Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  Thwack, thwack, click, click.

  Trent’s heart almost stopped. Six shots and the shooter needed to reload. That meant he probably had a revolver. Trent held his breath, hearing the tingle of shell casings hit the floor as the shooter reloaded.

  He sprinted into the room. The shooter was about ten feet away. He looked old, but he clearly wasn’t elderly. Trent raised his weapon and fired five center–of–mass shots. The old man fell and convulsed on the ground, but that stopped quickly as his blood formed a pool beneath him. The room was silent, and the acrid stink of burnt gunpowder wafted throughout. Dr. Carter stood up on the other side of the bed looking shocked and absent.

  “Were you hit?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she walked over and stood beside him. Trent gave her a once–over, but he couldn’t see any blood. He bent down and felt the older man’s neck for a pulse, but, as expected, felt nothing. Blood trickled from his mouth, staining his white beard and obscuring an ink mark on his neck.

  “Shouldn’t you check his wallet to see who he is?” asked Dr. Carter.

  Trent ignored her comment for the moment and pulled back the man’s collar, exposing an ornate tattoo. It looked like a dagger piercing the man’s throat, dragging skin along with it. The design was familiar even if Trent hadn’t seen that particular version of it before. He didn’t need to check the man’s wallet to know who he was. He was staring at part of a résumé; the ink was an unmistakable mark of a killer for hire. He had just shot a member of the Organizatsiya, the Russian mafia.

  Trent looked up. Dr. Carter hugged herself.

  “You’ve pissed off some very bad people, Dr. Carter.”

  Her voice was soft.

  “You can call me Renee.”

  Saturday, September 14. 3:23 a.m

  Bluffdale, OH.

  Victor pulled into the parking lot of a Baptist Church a few blocks off Bluffdale’s main drag. Aluminum streetlamps lit the asphalt in a dull yellow, but left shadowy nooks along the two–story brick building big enough in which to hide a car. Victor slipped their car into a darkened recess near the building’s back door and climbed out. He stripped off his blood–splattered clothes while Anatoly fetched a bag from the trunk. By the time they pulled onto the street a few minutes later, Victor wore a fresh set of clothes and any incriminating evidence they had in the car was in the church’s dumpster in an anonymous black trash bag among a dozen others.

  “We need to get rid of this car,” said Victor, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Burn it or something. I can tell my boss it was stolen.”

  Anatoly clenched his jaw. Victor’s naiveté was getting on his nerves.

  “Do you think before you speak?” he asked.

  “What’s that—” started Victor.

  “Shut up,” interrupted Anatoly. “As long as you’re with me, you do what I tell you to do and nothing more. If you burn a car, it sticks out. You might as well rent a billboard and tell every law enforcement agency within fifty miles that somebody’s destroying evidence. Use your head.”

  Victor bristled at Anatoly’s stare. He swallowed.

  “Sorry.”

  Anatoly shifted his weight and slipped his wedding ring on and off his finger. They should have heard from Sasha, the third man in their team, but they hadn’t. His end of the job was easy. Take the girl from her house, get to a safe spot and call them. She lived alone, so there shouldn’t have been much resistance.

  If Sasha was dead, it’d be Victor’s fault, a fact which did nothing but add heat to his already simmering temper. They had all seen Dr. Carter’s picture, so they all knew what she looked like. Victor should have grabbed her when he had the chance in Dr. Byram’s office; instead, he knocked her out with the chloroform he was supposed to use on Dr. Byram. That was at least twice now that Victor had made a mistake, and this time it had probably gotten one of Anatoly’s oldest friends killed. If he didn’t need him, Victor would have already been dead.

  The police radio buzzed a constant stream of meaningless chatter. Anatoly breathed heavily and looked out the window. His breath frosted the glass.

  “If I ever tell you to get rid of a car, take it to the long–term parking lot of a major airport. Wipe it down and go. Nobody will even notice it for a month.”

  Talking took the edge off some, but not much.

