“I’m going to get a drink.”
“Okay,” said Trent, knowing that nothing he said would change the situation. As soon as Renee left, he took out his cell phone and dialed his new boss’s home number. The extension rang twice before someone picked up.
“This is Detective Trent Schaefer. I’m looking for Bill Reil.”
“He’s been waiting for your call.”
The voice on the other end of the line was groggy and feminine. It was probably Bill’s wife or teenage daughter. Whoever she was, she dropped the phone and walked off, presumably to find Bill. He picked up a moment later.
“Trent, I’m glad you called. Where are you?”
Bill’s voice was deep and rich, an incongruity that belied his five–foot–six stature. Trent hadn’t expected the question, so he paused. A semitrailer roared behind them, spitting exhaust fumes as it passed. He shifted in his seat.
“I’m at a truck stop off of I–275 near Cincinnati. Just north of exit 49.”
It was about an hour away from their current location, maybe less depending on traffic. Trent knew that he was probably being paranoid, but Bill shouldn’t have been expecting a phone call, and he shouldn’t have been interested in where they were.
“Good,” said Bill. “Highway Patrol has been tracking you, but I’ll give them the heads–up that you’ve stopped. They should be there within a few minutes. I’m glad you’re coming in.”
Coming in?
“Why have they been tracking me?” asked Trent.
“Just stay put. We’ll get this sorted out, Detective.”
“Get what sorted out?” asked Trent, his voice hard.
Bill sighed.
“I had hoped to do this in person, but why don’t you tell me? You nearly got a woman killed last night and only survived by shooting her assailant. Your judgment was poor, but I was going to let you slide with a reprimand. Then I got a call telling me Sheriff Amerson’s dead. Worse, we have witnesses who reported seeing you and a murder suspect leave the station together right after hearing gunshots.”
Trent sighed heavily.
“I didn’t kill the sheriff. I don’t even have a firearm; it was confiscated last night.”
“Good. When you come in, you’ll be able to tell that to our investigators and get this sorted out.”
“And what about Dr. Carter?”
“We’ll take her into custody,” he said. “If she’s innocent, I’m sure we’ll clear her quickly.”
Trent looked over his shoulder at the rest stop’s bathroom complex to see if he could see Renee, but she must have been inside.
“And what if the FBI requests that we transfer her to their custody?”
Bill paused before answering.
“They have a strong track record of keeping witnesses safe,” he said. “I have assurances that Dr. Carter will be fine.”
Trent almost swore.
“Who at the FBI did you speak to?”
“It doesn’t matter, Trent—”
“It does matter,” interrupted Trent. “Who did you speak to?”
Bill paused again.
“Special Agent Victor Stiles.”
Trent closed his eyes and counted to ten, collecting his thoughts. Stiles was moving faster than he had anticipated.
“If I come in, Dr. Carter is dead. I’ll handle this on my own.”
“Trent, please—”
He turned off his cell phone before his boss could respond. It was time to improvise. He climbed out of his car and jogged toward the welcome center. Renee sat alone at one of the picnic tables beside it, drinking a soda. She halfheartedly waved at him, and Trent nodded a grim–faced greeting in return, scanning the horizon. The car–only parking lot was fuller than it had been when they arrived, but he couldn’t see anyone from the Highway Patrol yet.
“We’re in trouble,” he said. “Agent Stiles already contacted my boss. If I take you in, you’ll be transferred to his custody immediately.”
Renee’s shoulders dropped.
“What do we do then?”
Trent shrugged.
“We’ll figure it out as we go,” he said, scanning the rest area’s parking lot for activity. Even early in the morning, it was a busy place with a constant stream of traffic in and out. He was about to suggest that they use the rest room and head out when he saw a familiar hunter–green Crown Victoria pulling into the parking lot. He swallowed. Highway Patrol was evidently not the only law enforcement agency with access to his cruiser’s GPS information. He put his hand on Renee’s arm and pulled her up.
“We’ve got to get out of here. Our friends from Bluffdale just pulled into the lot.”
Saturday, September 14. 6:43 a.m
I–70 South.
