You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

  Pants. I’m wearing pants today. I have pockets. More often than not, in the summer I wear skirts or dresses. What if I didn’t have pockets today?

  Or do they know I have pockets? Are they watching me? Did they see me leave my house, drop Owen at daycare?

  Of course they’d watch me. If they’re going to do this, take my son, they’ve probably been watching us for days, or weeks.

  They came up with a story that fooled Mackenzie. They knew my brother’s name, knew he was one of our emergency contacts. Called All Children’s, pretending to be me—

  How many are involved? A woman made the call. And a man walked in, pretending to be my brother, walked out of there with my son—

  The thought of a stranger carrying Owen, walking to a car, turns my stomach. Does that man have a car seat? Did he strap Owen in tightly enough?

  Why am I obsessing over a car seat? My son’s been kidnapped. I can’t think clearly.

  I’m off the top deck of the garage now, back onto the walkway, and I’m intensely aware of the phone in my pocket. Smart move, telling me to bring it. I’m sure they’ve hacked in. That they’re tracking my movements through GPS. Using the microphone to listen to everything I say, everything around me. The very reasons we’re not permitted to bring phones into the building.

  A couple of lone individuals are walking away from the building, toward me. A harried-looking woman who offers a smile as she passes. I’m too spooked to smile back.

  Then a young guy in a suit, a briefcase at his side, avoiding eye contact. Preoccupied, self-important? Or is it something else? Is he monitoring me, reporting back to someone?

  Is she?

  I spin my head around, but her back is to me, and so is his.

  Does it matter?

  They’re tracking me, listening to me, one way or another.

  And one way or another, they have Owen.

  Owen. Is he safe right now? Is he scared? The thought makes me sick. Drew and I have never even left him with a sitter. No one but the two of us, and the teachers at the daycare center, the same ones he’s been with since he was three months old. How’s he reacting to a stranger?

  I reach the bank of doors, pull one open. Step into the lobby, feel the blast of cool air. There are the turnstiles up ahead, and guards in uniform. Three of them I can see. I’m suddenly frozen.

  One step, then another.

  Should I say something? I could, right now.

  But the phone in my pocket—they’re listening, aren’t they?

  I take a breath, deep but not too deep. Trying to appear calm, like everything’s normal.

  More steps forward, an even pace, slow and steady, until I reach the turnstiles. I don’t make eye contact with the guards, don’t look in their direction.

  I hold my badge to the reader, enter my PIN, and the barrier drops. I walk through, still forcing myself not to look at the guards.

  One foot in front of the other, eyes straight ahead. Every sense is on alert, waiting for the sound of footsteps behind me, for the touch of a hand on my shoulder, for the sound of a voice: Come with me, please.

  But there’s nothing. I’m through the turnstiles now, eyes still straight ahead. I reach the bank of elevators, glance around. No one there. Relief washes over me.

  I press the down button and focus intently on the numbers above the elevator doors until one arrives. I step in, the only passenger, and travel down to the basement. Step out, hang a left—

  “Jill!”

  I spin around. It’s that new reports officer from Iran Division, someone whose name is escaping me.

  “I’m going to send you a cable later today,” he says. “Reissuing COVCOM for Hawkeye. Just need your approval since he runs in the same circles as Buffalo—”

  “Okay,” I say quickly, turning my back to him, continuing on. He shouldn’t be talking about covert communications in the hallway. Or using sources’ crypts. Especially not when there’s a phone in my pocket, transmitting everything.

  I pick up my pace. I can feel him watching me go, a question on his face, my abruptness unsettling. But they don’t see it. All they can do is listen.

  I reach the vault door and hold my badge to the reader. The lock disengages with a click, and I push the heavy door open. The phone in my pocket feels like a time bomb.

  Once, a few years ago, I accidentally brought my phone into the building, buried in my tote bag. Realized when I sat down at my desk, pulled out my lunch bag, caught sight of it. I immediately brought it down to security, turned myself in. Received a written warning, a black mark on my record. One isn’t so bad; accidents happen. Two and it can affect your chances of promotions, or competitive assignments. After that your very employment can be at risk.

  I walk down the aisle to my cubicle—

  “Back already?” Jeremy asks as I approach, brows knitting together in confusion. There’s a half-eaten sandwich in front of him. Peanut butter and jelly, by the looks of it. An open bag of Fritos, and a can of Coke.

  I freeze. What am I supposed to say?

  “Video feed wasn’t working.” I slide into my chair, avoiding eye contact.

  Jeremy carefully places the remnants of his sandwich back into a Ziploc bag, folds up the bag of Fritos as quietly as he can. Like he doesn’t want to eat in front of me unless we’re eating together, each in our own cubicle, absorbed in our own work, like we used to.

  Jeremy. I trust him. I could write a note about Owen, tell him I need help. I eye the pad of paper on my desk, the pen.

  And then a voice rings in my head:

  Owen will be gone, forever.

  What if Jeremy doesn’t get it, asks a question aloud? Or what if he goes quietly for help, but someone else says something they shouldn’t?