  “If someone’s in the trunk, don’t take it to the airport. The smell attracts attention. Go to the nearest city and leave it in the worst neighborhood you can find. Wipe it down, park it and leave the keys inside. Let somebody else clean up after you.”

  Victor acted as if he hadn’t heard him. He leaned forward and twisted a knob on his police radio. The volume increased.

  “I repeat. Officer requires immediate assistance. I have a suspect down. I need backup and ambulance service to 314 Broadway. . .”

  Neither man reacted verbally for a moment.

  “Christ,” said Anatoly, squeezing his door handle. It was Dr. Carter’s address, confirming his suspicion. It was the last job of his career and his first ever failure. His muscles tightened, and his nostrils flared. Victor’s eyes were wide and his breath shallow.

  “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean for this to happen. This job isn’t for me. I’m done. I’ll walk away now, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  Anatoly ground his teeth.

  “The only way you’re getting out is if I put you in a casket,” said Anatoly, pulling a cheap prepaid cell phone from his pocket. He had bought a pair of them in a gas station in Chicago and given one to his employer. When the job was over, both would go in the trash. Anatoly called his phone’s twin and waited through two rings before someone picked up.

  “Dr. Byram’s dead and Dr. Carter escaped. Sasha’s dead, too.”

  There was a pause. Anatoly held his breath.

  “Just get me the girl. I don’t care what you have to do.”

  The line went dead. Anatoly flexed his fingers. His retirement couldn’t come soon enough. He turned off his phone and reached into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. Life under the Soviets had been hard. There were constant bread shortages and enormous lines for basic provisions. There had always been enough cigarettes and vodka, though. He took a cigarette out of the pack, lit it and put it to his lips. The unfiltered smoke calmed him and helped him think straight.

  “We finish this job tonight. We go together from now on. We’ll put your badge to use.”

  Saturday, September 14. 4:24 a.m

  Bluffdale, OH.

  Trent sat on a step in front of Renee’s house, watching as various crime scene technicians scurried about the yard. One of Sheriff Amerson’s deputies had already taken his firearm, leaving him defenseless. That was okay, though; he didn’t need a gun for the moment.

  If his department followed procedure, he’d go before a review board consisting of State Police captains and lieutenants, and they’d decide whether his use of deadly force had been necessary. Given the circumstances of the shooting, it was a formality, but the department’s lawyers were big on formality and procedures. Captain Reil, his new boss, would likely assign him to a desk job in the meantime.

  He rubbed his eyes, yawning. The County Coroner had a thirty mile drive, so he hadn’t arrived at the scene yet. Like a lot of small municipalities, Bluffdale shared a coroner with several surrounding towns to keep expenses low. It usually worked well; with two murders in Bluffdale already, though, the coroner’s staff was probably going to be backed up for a few days. On the plus side, it was cold enough that at least the body wouldn’t start rotting anytime soon.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as blood rocketed through his system, giving him a pounding headache. He hadn’t shot anyone since being honorably discharged from the military. Movies and television made it seem glamorous to shoot someone in the line of duty, but it wasn’t. It was one of the hardest things a person could do.

  He stayed like that for
a few minutes, but, eventually, someone cleared his throat nearby, catching Trent’s attention. He opened his eyes. Sheriff Amerson stood a few feet away, watching as the officers he supervised scurried about the yard, creating deep mud trenches.

  “I was glad to hear you were okay,” said Amerson.

  “Yeah, me, too,” said Trent. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I was just sort of wondering something,” said Amerson, his voice slow and thick with worry. “Do you think SIU will send somebody else down, or are we…”

  His voice trailed below the point where Trent could hear. The steady stream of foot traffic had torn up any grass Renee had, leaving a mud field in its wake. Sheriff Amerson stood ankle deep in the muck. If he stayed much longer, he was likely to lose his shoes in the wet clay soil.

  “SIU will send somebody. We’re not going to leave you alone on this.”

  Amerson’s shoulders sagged.