Renee’s breath caught in her throat as every muscle in her body went rigid. They shouldn’t have stopped.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
“Hide,” said Trent, already starting toward their car. The walk from Trent’s cruiser to the welcome center hadn’t seemed very far earlier, but now she suddenly felt as if she had to cross a minefield. A very long minefield with little hope of reaching the end alive. Her shoes grated against the asphalt like sandpaper, and she was sure every sound she made was somehow amplified in the early morning air.
“How did they find us?” she whispered.
“They tracked my car,” said Trent, also whispering. “It has a GPS transmitter in the radio so a dispatcher can coordinate incident responses.”
Renee’s heart beat so hard that she was only able to catch about half of what Trent had said over the roar of blood in her ears.
“If we can’t take your car, what do we do, then?” she asked, her voice cracking near the end.
“I saw a horse trailer on the way in,” said Trent. “We can hide inside until this blows over.”
It seemed like a sound plan if they could pull it off without being seen. That was a big if, though, in such a busy area. Her insides twisted as she glanced over her shoulder. The welcome center was about a hundred yards behind them, a twelve–second sprint for a decent athlete. It was probably also well within range for a modern handgun. She took a deep breath, hoping to calm herself, and continued walking.
Trent reached the row of semitrailers first. In her day–to–day life, Renee didn’t have much experience being around such massive machines. Their big diesel engines rumbled the ground around them, spewing exhaust and partially blocking the morning light. More important than that, as soon as she stepped between them, she couldn’t see the welcome center anymore and no one at the welcome center could see her. She breathed a little easier then.
Trent walked down the aisle between a pair of trucks as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He might as well have been a man picking up his morning paper for all the concern he outwardly projected. Renee didn’t know how he managed to do that. Every part of her body screamed that she should run and keep running until she reached safety.
She breathed in and out of her nose, trying to calm herself enough to saunter gently. The results were less than stellar; her legs were tight and her chest felt constricted, but at least she managed to keep herself from sprinting.
The morning felt uncomfortably bright by the time they reached the end of the aisle. Renee shot her eyes around the area. An older man walked a dog around the perimeter of the parking lot; he peered at them quizzically, but didn’t say anything. Trent leaned back into her and whispered that she was doing well. She didn’t feel like she was, but she thanked him anyway.
The horse trailer was just a few aisles to her left. Since they were out of sight of anyone at the welcome center, there didn’t seem to be much point in holding back anymore. They jogged toward the rear of the silver vehicle and down its side. Two horses neighed and pawed the ground as if showing their disapproval of the potential stowaways, rocking the aluminum structure on its axles slightly. No one came running.
Thank you,
Lord, for small favors.
Renee’s heart beat hard as Trent opened a small door that led to a storage area in front of the horses’ compartment. They slipped inside, and Trent shut the door so gently that she couldn’t even hear the metal latch slide into place. The storage room was the size of a large walk–in closet. There were no overhead lights, but small, smoked–glass panels near the ceiling allowed enough light through that she could see two bales of hay lashed to a wall and cowboy boots scattered across the floor. Four leather saddles hung neatly on hooks opposite the door.
“I don’t think anyone saw us,” said Trent. He leaned against the hay bales, breathing heavily. Renee pressed her back against the wall beside the door and allowed gravity to pull her down. Her muscles felt spent, and a gnawing exhaustion clawed at her consciousness. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep until everything was over.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
Trent opened his mouth to say something but stopped and held a finger to his lips before speaking. The horses were acting up again, shaking the trailer. She held her breath until she heard a raspy voice with a thick, southern drawl.
“Easy, girl.”
The speaker wasn’t the Russian or the FBI agent, but he didn’t have to be to cause them serious trouble.
Please go on, please go on, please go on.
She silently repeated the mantra, willing the man to continue his walk. When the pickup truck pulling the trailer roared to life, she felt tears well up in the corner of her eyes. They jolted forward a moment later, and she leaned her head back, feeling her muscles relax for what seemed like the first time in hours.
Neither she nor Trent spoke again for a few minutes. Renee’s heart eventually slowed as the truck accelerated toward the highway. She had no idea where they were going, but neither did her pursuers. That was an okay compromise.
“I feel like I could sleep for a week,” she said.
Trent grunted his agreement, his eyes closed as he leaned against the hay bale. Eventually, he opened his eyes and shifted his weight from one hip to the other.