  My right hand finds the mouse in front of me. I move it, and the screen turns from black to blue, with a box in the center. Username, Password. I click, follow the prompts, and then the screen springs to life. There’s Fortress, open, just like I left it. The new cable’s at the top, in bold. I double-click, and then I skim.

  It’s what I expected, what I’ve known for some time is coming. Cables like this, encryptions of new sources, they don’t just come out of the blue. A.J.’s been developing this source for months. Everything’s documented here, the ops tests, the polygraph, the source’s background. There are copies of his credentials in accompanying cables, separated for operational security. Photographs, fingerprints.

  These are the big cables, the ones that are few and far between, that take the most time. Making sure the case officer has checked all the boxes, done all the requisite vetting. Making sure he or she isn’t under pressure in the field, being blackmailed. That’s the point of my job, really. I’m supposed to be the impartial one. Unbiased, unpressured, uncorrupted.

  A.J. wrote the cable; Vaughn Craig, the Chief of Station in Damascus, signed off. Now it’s on to me. After that, it goes to the Chief of Operations for our division—COPS, as he’s known—and then on to the Agency’s Director of Operations, Langston West. A newly streamlined process, designed by West himself, to expedite the onboarding of new assets. To simplify and streamline a time-consuming and overly bureaucratic process.

  I’m not sure COPS even reads the cables, at least not closely. In his view, once the Chief of Station and I have signed off, it’s good to go. I’m thorough, and I care, and everyone around here knows it. I doubt the Director of Operations gives it more than a cursory look, either. Syria isn’t in his wheelhouse; he’s a Russia guy all the way, known for wrapping up Russian spies, refusing to swap them, always looking for opportunities to take a hard-line approach against that particular adversary.

  The last thing in the world I should do is approve this cable.

  I close my eyes and try to focus, try to figure this out, but all I see in my mind’s eye is Owen. Is
he scared right now? Is he hurt?

  Breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll never see your son again.

  I scroll to the bottom of the screen, the notes section.

  “Fully approved with no amendments,” I type. I wonder if my phone’s picking up the click of my keys, if they know what I’m doing, what I’m typing.

  “Welcome to the family, FALCON.” My standard comment, whenever I approve a new source. Usually I feel a burst of adrenaline when I type it. Anticipation. Now I just feel sick to my stomach.

  I move the cursor to the Approve button. Hover there.

  If this is what they want me to do, if this is what it takes to get Owen back—

  I can fix it later. I will fix it later. Once Owen’s safe. This action, sending this cable forward, it’s fixable. Nothing else is going to happen today. It’ll take COPS and the Director of Operations a day, at least, to get to it. I’ll come clean before that, for sure.

  Right now I need to do what they say.

  I click, and the cable disappears from my queue, just as expected.

  Almost like it never happened.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  Now what?

  Owen.

  I lock my computer again, stand up so abruptly my chair rolls back into my cubicle wall.

  Jeremy looks over. “Everything okay, Jill?”

  His half-eaten lunch is pushed to the back of his desk, against the corkboard where he’s tacked a dozen snapshots of his beloved Great Dane, Max.

  “I’m just going to head back to my car,” I say. “I left my keys inside.” I attempt a lighthearted laugh, but it sounds oddly shrill.

  He nods slowly, and I walk away from our cubicles without another word.

  Once out of the vault, I hurry down the hall, head lowered. The last thing I need is anyone approaching me in the halls, saying anything they shouldn’t, taking up precious seconds of my time.

  I take the stairs to the lobby, two at a time, hand resting on the front of my pants pocket as I go. Badge out through the turnstiles—

  A high-pitched beep, long and steady. From my turnstile. I freeze. Then I look up, panicked, at the nearest guard.

  Do they know what I’ve done? Could they have put some sort of alert on my badge, to stop me?

  How am I going to explain the phone—

  “Go on,” the guard says, disinterested, waving me forward. “That one’s been on the fritz lately.”

  Relief washes through me, leaves me weak.

  What I’m doing is wrong. But I’ll fix it. I’ll make this right, just as soon as I have Owen.

  I force a smile and a nod, and I keep walking, never looking back.

  * * *

  —

  I slide inside my car and shut the door behind me, reach immediately for my phone. No missed calls, no texts, just the background shot of Owen staring back at me, those chubby pink cheeks, that drooly grin. And the time. 11:33 A.M.

  Without the engine running, without the AC blasting, it’s unnervingly silent. I stare at the phone, willing it to ring.

  Come back to your car when you’re done.

  That means he’ll call back, right?

  What if he doesn’t call back?

  I have no way to get in touch with the man who has my son.

  I set the phone down on the center console and reach for the laptop, still open on the passenger seat, stray lettuce leaves and chunks of chicken around it, a river of vinaigrette pooling in the seams of the leather.

  I pull up the video feed and scan the room. Ariella’s in the kitchen, cleaning the counters. The high chairs are empty.

  A couple of babies are asleep in cribs, but not Owen.

  And the play area—there are babies crawling, banging toys, one chewing on a board book. Lyla’s sitting in the rocker with another baby on her lap. None of them are Owen.

  Oh God.