  “Good,” he said. He smiled and brought his hand across his forehead as if he were wiping away sweat. “We can handle a lot of things on our own, but we don’t have the training for this.”

  Trent nodded.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Before you became the interim sheriff, what’d you do?”

  “I was a detective for about twenty years in Cincinnati. Financial services,” he added quickly. “I’m a CPA by training, so I never did much field work. Bosses said I was too valuable.”

  Valuable probably wasn’t the first adjective that had entered his boss’s mind, but Trent didn’t say anything. The story proved what he had already thought; Amerson was well–meaning but so far over his head that he didn’t even see the mess he had stepped into. Hopefully he’d have help soon.

  Trent stood and wished the sheriff a good night before walking to his car. Renee was in the front seat, her eyes closed. There was a pile of vomit on the asphalt beside the passenger’s door.

  At least she made it outside.

  He opened the driver’s door and sat down. Renee leaned her forehead against the passenger’s window, her skin pale and her makeup smeared.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  He knew it was a stupid question, but it seemed appropriate given the situation. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Trent reached into his pocket and took out a blue linen handkerchief.

  “Your mascara has run.”

  Renee took the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, smearing makeup on the fabric. She blinked before sitting straighter.

  “Thank you, Detective Schaefer.”

  “You can call me Trent.”

  “Thank you then, Trent. What do we do now?”

  Officially, Renee was supposed to wait in Bluffdale’s police station until one of SIU’s organized crime experts could drive in from Cleveland. That’d be at least a couple of hours, though, and a lot could go wrong in a couple of hours. Especially when her brave protector, Sheriff Amerson, was more skilled with a pocket calculator than a firearm.

  “We’ll wait at the station together for someone from my unit to come down. She’ll be able to take care of you.”

  Renee’s face softened. She leaned her head back against the seat.

  “That sounds fine.”

  Saturday, September 14. 4:29 a.m

  Bluffdale, OH.

  Renee wished she had a blanket. It was a silly wish, all things considered, but she couldn’t stop herself from making it. It would give her something to hide behind. Aside from a dorm room in college and an efficiency apartment in graduate school, her house was the only place in the world where she had stayed for more than three months at a time. It was her home, and she had felt safe there. Now that feeling of safety was gone, leaving a dull angst gnawing at her insides.

  Despite the loss, she was glad to be leaving. The lights had roused her neighbors, and several had already come out to make sure she was okay. One neighbor had even brought her a paper plate with Oreo cookies on it. It was a sweet gesture, but Renee didn’t need or want anyone’s pity. She was an adult; she’d handle things on her own.

  “Before we go to your station, can we stop and get something to drink?” she asked.

  Her throat was scratchy, and she still had the astringent taste of vomit in her mouth. At least no one had seen her puke. Mrs. Melnits, the elderly woman next door, would probably have demanded to hold her hand if she had.

  “We’ll find something at the station,” said Trent. “I’d like to get you inside as soon as we can.”

  Renee looked out the window as Trent started the car. Within moments, they were traversing a residential neighborhood full of older homes, most of which had peeling paint, unkempt lawns and rusted chain–link fences. Her modest house fit in quite well. She stared at the side–view mirror for a moment, watching as the police lights outside her house became a distant speck amidst an ocean of night.

  “Please. I’ve had a bad night. Can we just stop at a gas station so I can buy a bottle of water?”

  Trent looked over. There was surprising warmth in his eyes.

  “How about a compromise?” he said. “I saw a drive–through on my way in. Is that okay?”

  She nodded. Trent was evidently a man who liked compromise. She rubbed her brow. The only drive–through he would have seen on his way into town was Jimmy’s All–Night Diner. Her students loved it. They’d deep–fry just about anything if asked. Twinkies were especially popular, but Jimmy’s would also deep–fry hamburgers, macaroni and cheese, and pretty much whatever else they had on hand. Renee rarely went in because she always came out smelling like she had just bathed in lard. Still, it was better than nothing.

