Dead Man Running

by Steve Hamilton

  I checked the rearview mirror and saw him backing out onto the highway and finally getting himself pointed in the right direction, but by then I had hit the exit ramp.

  He had already closed half the distance when I hit the cross street and took the right, practically putting my car up on two wheels.

  I have to keep this separation, I thought. Just enough to lose him for ten seconds.

  I weaved my way through the traffic, watching him in my mirror, until I came to a curve in the road and he disappeared behind me. There was a gas station on the next corner, so I pulled in behind it, making sure I was out of the sight line. A few seconds later, I heard him blasting through the same intersection, heading north. I gave him a few more beats, summoning the patience from God-knows-where to make myself wait long enough. Then I went back out and headed west.

  I kept my eye out for him, or anyone else in an official vehicle, as I made my way over to US 37. It was a smaller, secondary road that eventually went down to one lane in each direction. I was back to thinking about Jeannie, now that I had lost the trooper, and I drove with a new sense of purpose. Because I knew I was getting close.

  I passed one car after another, cutting over into the other lane, driving toward the oncoming traffic, then cutting back. I had more close calls than I could count, until it was finally just a blur of speed and more honking horns. The plows hadn’t hit this road yet, and one icy spot nearly put me in the ditch. As I straightened the car out, I realized I had an even bigger problem:

  I couldn’t remember where the house was.

  It was a small lake, in the middle of absolutely nothing, like any of a thousand other lakes in this state. It was right after we were married, how many goddamned years ago, that one time we drove up to this place . . .

  Up this road, to a town with a funny name. Then west. That was all I could remember. But I didn’t have time to stop and think about it. I just had to trust that I’d know the place when I came to it.

  I drove through Sparta, Kent City, Casnovia . . . Little towns with stoplights that I blew through, barely slowing down enough to make sure I didn’t hit another car. Then Bailey, Ashland, Grant, Newaygo . . . It felt like I’d been driving forever.

  It can’t be this far, I said to myself. You missed the goddamned town.

  But then I saw the sign for White Cloud, Michigan, and it all came back to me. Driving down this road as a much younger man, with my new wife.

  I slid through the stoplight and took the hard left onto the narrow county road. Over one river, past Alley Lake . . .

  Robinson Lake was next. Just another half mile.

  Jeannie’s lake.

  As I drove down that last stretch of road, already seeing a single light coming from one of those houses on the edge of the lake, I could only wonder if I was too late.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes again, Jeannie had no idea where she was.

  She was staring at the ceiling. A ceiling she didn’t recognize at first, until she tried to lift her head and felt everything spinning. It all started to come back to her, piece by piece. The lake house. The inspection.

  Livermore.

  She sat up on the couch, feeling the rough cloth against her arms. He had taken off her coat and her sweater. As she put her feet to the floor, she felt the cold wood. He had taken her shoes and socks, too. Her face was wet and numb from the snow, and she felt a raw scrape across her chin.

  As she slowly got to her feet, holding the arm of the couch for balance, she felt the warmth coming from the fireplace. She looked over and saw the logs burning, then shuffled carefully over to stand in front of it. The heat radiated through her body, making her forget everything else.

  Then she heard the noises from the kitchen. Chopping, water boiling on the stove.

  He’s still here. She looked down at the iron rack that held the fireplace tools. But the poker was gone.

  The door. I have to get out of here.

  “You took a bad spill out there.” The voice came from behind her, strangely calm.

  She turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He was holding one of the kitchen towels to his face.

  “You have to be careful on that ice,” he said. “Come sit down. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  She looked back at the front door, measuring the distance, estimating her chances.

  “You don’t want to go outside again,” he said. “You’ll freeze to death.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then she felt herself moving toward the kitchen, almost against her will. She stopped when she saw the table. It had been set with two plates. Water glasses, silverware. Everything in its perfect place. As if they were two normal people actually about to sit down to dinner.

  “Why are you doing this?” she said, her lips trembling.

  “Because this is a very special occasion.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and looking around the kitchen. “Please . . .”

  She had to fight down the urge to try to run again. She knew she wouldn’t make it more than halfway across the room, even if she surprised him.

  And he was right. Even if she got outside, she would freeze to death. There was nowhere to go. Just empty houses in either direction. Her car keys were in her coat, and that was gone.

  “I’m making your favorite,” he said. “It’ll be ready in a moment.”

  My favorite? How does he know that? How does he know anything about me?

  She looked at the butcher-block knife holder on the counter, just a few feet away from him. There were a half dozen knives in the block.

  If I can just get to them. That one long knife . . .

  “I sharpened your knives,” he said, turning and watching her eyes. He held up the knife he’d been using to cut tomatoes. “Any chef will tell you, dull knives are more dangerous than sharp ones.”

  “Where are my clothes?” She heard her own voice breaking.

