the sun makes its descent down towards the horizon. I walk to my car and climb inside, start the engine, and begin cruising up the road northwards away from Bakersfield. There are few main roads in the area, and anyone heading north will have gone straight down this one.

  It only takes me about 10 minutes before I pull over once more to the right. There's a basic parking lot and a series of trailers set aside off the road, each with a numbered door: 1, 2, 3, all the way up to 20. I scan the cars and see no sign of the red Vauxhall Corsa I'm searching for. I step from the car and walk towards the reception trailer. Inside is a man doing a crossword as a fan blows from side to side. It looks hot and humid inside. His sweat stained vest and beady brow tell me that.

  I pull out a picture of Kitty and ask if he's seen her. After a brief moment of doubt he shakes his head. I don't trust him. I'm not a trusting person. So, I ask again, this time tapping my pistol on the glass. His answer comes with more urgency, but remains the same. He hasn't seen her, and she's not staying here.

  Time to move on.

  Over the following hours I comb the area moving northwards through central California. I only check motels and cheap hotels – nothing fancy, nothing in populated areas. This girl hasn't got much money, and she hasn't been using her cards. She's living only on what cash she has on her, so she'll be looking for the cheapest places possible.

  The light begins to fade and I keep on pulling out Kitty's picture in front of disinterested reception staff. Some of them have seen her on the news and make comments like: “are you the police” and “did she really kill her aunt and uncle”. Clearly some of the press have taken the fact that the police are looking for Kitty and made it into a manhunt for a murderer. I doubt that the police are thinking in such black and white terms.

  Yet I enjoy no luck. No one has seen her, and from what I can gather from listening to police chatter, the cops haven't had any sightings of her or her car. It's pushing past 10.30 PM when I find myself back in my car, my map covered in crosses and marks to indicate where I've been. Over 20 places visited and no sign of her. Thankfully, my expectation had been kept in check, so I'm not disappointed. I know how long and arduous some 'hunts' can be. Depending on who you're tracking, they can go on for weeks or more quite easily. But I know, in this case, that won't happen. With the cops after her, there's no way a girl like this can stay hidden for long unless she gets help.

  I grab a bottle of water from a cooler I've had installed in front of the passenger seat and gulp down half of its contents. As I do, I hear a crackle over my police scanner, followed by a tinny voice.

  “Dispatch, this is base. We've had a sighting of Kitty Munroe north of Corcoran on Randall's Farm. The owner says she parked on their track overnight and has just driven away now. We don't know if she's headed north or south....”

  As I listen to the police call I quickly grab the map. I'm close, only about 5 miles to the north east. She'll be heading north, away from LA, I think to myself. I check my clock again: 10.40 PM. A moment later my engine in roaring and I'm shooting down the road heading west to her location.

  It doesn't take me long to reach the only road heading north from Randall's Farm. It's been less than 5 minutes when I cruise to a stop on the side of the road and wait, several miles up from where the track to the farm meets the main road. If she's headed south, there's no way I'll catch her. But I know she won't be. She's going north, and she won't have passed yet.

  The road is quiet and dark, the nigh
t sky now blanketed with a thick layer of cloud. I shut off my lights and wait, listening for any updates over the radio. Then I hear the sound of sirens coming from behind. It sounds like two police cars, at least a mile away. All of a sudden, the road lights up in a bright burst as a set of headlamps appear from around the corner behind me. Then the sound of a car rushing by fills the air, and I hit the gas, flicking on my own lights as I rush forward in pursuit.

  The road straightens out quickly and my lights illuminate the vehicle ahead. It's a red Vauxhall Corsa. It's Kitty Munroe.

  She's driving fast, driving wildly. But her car can only go so quick, and for mine it's a stroll. I know the cops won't have seen her – they're too far back – but they'll be gaining fast. I follow behind, but try to maintain my distance. I don't want to spook her or force her into doing something stupid. If she thinks that I'm the man who killed her aunt and uncle – the only man she thinks is chasing her – then she's liable to drive erratically and have an accident.

  I reach into a compartment in front of the passenger seat and pull out a set of glasses. But these aren't just any glasses: they're night vision glasses, and cost me a lot of money. I put them on and the world in front of me changes, a greenish hue appearing where there was once black. I slow down now and pull back slightly, signaling to Kitty that I'm not in pursuit. Then I turn off my lights and disappear from her sight, blending into the dark road.

  She can't see me, but I can see her as clear as day. The outlines of the road, of the bushes lining it and the fields stretching beyond, come into view. I can see her car still driving wildly ahead and I slowly pick up speed, closing the gap so that I don't lose her. When we come to a crossroads, she turns to the left, and I follow. Behind, the police sirens are less clear over the hum of my engine, but I can still hear them faintly. Another turning, and she goes right this time, desperate to shake off the cops that follow.