  They’re not going to return him, are they? Not for what I did, for such a small thing. They’ll ask for more, won’t they? More, and more, and more—

  I should call Drew. The police. Someone.

  Breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll never see your son again—

  I feel like I’m going to vomit. I have this overwhelming desire to go to sleep and wake up when this is all over, but when will it be over? How will this ever end?

  I messed up, didn’t I? I had an opportunity, in that building. I should have gone straight to security, come clean, gotten the authorities involved. The FBI could be out there right now, looking for Owen, and instead, I’m sitting here alone in my car, while my baby is God knows where—

  A shrill ring.

  I grab the phone.

  Unknown.

  I press the green button. “Hello?”

  Nothing. No sound on the other end.

  “Hello?” I ask again, panicked.

  “Good work, Jill.”

  It’s the same voice, the deep robotic one.

  He knows. He knows I did what he asked me to do.

  “Owen. Where’s Owen? You said—”

  “He’s back at daycare.”

  I spin toward the laptop, scan each of the camera feeds again. Ariella in the kitchen, alone. Those same babies sleeping in their cribs. Still no sign of Owen in the play area. “He’s not—”

  I stop short. There he is.

  Mackenzie’s walking into the room, and Owen’s in her arms, bright-eyed and smiling and perfectly content.

  My Owen. He’s back.

  A choked cry escapes my lips, and my eyes fill. I can’t take my eyes off him.

  “We keep our promises.”

  I watch him on the screen, my vision blurred by tears. Mackenzie hands him to Lyla, who walks him over to the kitchen, places him in a high chair, secures the strap around his waist. She turns to get food, and he bangs his hands on the tray happily.

  “Go get him, Jill.”

  There’s a click, and three beeps, and the line disconnects.

  I drop the phone and start the ignition. I don’t close the laptop, don’t want to take my eyes off the screen, off Owen.

  Go get him.

  I don’t have to be told twice. There’s nothing I want to do more right now than hold Owen in my own arms, to know for absolute sure that he’s safe and healthy and this nightmare is over.

  I peel out of the parking lot, desperate to get to him as quickly as possible. Before they come back, ask for more. Before the rug is pulled out from beneath me.

  The video feed on the laptop freezes, signal lost. The mobile hotspot isn’t strong enough.

  Ten above the speed limit, fifteen. My eyes keep darting to the rearview mirror, watching for police cars.

  It’s a thirteen-minute drive to the daycare center.

  I make it in nine.

  I pull into one of the spaces closest to the front door, throw the car into park, run into the building.

  Mackenzie’s at the front desk, staring. “Mrs. Smith? Is everything all right?”

  “I just want to see Owen.” I say it too loud, too intense.

  “Of course,” she says, looking at me like I’m crazy. “I’ll be right back with him.” She stands, disappears down the hall, and I watch her go—

  He did the same thing, didn’t he? The man who took my son. He stood right here in this lobby, had a conversation with Mackenzie, waited while she walked down that hall, walked back again with my son in her arms.

  My eyes find the camera in the corner of the ceiling, facing the front door. CCTV, security footage. A small green light, illuminated. Whoever did this, they’d be on there—

  Footsteps. Mackenzie rounds the corner, and snuggled in her arms is Owen. He gives me a gummy grin and flaps his arms.

  A sob escapes. I rush
forward, take him into my own arms. Owen. My baby. He’s soft and warm and—

  And he smells like cologne. Men’s cologne, and not Drew’s. A kind that’s unfamiliar.

  A shiver runs through me.

  “Are you taking him home, Mrs. Smith?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Have a great afternoon! We’ll see you both back here tomorrow.”

  I walk outside to the car, squinting into the sunlight, looking around, certain someone’s watching us. But I see no one.

  I strap him into his car seat, pull the belt secure. Hand him his stuffed elephant, the one he always clutches in the car. He looks up at me with wide, innocent eyes. He seems perfectly normal, like nothing ever happened.

  I slide into the driver’s seat, buckle in. My whole body feels weak, and spent. I watch his reflection in the rearview mirror; he’s rear-facing, but there’s a mirror strapped to the backseat.

  I have him. He’s safe.

  I start the engine and back out of the parking space, much slower this time. Out of the parking lot, then left onto the main road, under the speed limit this time—

  The phone rings.

  Unknown.

  This isn’t over, is it?

  I reach for the phone, eyes still on the road. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Jill. I trust you’re happy to see Owen?”

  I glance around again, searching for someone, anyone. On the sidewalk, on the road, inside a car. But I see no one. The street’s practically empty.

  Where are they?

  And what do they want?

  There’s a yellow light ahead, and I move my foot to the brake, begin slowing to a stop. “What now?” I ask.

  They’re going to ask for more. They think they have me now, that I’m compromised, that I’ll do whatever they ask. They don’t know that I’m going to come clean—

  “Now, nothing. You did what we asked. We want nothing more from you.”

  Nothing?

  I come to a stop at the red light.

  I don’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense. And it leaves me completely unsettled.

  “As long as you stay quiet, as long as you don’t breathe a word of this, you’ll never see us or hear from us again.”