  “They were wet,” he said. “We don’t want you to be . . . uncomfortable.”

  “I’m cold.” Another shiver ran through her body.

  “The food will warm you up.”

  He went back to his chopping. She stared at his back, wondering what to do next. She wanted to go back to the fire, but she didn’t know what would happen if she tried to leave the kitchen.

  He turned and looked at her, still holding the knife. “Sit down, Jeannie.”

  Jeannie swallowed hard and sat down. She massaged her legs, trying to rub some warmth into them.

  A minute passed. The only sounds came from the stove or from the settling of the logs in the fireplace. Livermore drained the pasta in the sink, visibly wincing as the steam rose and gathered around his face. As he turned to her, she could see the jagged, red gash on his cheek.

  I slashed him with the scissors, she thought, but he’s not saying anything about it.

  Somehow that was the most frightening thing of all.

  He shook off whatever pain he was feeling, regained his composure, and brought over the pasta in the strainer. As he got close to her again, she could smell the odd, antiseptic odor that came from him, mixed with something else. Fire . . . smoke . . .

  Pure evil. The words came into her mind, lit up in neon. She had to fight down the panic again.

  “I want tonight to be perfect,” he said as he put the rest of the pasta on his own plate. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through to make this night happen.”

  He went back to the stove and brought over the saucepan, ladled out some sauce on her pasta, then he did the same on his own. She watched him, strangely transfixed by his movements. Wondering again how any of this could be happening.

  “I always hated this lake,” he said as he sat down.

  His cheek twitched as a thin line of blood dripped down onto his plate.

  “Until that
last summer,” he said. “The summer we were together.”

  The words washed over her. She’d been sixteen years old back then, her parents sending her up here to spend a month with her grandparents. The last thing young Jeannie had wanted to do, spend four weeks in this stuffy little house that smelled like liniment and cigarette smoke, with nobody else around less than four times older than she was, without a television even.

  And then on top of that, there was the strange boy across the lake.

  Watching her.

  Stalking her.

  Taking pictures.

  “You remember . . .” he said. The same boy, grown into a man, sitting across from her now. She would have never recognized him.

  Until she saw those eyes. That same unblinking stare that had sent a cold chill through her body even then, as she sat on the edge of the dock, refusing to move. Refusing to give in to this stranger.

  Until she’d look up and see him again, impossibly close to her, the camera around his neck. Wondering how he’d been able to sneak up on her, wondering how long he’d been standing there. That smile he’d have on his face when their eyes met. And how she’d finally break down and go inside, just to get away from him.

  I never said a word to you.

  Not once.

  “Jeannie . . .” His voice went lower as he put his fork down. She closed her eyes and tried to stop shivering.

  “Eat your dinner.”

  She kept her eyes closed.

  “I SAID EAT YOUR FUCKING DINNER!”

  He banged both fists on the table as he yelled, rattling the plates. The shock sent her back in her chair like a slap across her face. She fumbled for the fork, held it in her hand like she couldn’t even remember how to make it work.

  “Martin . . .” she said. The name sounded strange on her own lips. Almost obscene.

  “This is not how tonight is supposed to go!” he yelled, taking out the gun and slamming it on the table. “You’re ruining it!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, so softly she could barely hear the words herself.

  “Listen,” he said, fighting to control himself, measuring every word carefully. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. But you have to understand something, Jeannie. You have not made this easy for me. I think I’ve been more than patient.”

  She could see the veins standing out in his arm as he gripped his fork. She kept waiting for him to scream again. To come over the table at her. She could practically feel his hands around her throat.

  “All this time, Jeannie . . . All these years. I kept thinking about you. Searching for you . . .”

  Her whole body was going numb.

  “And then I saw that picture from your wedding day,” he said. “The whole world saw that picture. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”

  She could feel herself slipping away now, into some deep recess in her own mind. His voice sounded like it was coming from someplace else. Another room in another house. Something about a picture. And a wedding day. The last blink of recognition before she slipped away even farther. That old photo her friend Lisa had put on that Facebook page she had set up for her. I told you not to do that, Lisa. Who’s dumb enough to put a divorced woman’s wedding photo on Facebook?

  “You belonged to me, Jeannie. Not to that baseball player. Not to that cop.”

  The voice driving her deeper into herself. The last remaining place where she could be safe.

  “You were married to him for nine years. Over three thousand days of your life.”

  There was a movement, just a flickering shadow she could barely see. Then she felt the fork being taken from her hand.

  “It was a mistake. But it’s not too late, Jeannie. Even now, it’s not too late for us.”

  Something touching her face now. Like a towline, bringing her back to the room. Bringing her back to her own self.

  No. I don’t want to be here.

  “I want to believe that,” he said, his voice in her ear. “I have to believe that.”