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  At that time of morning, Trent’s cruiser was the only car on the road, allowing him to make a drive in five minutes that would have taken twenty if they had gone a few hours later. At one time, Bluffdale had been a thriving port on the Ohio River; one of the professors in the history department had even written a book describing its central place in the illicit transport of alcohol during prohibition.

  That river trade had long since dried up, but the historic homes it once supported still stood. Most were dilapidated structures held together by duct tape and a prayer, but some were nice. When she was a little girl, she had dreamed of living in an old house with her dad. They’d each have their own bedrooms, and they’d be safe. Her father had passed away since then, but the dream never faded.

  “That one’s mine,” said Renee. She pointed to a two–story Victorian as they passed. Weeds covered most of the first floor, and the second listed to the left. The local Catholic diocese had sold her the house for five thousand dollars two years earlier. The contractor she hired to inspect it said the nuns had ripped her off, but she loved it. When she had enough money, she was going to restore it even if she had to do the work herself.

  Trent coughed.

  “It’s lovely,” he said.

  He didn’t really think it was lovely, but she didn’t care. No one else needed to understand it.

  They pulled to a stop a few silent minutes later in the diner’s parking lot. Jimmy’s had expanded over the years, and the building had turned into a ramshackle construct of rusted aluminum siding, brick and cheap vinyl; she thought the hodgepodge architecture fitting for the food they served.

  As soon as Trent opened his window, the scent of grease, frying meat and freshly baked biscuits wafted inside. The restaurant was evidently preparing for the breakfast rush. Since she and Trent were the only people in the drive–through, they were back on the street quickly after ordering her Coke and his mango–coconut cream milkshake.

  “I hear that shake’s good with Malibu Rum,” she said after taking a long pull on her soda. She felt more comfortable with the vomit taste washed out of her mouth. “I overheard some frat boys call it a panty–dropper.”

  Trent took a sip and nodded.

  “I’ll remember that in case I eve
r try to pick up college girls in Bluffdale.”

  Renee returned to staring out the window, saying nothing. They arrived at the police station without seeing more than two or three cars on the road, which was okay by her. She was tired of seeing other people for the moment. As soon as he turned off the car, Trent unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed a thick, black flashlight from beneath his seat.

  “Do you mind waiting in the car for a minute?” he asked. “I need to see something.”

  “Sure,” said Renee, her eyebrows furrowed. Whatever Trent was doing, he didn’t elaborate for her benefit. He left his milkshake in the car and turned the flashlight’s beam on as he stepped outside. It was still night for another few hours, and the yard around the station was dark enough that she couldn’t see the landscaping. Trent flashed his light around the yard, illuminating trees, a few scraggly bushes and mud that looked as thick as peanut butter fudge. She followed him with her eyes, but lost track of him as he turned the corner, disappearing into the night.

  With Trent gone, Renee locked the doors and slouched so she wouldn’t be as easy to see from the street. It was probably a silly reaction, being so close to the police station, but having a locked door took the edge off her angst some. When Trent came back a few minutes later, he knocked on the window, a small crescent of a smile on his lips. She opened the door and stepped out.

  “Can’t be too careful,” he said.

  Renee shot her eyes to the rear of the station.

  “What were you doing back there?”

  “Just making sure we were alone,” he said. “After what’s already happened tonight, I feel a little paranoid. It’s cold out here, so let’s go inside.”

  Renee grabbed her soda and Trent’s milkshake from the center console.

  “A little paranoia’s not always such a bad thing,” she said, straightening. Trent unlocked the station’s front door, and they were back inside a second after that. The lobby was as they had left it: dull and lifeless. Despite everything that had gone on that evening, the sheriff had evidently decided not to call his support staff into work early because the front desk was unmanned. Renee sat down on the nearest chair in the waiting room and put the drinks beside her while Trent rooted through the drawers on the front desk. On his third drawer, he pulled out a remote control and hit a button, causing the flat–screen television mounted in the far corner of the room to spring to life.