Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  His eyes linger on me a moment as he turns back towards the center of the room. There's a double bed with bedside tables on each side, but little more besides the refrigerator and television on the wall opposite. He walks towards a wardrobe and opens it up, pulling out several blankets. Then he moves to the bed and takes a couple of pillows before fashioning a makeshift bed on the floor. It looks uncomfortable, but I don't say anything.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks me once he's finished.

  I hadn't realized until now, but I'm starving. The beautiful meal that Marge prepared has long since been digested, and that was nearly 24 hours ago by my count. Marge and Derrick. What they must think of me, running off like that after they'd been so kind. But I couldn't stay, I couldn't drag them in with me like that. The less they know about me, the better.

  “I could eat,” I say to Colt, who nods and immediately starts moving towards the door.

  “Stay here,” he says, “and don't go outside.” His words are an order, and somehow grate on me a little bit.

  He peers through the curtain once more before opening the door and stepping from the room. I sit for a while in silence, not quite knowing what to do with myself. By the movement of the sun it's just turning past 8 PM, but I've only just woken up. I know there's no chance I'll sleep tonight. In fact, what with sleeping all day at the farm and now this, my sleeping pattern is entirely screwed.

  I stand and stretch, feeling slightly groggy with the lingering traces of whatever Colt gave me still in my system. Then I move towards the window and open up the curtain to look out. There's little to see. A few cars parked outside trailers. A large neon sign that says cheap motel. The dark tarmac of the highway a little further in the distance. Lights flash by as cars scream in both directions, although it's strangely quiet in here. I guess the one thing these trailers have is thick glass.

  They don't have any air conditioning though, and I suddenly realize how hot and clammy I am. I can hear Colt's voice in my head saying 'don't go outside', but feel that's a slight over-reaction. I peer as he did, scanning the space outside the trailer, and decide to step out. As I open the door a cool breeze pours over me, giving me immediate relief from the humidity that's built throughout the day inside the trailer. The loud sounds of the rushing cars quickly fill the air. It's pretty relentless, car after car whizzing past from south to north and north to south. I wonder if this is a good spot to stay at. Surely a motel like this is somewhere that the police are likely to check if they're searching for me? But then, as far as the motel knows, as far as anyone knows, it's Colt who is staying in this room, not me.

  Another thought crosses my mind. How did he get me inside? Did he drag me from his car in front of any prying eye that might be looking? And which car is his anyway? I scan the parking lot and consider which fits him best. Not the banged up old 4x4. Not the rusty station wagon. In fact, all the cars here are fairly run down, except one. A black saloon sits close to my right. It looks to have blacked out windows, but it's hard to see in the darkness.

  I scroll around the parking lot for a couple of minutes, making sure to stay close to the trailer. It feels good to get out into the open air and stretch my legs. I seem to have been confined inside for days now, so the night air is refreshing. It's not muggy this evening either, now that the storm of a couple of nights ago has truly broken. The sky is clear and dotted with a million stars. It's not a sight I'm used to seeing in LA. There the level of smog and pollution pretty much obscures any hint of starlight no matter what the weather is like.

  Movement inside the trailer a couple down from my own catches my eye. A curtain shifts and I see the silhouette of a face looking out towards me. I instinctively turn my head away and start walking back towards my room. I guess I'm going to have to get used to this level of paranoia. I arrive at the door and reach for the handle, and jump.

  A hand comes town on my shoulder, then a voice, a whisper, growling into my ear. “I thought I told you to stay inside.”

  Colt pushes me inside the trailer and shuts the door behind me. I get the feeling he wants to slam it but won't for fear of drawing any unwanted attention. He's got a scowl on his face that forces me to apologize and explain what I was doing.

  “I just needed some fresh air. It's so hot in here,” I exclaim, although that's only half the truth. I also don't like being told what to do, never have. So something inside me just forced me to rebel.

  “So open a window,” he growls. “When I tell you to do something, you need to do it, OK. It's for your own good.”