  She was back now. In this room, feeling his breath against her face, the cold tiles on her feet, the hard wooden chair against her back.

  “You have no idea what will happen to you,” he said, staring into her eyes, “if you can’t make me believe.”

  She let out her breath as he took a step back. Then from one moment to the next, another kind of relief, as she let go of her bladder and the warmth spread out beneath her on the chair and then moved down her legs. She didn’t care anymore. It felt strangely comforting.

  “Now eat your dinner,” he said. “Before it gets cold.”

  As the tears started coming down her cheeks, she found her voice again. “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” he said as he returned the gun to his belt. “As soon as Alex gets here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I’M HERE, JEANNIE. PLEASE BE ALIVE.

  I had driven this cheap little car from Phoenix to Michigan, chasing a monster. Now I had finally arrived at the lake, passing one house, dark and abandoned on the edge of the frozen lake, then another, just as dark and abandoned. It was February, a season that had no purpose for these houses. But there was a light coming from the next house, streaming out onto the snow. I saw two vehicles parked in the driveway. A Nissan Pathfinder and a Subaru station wagon.

  This is the place, I said to myself, bringing back the memory from decades before. The house looked exactly the same, except that now the shingles had all been taken off and only half of them had been replaced.

  I stopped on the street and watched the house for a few seconds. I didn’t see any movement, didn’t hear any sounds at all. There was no other plan in my head except walking up to the front door and knocking it down, trying to be ready for whatever happened next. But then I remembered what had happened in Amarillo, how I had opened one door and set off an apocalypse. For once in my life, it was time to think about what I was doing before I did it.

  I got out and approached the house carefully, knowing that the snow would muffle my footsteps, but knowing just as well that whoever was inside would probably see me coming. I didn’t go to the front door, but to the window looking out from the front room. When I put my face close to the glass, I could see furniture covered with white sheets. A box sealed up with strapping tape. Then as I moved over to get a better angle . . .

  Jeannie.

  I could barely see down the hallway, but there she was, in the kitchen. She was sitting on a chair, against the wall, her head slumped forward. It hit me right in the stomach, how long it had been since I had last seen her. And how horrible it was to be seeing her under these circumstances.

  I tried to see if her eyes were open. If she was still even alive. But I couldn’t quite get the right angle to see her face.

  Move, Jeannie. Show me that you’re alive.

  I looked all around me. I hadn’t seen Livermore inside the house, but I knew that meant nothing. He could have been outside at that moment, watching me from behind one of the trees, waiting for me to go in.

  As I looked back in the window, I saw Jeannie stirring. Something like a shudder rolling through her body.

  What did he do to you?

  I had to fight the urge to break down the front door right then, finally convincing myself to move around to the back of the house. As I did, I took a quick look in each window. I didn’t see Livermore.

  When I got to the back door, leading into the kitchen, I could see only the side of her head. I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

  I went inside. Jeannie turned and saw me. “Alex!”

  I took one step toward her, then felt the whole world crashing down onto my head, driving me to the floor.

  And then nothing.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I OPENED my eyes again, I saw a familiar face looking d
own at me.

  “You made good time,” Livermore said.

  As I tried to get up, I felt the cold sting of metal against my wrists. I was lying on my back on the kitchen floor, my arms stretched out past my head. He had handcuffed me to the drainpipe under the sink. I was bleeding from a fresh cut in my forehead. The blood was running into my eyes, making it hard to see.

  But there was Jeannie, still sitting on the kitchen chair. After all the years that had passed, to finally see her again, this close . . . She looked cold and she was somewhere beyond scared, in jeans and a tank top, with no coat, no shoes. There was a raw scrape on her chin. Livermore stood next to her, one hand on her shoulder.

  “Let her go,” I said to him. “This is between you and me.”

  “On the contrary, Alex. This has been between all three of us from the beginning.”

  “Jeannie,” I said, “are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, with a voice so weak I could barely hear her. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shook more blood from my eyes, rattling the cuffs against the drainpipe. As I gave it a yank, the cuffs bit deeper into my wrists.

  “Look at this man,” Livermore said to Jeannie. “You actually let him touch you. You shared a bed with him. Every night.”

  As she looked down at me, I could see her crying. I could only wonder how many tears she had already shed before I got here.

  “You chose this,” Livermore said, coming close enough to kick my left leg. “Over me.”

  Do that again, I thought. Come close enough for me to reach you . . .

  Jeannie didn’t answer him. She kept looking at my face, while tears rolled down her own.

  “I’ll never understand it,” Livermore said, stepping back to her and putting a hand on her shoulder again. “But you have one chance to make it right.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  She kept looking at me, her eyes glazed over. I didn’t even know if she was hearing a word he said anymore.

  Wake up, I said to her in my mind. Wake up and play along. It’s your only chance to get out of this alive.