“That’s right. Lot of water. Heard it may even break the lock and dam.”
Detective Schaefer nodded politely and tried to step around her, but she wouldn’t let him. She blocked his path and began reciting a story about how one of her colleagues lost his car in a flash flood five years earlier. He interrupted her before she could finish.
“Excuse me for a second. I need to use the restroom.”
“Oh, sorry. You should have said something.”
She stepped back and swept her arm toward the restroom. Her behavior may have been juvenile, but it was vaguely satisfying anyway.
They didn’t waste time when he returned; they never even left the lobby. She gave her statement and nothing more. He sat at the front desk, while she sat across from him, her knees pressed against the flat panel in front. It felt like she was in the principal’s office in elementary school.
She went through her story from beginning to end. When he asked her to repeat points, she said he should have recorded the session. He backed off after the third time. After fifteen minutes, she signed the detective’s report. The entire trip was as simple as it was pointless.
“Can I go home now?”
Detective Schaefer looked up from the notepad in front of him.
“Unfortunately, it’s not my call,” he said.
“Whose is it, then?” asked Renee.
“Sheriff Amerson,” said Detective Schaefer, already reaching into his jacket for his cell phone. Renee felt the frustration build up in her throat. She had already seen Sheriff Amerson interact with his officers earlier. He may have been polite, but he was clearly a bureaucrat. He’d probably want to form a committee to study her request before letting her go.
She smiled to keep herself from screaming. Detective Schaefer actually flinched when he looked at her. He should have. She was getting her point across.
The detective started dialing and put the phone to his ear. He must have been nearly deaf because the volume was loud enough that Renee could hear the sheriff from across the desk. As soon as Detective Schaefer asked if he could take her home, the sheriff started a long explanation that really didn’t say much except that he couldn’t make up his mind. That was typical. Renee leaned her elbows on the table and planted her forehead on her palms.
“This is bullshit,” she said. “I should get a lawyer.”
Detective Schaefer thanked the sheriff for his time and hung up. He placed his phone back in his pocket before focusing on her.
“That’s your decision,” said Detective Schaefer. “While you decide that, how about I take you by your house for some fresh clothes? It’s the best I can do.”
Renee flicked her eyes to the clock over Detective Schaefer’s left shoulder. It was a quarter to three in the morning. If she waited another few hours, she would have been wearing the same outfit for an entire day. She felt dirty and uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to give the detective the satisfaction of knowing that she was accepting his kindness.
“Fine,” she said. “I need to feed my cat, anyway.”
“You can do that, too,” said Detective Schaefer. “Give me a minute. I need to write Sheriff Amerson a note in case he comes back while we’re gone.”
He disappeared into the station’s inner rooms for a moment but returned, presumably after writing his note. It was drizzling outside, and Renee was shivering by the time she sat down in the car. It was a Dodge something or other. The exterior was boxy and masculine, while the interior had a lot of cheap black plastic and straight lines. Unlike the police cars on television, Detective Schaefer’s car had no computer in the dash, and very little indicated that it was anything but a normal vehicle. He probably thought his car would help him pick up girls. Of course, he probably also thought telling a woman to brace herself constituted effective foreplay.
Renee stared at the dashboard in front of her and tried not to make any outward sign that she was cold. As she sat, the drizzle outside turned into pounding curtains of water. When they pulled out of the parking lot, the tires dipped into potholes, causing water to hit the undercarriage. In another few months, that rain would be snow or ice. She looked forward to it about as much as she looked forward to a proctologist’s exam.
Renee had given the detective her address earlier, but she reminded him of it anyway. He seemed to know where he was going, so she didn’t bother giving him directions.
The closer they got to her house, the darker the streets became. Unlike the area around the police station, Renee’s street was nearly pitch–black, and her neighbor’s houses were dark. Detective Schaefer pulled to a stop in front of her house.
“Would you like me to go in with you?” he asked.
For a moment, he had a touch of human emotion in his voice. It wasn’t quite concern, but it was close.
“I’m fine, Detective,” she said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
She started to open the door, but he put his hand on her upper arm, stopping her.
“If you try to run, Sheriff Amerson will arrest you, and there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Detective,” she said, ripping at the door handle hard enough she thought the plastic might break. “I appreciate it.”
Detective Schaefer didn’t blink. His eyes seemed to stare through her, and for a moment, she thought he was going to snap. A big part of her hoped that he would. She wanted an excuse to scream at something, even if for just a moment. He didn’t snap, though; he simply turned his head and stared at the street.
“I’ll be waiting here when you get back,” he said.
Renee swore under her breath and opened the door. He couldn’t do anything right.
Rain trickled down her neck and into her shirt as soon as she stepped outside. She wanted to hit something so badly that she was shaking. Unfortunately, there was nothing in reach. Her head felt heavy as cold rainwater weighted down her hair, sapping the heat from her anger and replacing it with a weary exhaustion. A single, warm pinprick traveled from the corner of her eye, down her cheek and to her chin before falling to the ground.