  I feel slightly stupid now. It's not only myself I'm putting at risk, but him as well. “Sorry,” I say in this pathetic subservient voice, “I won't do it again.”

  His expression softens at my words and he pulls one of the bedside tables over to the end of the bed. Then he lifts a bag up and starts pulling out little containers of food.

  “Hope you like Chinese,” he says, positioning two paper plates and plastic forks onto the table. Then he ushers me to sit on the end of the bed and eat, to which he does the same.

  “Where did you get this,” I ask. “I kinda expected you to come back with a load of vending machine candy and chips.”

  He smiles for the first time, and I can't help but notice his bright white teeth. “There's a restaurant next door,” he says, chomping on a fork full of chow mein. “Four dishes for 10 bucks.”

  “Bargain,” I say, half thinking of reaching for the wad of money he gave me earlier to pay him for my half. I don't though. I doubt he'd accept.

  In any case, I'm starving, and hardly have time to make small talk right now. I forget myself for a moment and start eating like a pig from a trough, shoveling rice and noodles into my mouth as if it's my last meal. It's only when I've filled my stomach that I catch Colt staring at me. I stop, slightly embarrassed, and dip my head.

  “Hungry?” he asks, a wry smile creasing his lips. I say nothing in reply, instead choosing to grab a bottle of water and sink half of it in one as a distraction. When I look back he's returned to his food and is still eating, in a far more refined way, of course, and I just sit there in silence until he's finished.

  I'm amazed at how sleepy I'm feeling. I know that you tend to get drowsy after a big meal, but after being knocked out and sleeping for nearly 24 hours, I wouldn't have imagined I'd need any sleep for a while. Colt seems to notice. “You should get some rest,” he says. We'll be leaving early in the morning.”

  He stands up and begins packing up our dinner, placing all the rubbish into the plastic bag and neatly tying a knot in the top of it. Then he starts moving the furniture around the room and returning things to their rightful places. He seems to have a perfectionist quality. Or is it just a mild case of OCD. I can't really tell.

  Now he's undressing, and it's as if he doesn't even know I'm in the room. There's not a suggestion of embarrassment as he undoes his shirt buttons and removes his pants. He folds them neatly and hangs them over the top of a chair, before walking towards the door and making sure it's locked. He looks out through the window once more, ever on edge it seems, and scans the environment outside.

  My eyes are glued to him as he goes. His body is lean and strong, each muscle honed like a professional athlete. He walks in a sort of rigid, upright way, like he's trying to move as efficiently as possible. Then he turns from the window once more and looks at me. “We're leaving at dawn,” he says. “Do you need anything?”

  “Um, no I'm OK,” I say, my voice quiet. “Are you sure you don't want the bed. I can sleep on the floor.” I ask mainly because he looks weary, like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in a while.

  A warm smile rolls over his face and he lightly shakes his head. “That's sweet, but this is fine,” he says, gesturing to his little nest on the floor. “I've slept in a lot worse than this.”

  He holds his hand to the light switch and looks at me for a moment. I break his stare and shift back into the bed, pulling the covers up over me. It's hot – especially in my
clothes – but I'm not undressing in front of him like he did. When he flicks the switch the room falls into darkness and I begin shuffling out of my jeans and pull off my top. I drop them to the floor as I hear him move across the room and slip down onto the floor. This bed is uncomfortable, but I can only imagine what it's like down there. Frankly, though, being comfortable is the least of either of our problems right now. It still amazes me that my problems have become his. Why is he doing this?

  The question lingers in my mind as I lie there in the pitch darkness. I suddenly feel totally awake again and assume that this is the position I'll hold until dawn when he awakes. I'll lie here, just thinking, all night. Just like I did when my dad was sent to jail.

  I remember that night clearly. We were like a team, my dad and me. I relied on him and he relied on me. Then, when he was sent down, suddenly it was just me. No mother, no brothers, no sisters. No one but myself. I remember that night, lying there in bed, knowing that my dad wasn't in the house. I'd never felt so alone, never felt so afraid. Until now.

  Now my thoughts are lingering on my father. My dad who I loved, who I still love, but who left me. I know it wasn't his fault. That he was trying to provide for me and give me the sort of life he never got. But I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted him there with me, protecting me, looking after me. I didn't care about going to college and getting a good job. He'd always say his little girl would become a lawyer or a doctor. He'd boast about it with his friends, as if it were sure to happen. And now look at me. For all intents and purposes, I'm soon going to cease to exist. Soon Kitty Munroe will drop off the map. Some future, hey dad.

  I wonder if I'll ever see him again. I wonder how long I'll have to stay away from LA, how long I'll have to live a lie. Surely Michael Carmine has bigger fish to fry than me. Surely after a few years, months even, he'll have forgotten all about me and moved on. Really, I don't even know who he shot. It was probably just a nameless goon. Maybe someone who owed him and couldn't pay. And I'm certain he'll have taken care of the body so that no one ever finds it, leaving no trace of his involvement. So why the hell am I so important. Is he really so paranoid, so intent on tying up any loose end, that he's willing to kill other innocent people just to get to me?

  My mind rumbles along like this for what seems like hours, but soon I begin to drift into a troubled sleep. I toss and I turn in the heat, kicking the blanket cover off me and leaving me lying there in my underwear. I wake several times, my eyes open wide and staring into the darkness. Just like always, it takes a few moments to realize where I am. I pant and breathe heavily, searching for some light, but there is none. My eyes adjust slowly to the pitch darkness and I see the outline of the door, of the bed frame at my feet and the television ahead of me. I know that Colt is down there, sleeping quietly, but I can't see him below the bed.

  I drift out of consciousness again. This time I tumble deeper down the rabbit's hole, my mind twisting with weird images and visions. I'm alone, standing on an island, as the shores around me rapidly close in. I can hear a voice calling on the wind, “Kitty, Kitty,” but I don't recognize it. The sand keeps growing closer, creeping towards my feet until I'm standing on a small clump of earth, surrounded by water. The sea begins to rage and the sky turns dark, and then the block of earth gives way beneath me and I fall into the tumult. I thrash wildly but the water is too strong, holding me down, shaking me from side to side. I'm about to drown, to gulp down water, when I wake.

  I'm back in the room, back in the darkness. But I still feel a grip on me, and I can lightly hear my name being called. “Kitty, Kitty,” I hear. My mind catches up, and I know it's Colt, holding me as I shake in my sleep, whispering into my ear.

  I'm shivering now, and I can feel beads of sweat dripping down my forehead. “Kitty,” I hear again, and I turn to see Colt's blue eyes shining at me in the darkness. They stare at me a moment, and then shoot up towards the door. There's an alertness to them that unnerves me.

  Then he whispers once more, so quiet I can barely hear him. “We have to go....right now.” Within the whisper I can hear an urgency. I find my words, half mumbling through grogginess. “Is it dawn?” It's a stupid question because it's still pitch black. But not only that. It's stupid because Colt's eyes are now trained on the door and they won't budge. I can feel his right hand tense on my arm, and his left drop down to his side. There's a slight click as he grips his pistol.

  “Where are your clothes?” he whispers again.

  “By the bed,” I reply.

  “Put them on. Do it quietly.”

  His eyes are still on the door, hands now pointing towards it with his gun. I turn from him and pull my white top and jeans from the floor, putting them on as quietly as I can. The bed squeaks slightly under my weight, but nothing more. I look over to him when I'm done and realize my eyes have adjusted sufficiently to see him in full. He's dressed already, back in his dark pants and white shirt. There's an intensity on his face, like a cat watching a mouse and waiting to pounce. Only in this case I get the impression that it's us who are being hunted.

  “What's going on?” I whisper. My heart is pounding hard now.

  “He's out there,” he returns. “He knows we're here.”