She was standing in front of the darkest house on a dark street. Gnarled tree roots cracked the sidewalk, while leaves and branches littered the yard. Renee wiped her eyes and hurried toward the driveway. She rarely used the front door because it had been hung so poorly that it gouged the hardwood floor whenever it was opened. Unfortunately, much of the craftsmanship in the rest of the house matched. Bulbs burnt out in minutes in the overhead light fixtures, the front porch sagged, and the water heater sporadically failed.
Despite the house’s faults, though, she loved every single board. It was the first home she had ever had.
She reached into her purse for her cell phone and held it up. The blackness between her house and the one next to it was almost impenetrable. She stumbled forward, a lump in her throat and her clothes clinging to her like spandex. There were nightlights throughout her house, at least a few of which should have been visible through the windows. She couldn’t see any, though; it was one more thing to worry about. A circuit breaker had probably tripped. Thankfully, there hadn’t been a fire.
The concrete drive gave way to a sea of mud in the backyard. Her feet sank into it with a squishing, sucking sound. She pulled herself out of the muck and onto the back stoop. The back door was locked and bolted. Her hands shook as she tried to insert the key. She wanted to crawl into bed and escape, but her nightmare wasn’t over. She didn’t even know if anyone had called Mitch’s family yet. She probably should have asked before she left. The call should come from a friend rather than an anonymous person at the police station or the coroner’s office. She managed to insert her key and unlock the door.
Her kitchen looked like an abandoned carnival ride from hell. The cabinets were canary yellow, while the countertops were some sort of cheap laminate that tried and failed to look as if it were marble. The only bright spot was a hand–drawn birthday card from her half–
brother’s four–year–old son on the refrigerator. She threw her purse on the counter and sighed.
“Home sweet home.”
She jumped as something glass crashed in the living room. She drew in breath to scream, but before she could, Samantha, her gray–and–white tabby cat, padded into the room. Her shoulders relaxed. She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment to get control of her breathing. It was just her cat. She reached behind her and locked the door before kneeling down and holding out her hands.
“Come here, honey.”
She didn’t care about the broken glass. She didn’t care about the mud she had tracked in. She just needed a hug and Samantha was the only living thing in sight.
Her breath caught in her throat. She heard a crunch followed by the sound of a shoe dragging glass across a hardwood floor.
Shit.
That wasn’t a cat.
Saturday, September 14. 3:07 a.m
Bluffdale, OH.
Trent allowed himself to sink into his cruiser’s seat as Dr. Carter walked toward her house. He had only known her for a few hours, but he could see why she lived alone. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and yawned, the rain pounding against the roof of his car. As he was about to close his eyes, he felt his phone vibrate against his breastbone. He fished it out and looked at the caller ID. Sheriff Amerson. He sighed and scratched his brow before answering.
“This is Detective Schaefer. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
Amerson took a deep breath.
“Yeah, Detective,” he said. “Uhm, I don’t know what Bluffdale’s official policy is on this, but I don’t think taking Dr. Carter home was such a good idea.”
“I’ll bring her right back,” said Trent. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, per se,” he said. “I just don’t think this is in accordance with the county’s policies.”
Trent closed his eyes and counted to five before speaking.
“I’ll bring her back as soon as she gets some clothes. At this point, I think she’s a cooperating witness, so we should give her some latitude.”
Amerson paused.
“Okay. If you think that’s best.”
“I do. Thanks for the call.”
Trent turned off his phone before Amerson could respond. The sheriff may have been an able administrator, but he had a temperament more like a high school principal than a law enforcement official. It was starting to grate on his nerves. He swallowed and looked straight ahead.
His headlights illuminated a street strewn with tree branches, leaves and litter. The front windows of Dr. Carter’s bungalow were dark, but he saw a light near the back. Evidently, she had made it inside. He turned off the car and opened his door, immediately feeling stinging needles of rain strike him in the face, soaking him to the core.
Beautiful. Just beautiful.
He slammed his door shut and stepped into a pothole. Cold water covered his foot to his ankle, turning his toes to ice. Trent gritted his teeth and jogged up the concrete walkway, almost tripping on a stick as he went. Landscaping was clearly not a priority in Dr. Carter’s life.
The front porch wasn’t much better than the yard. It sagged in the middle, and the roof looked like it could collapse at any moment. At least it was dry. Trent shook off his clothes as well as he could and swore to himself, his teeth very nearly starting to chatter.
Thwack, thwack, thwack.
The gunshots were close enough that he almost expected bullets to whiz through the home’s front door. Instinctively, he dove and pressed his back flat against the wall. His heart pounded, and his breath caught in his throat. The house’s wood paneling offered concealment, but it wouldn’t keep him from being shot. He couldn’t stay for long. He reached into his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the rough aluminum frame of his weapon, a Sig Sauer P226.
His bad night had just gotten a lot worse.
Saturday, September 14. 3:07 a.m
Bluffdale, OH.
Renee’s home was small, but it had a modern, open floor plan. She had removed the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room herself, so she was able to see from her backdoor all the way to the front. Detective Schaefer’s headlights extinguished in front of the house, but she didn’t have time to call out for him. Someone was in her living room.
She whipped her eyes around the kitchen, hoping to find something she could use to defend herself. The only thing that looked remotely suitable was a paring knife, with which she had cut an apple for lunch. She lunged for it and grabbed its thin, white handle.
“Stay back, I’ve got a knife.”
She wished she had used a butcher’s knife that morning. Or a sword.
An older man chuckled as he stepped out of the shadows of her living room and into the kitchen. He had trimmed white hair and a beard that made him look as if he were a preppy version of Santa Clause. Unlike St. Nick, though, this guy carried a revolver.
“Stay back,” she said, her voice wavering as she brandished her pathetic knife in front of her. Its two–inch blade was barely sharp enough to break the skin of an apple, but it was the only thing she had. Santa stepped forward, his gun still in front of him. Renee walked backwards until she hit the cabinet behind her. Its overhanging lip pushed into her waist.
More than anyone else, Renee knew how much trouble she was actually in. Despite its other faults, her home withstood Ohio’s harshest winters well. She had put in the blown cellulose insulation herself after seeing how to do it on “This Old House.” It kept the place warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It also had the added benefit of dampening sounds. Her throat was dry, and her lungs felt as if they were stuck in a vise. Even if she could scream, no one could hear through the walls.
Santa put his gun on the counter and motioned toward her as if he were calling a frightened child.
“I don’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “Please.”
He had a thick, Slavic accent.
Renee cast her eyes around the room, thinking quickly. She had bolted the back door, so it would take at least a second or two to unlock it. Santa would shoot her in the back before her feet touched dirt. She had a gun in the dresser in the bedroom, but it might as well have been in Beirut for all the good it did her. Getting it was her only chance, though. Her heart pounded, and she couldn’t keep from trembling.
Santa stepped forward again, his hands in front of him as if he had nothing to hide. He stopped moving about five feet in front of her, his eyes traveling up and down her body as a lecherous smile formed on his lips. She inhaled deeply, feeling her chest rise and fall. Renee had already been a victim once that night; she refused to be helpless again.
She slashed with her paring knife and caught Santa’s hand on the palm. She jerked her hand down. It felt as if she were dragging a stick against concrete. He jerked his arm back, his smile gone. Renee didn’t give him time to recover before jabbing and burying her knife hilt–deep in his side. The blade was small, so it wouldn’t slow him down much, but hopefully it was enough.
Santa staggered back and leaned against the kitchen counter, giving Renee an opening. She vaulted past him, but felt his hand grab her shirt. The stitching popped as Santa ripped the fabric on her sleeve. She ignored it and raced into the hallway. Her home was dark, but she crawled on her hands and knees to polish the hardwood every other week. She knew exactly where to go, but even still, the floor was so slick that she had to flail her arms to maintain her balance. Pictures fell from the walls, breaking under Santa’s feet behind her.
That bastard was just one step back, but one step was all she needed.
She reached her bedroom first and grabbed the softball bat beside the door. Woe betide he who violates the sanctity of Renee Carter’s home. She couldn’t hit a softball to save her life, but Santa was a hell of a lot bigger than a ball. She swung high and hard. Santa was too close to avoid the blow, but he managed to bring up his forearm and deflect it. The bat connected, and his rev
olver hit the floor.
Neither combatant stirred as they sized each other up. Santa was no longer smiling, no longer coaxing, no longer friendly. His arm hung limp, but his eyes were focused and mean.
Renee moved first, swinging her bat like a hockey stick and smacking the revolver. It skittered across the room and came to rest beneath the window ten feet away. Santa dashed after it, crawling along the ground like an insect, while she sprinted toward her dresser. She threw open a drawer and tossed underwear and bras aside before spotting her gun, a thirty–eight caliber Smith and Wesson.
Thwack, Thwack, Thwack.
Three booming shots. Plaster rained down around her, and the wood of her dresser splintered. Renee dove behind her bed. Her gun was out of reach.
Saturday, September 14. 3:08 a.m
Bluffdale, OH.
Trent regained his composure and stood. He pressed his shoulder against the door and turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. He stepped back, brought his leg up and kicked. A jolt traveled through his body like he had been electrocuted. The door shuddered but didn’t move. Dr. Carter’s home was an old bungalow that had evidently been built from solid timbers. He kicked again, but the jolt was smaller as the frame splintered. He was getting there.
He positioned himself for one final kick and leapt forward, his leg outstretched. The frame broke, and the door inched open before grinding against the floor. He rammed it with his shoulder and squeezed through the gap.
“Dr. Carter!”
“Help, I’m in the bedroom.”
Trent followed the sound of her voice and turned down a hallway. The hardwood floor was slick with polish, and picture frames littered the ground.
Thwack.
A bullet whizzed through the plaster. Trent had so much adrenaline coursing through his body that he wouldn’t have felt anything even if he were hit. He ran his hands across his chest and arms for anything warm and sticky but found nothing.
“Are you shot, Dr. Carter?”
He shouted as much to distract the shooter as to ascertain her condition.
Just Run Page 3