  My heart stops for a second as I turn back to the door and window. There's the slightest crack of light down the side where the curtain doesn't quite cover the glass. It grows stronger as cars pass by on the road beyond, before fading to the dullest of glows. I watch carefully and see a shadow, a shape. It blocks the light off briefly as it moves past the window towards the door. The sound of footsteps is so faint you'd never hear it unless you were listening for it, but in my ears it's as loud as a siren. I watch as the handle of the door twists slowly down. Then it stops and turns back up. The door is locked.

  I feel a touch at my back and turn to see Colt ushering me to the other side of the bed. “Get down behind the bed. Stay low.”

  I slide across and feel my way to the floor, crawling down onto my hands and pulling my legs after me. As I drag them to the floor I feel my left leg catch on something. I pull it away out of instinct and hear a loud scraping sound. I freeze and look into Colt's face, whose eyes have bulged. The bedside table. I've just caught it and dragged it a few inches across the floor.

  There's a short silence now as I stay, crouched on my hands and knees, behind the bed. Colt has already turned back to the door and is holding his gun aloft. I'm not prepared for what happens next, but Colt clearly is.

  It's the crack of wood that I hear first. A loud thud and splintering as the lock of the door is smashed out of its socket. Then the whistling of wind fills the air, along with the sounds of cars moving past in the distance. I don't dare look up as a loud 'pop' crackles on the other side of the room. It sounds like a loud stapler or nail gun. Then I hear another crack as the bullet rips into the bed, and realize we're being shot at with a silenced pistol.

  I almost have my face on the floor, and just about manage to get my hands to my ears, when a loud gunshot rattles just by my head. The sound almost causes my eardrums to burst as the room lights up in a flash. More 'pops' and 'booms' fill the air as the two men exchange fire, and all I can do is hold my ears and crouch in a huddle on the floor, praying for it to end.

  “Stay down,” I can hear Colt shouting over the booming gunfire. He doesn't need to tell me twice.

  I can only think that this is it, that I'm going to die in this cheap motel room. I never had hugely high hopes for my life, but dying in this way wasn't what I'd envisaged. We're trapped, and there's nowhere to go, no windows at the back, no way of escape.

  Then I hear a loud grunt and the gunfire stops suddenly. Colt is on his feet quickly, moving forwards towards the door. I dare to raise my head to watch him as he goes, his gun held out ahead of him, his steps short and abbreviated, his stance stable. He reaches the door and I realize that there's no one else in the room now. That the man has gone. That grunt....was it him? Was he shot?

  I can s
ee a splash of blood on the wood paneling by the door and know that Colt hit his mark. He's standing there now, checking outside. He looks quickly left and right, his eyes narrow and stern. Then he twists his neck back to me and speaks quickly. “Grab my bag and come here. We need to get out of here fast.”

  I follow his order, standing shakily and grabbing his bag from the side of the room. The world is spinning a bit as I move towards him. I can see several bullet holes in the wall around the door, and know where are several more bullets embedded in the wood of the bed frame and the back wall.

  He reaches behind and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight for a second. I don't know why, but I think it's to reassure me. Then he releases me and speaks once more. “Straight to my car and away,” he says. “Crouch low and follow right behind me.”

  Then he moves forward towards the black saloon parked to the right, his eyes constantly darting from left to right. I see a few splashes of blood, shining under the moonlight, moving away in the other direction. A hope rushes through me that the man's been killed. Then I realize that he's just a gun, just a tool. If he was dead, another would just step up to take his place.

  Sirens grow now in the distance, and I can see a few faces huddling inside windows, staring out. I notice the same face as before, in the trailer down from mine. I wonder if it was them who called the police when the shooting started.

  But there's no time to stop, to linger. I hear a door opening and Colt is ushering me inside. The sound of the cop cars is growing louder every moment as he steps to the other side of the car. He's still clutching his pistol tight in his hand as he puts the car in gear and revs the engine. It rumbles loudly and the tires spin as he hits the accelerator, twisting the wheel and setting us out towards the highway.