“Did you catch this guy’s license plate?”
Renee shook her head no, and Trent grunted again.
“I’m crossing my fingers in the hope that we’re headed to New Mexico, then,” he said. “I’ve always liked New Mexico.”
Renee chuckled and looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together nervously.
“So what happened with your boss?”
Trent shrugged.
“Special Agent Stiles contacted him before I did. If I brought you in, Stiles would take you into custody. I didn’t want to let that happen.”
“Thank you,” said Renee. “What do we do now?”
Trent shrugged.
“Hitch a ride as long as we can and then figure it out from wherever we stop.”
Renee nodded, trying to talk her way through the situation.
“What if we had my paper? Would your boss still turn me over?”
Trent started and stopped speaking before settling on what he wanted to say.
“If we handled it right, it’d make him listen to us,” he said. “At the very least, it would slow down the process and buy you some time to get a lawyer who could fight the transfer.”
“That’s what I want to do, then,” she said. “I can’t run like this forever.”
Trent closed his eyes and leaned back again, looking like he was about to drift off to sleep.
“Just to settle my curiosity,” he said. “Who else knew about your paper? Someone leaked it.”
Renee shrugged even though Trent wasn’t watching her.
“Not many people,” she said. “Me, Mitch, a couple of editors. Nobody who would sell us out.”
“One of them did,” said Trent. “Any idea who?”
Renee looked at her feet and sighed. She almost felt naive.
“An editor at The Washington Post warned us not to publish it until we talked to him in person, but that was the only weird response we got. Mitch said he had probably looked me up on the Internet and thought I looked cute.”
Trent nodded and opened his eyes.
“We’ll call him Plan B, then. We’ll call him if we have free time. He might know something,” he said. “In the meantime, where can we get your paper?”
“The paper is on the Internet, but it’s nothing without the hand–history database,” she said. “And that’s only on my laptop, which was in Mitch’s office. That’s why I was going there last night.”
“Is there any way we can recreate the data?”
Renee paused for a moment, thinking. There was no way around it, though. They were screwed. Her shoulders slumped.
“It took eight hundred computers and six months to build that database. There’s no way to rebuild it.”
Trent smiled weakly, but it never reached his eyes.
“I don’t suppose you have some sort of weird, psychic connection to your laptop that would allow us to find it.”
She paused again.
“No, but it’s school property,” she said, speaking slowly. “A couple of professors have had laptops stolen, so our IT department buys them with a tracking system built into them. If my laptop is powered up within range of a wireless network, it will contact a web server with its location.”
“And you have access to this server?”
“Yeah,” said Renee. “I just have to log onto a website.”
“Maybe we’re not dead after all.”
That’s hardly comforting.
Renee kept the thought to herself. She felt better with some sort of a plan, even if it wasn’t much. Her legs felt stronger, too. She stood and looked out the window. At first glance, the window looked frosted, but in fact it was just filthy. She spit on her fingers and used them to wipe away the grime, exposing a rapidly shifting landscape of flat farmland.
“You see anything?” asked Trent.
Renee turned around and slid back down the wall.
“Nothing worth seeing,” she said. They once again lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Renee pulled her knees to her chest and leaned forward. “My dad played poker. That’s how I got into it.”
“I’m sorry?” said Trent.
“You asked earlier how I got into poker,” she said, unsure why she felt the compulsion to speak. It was probably shock. “My dad played professionally. I grew up following him from casino to casino.”
Trent nodded slowly.
“Was he any good?”
Renee tilted her head to the side.
“He thought he was,” she said. “We lived out of a car for most of my childhood, though. You can form your own judgment.”
“Where was your mom?”
“Probably filling somebody’s drink somewhere,” she said. “She was just a cocktail waitress my dad hooked up with after his one big win. She took everything he won and left me in the hospital after I was born. She didn’t even come to his funeral.”
“I’m sorry,” said Trent.
Renee didn’t blink.
“She was a bitch,” she said. “We were better off without her.”
Trent didn’t ask any more questions, so Renee didn’t say anything else. The silence wasn’t quite as awkward this time, though. The trailer slowed about two hours later and pulled off on a wide, looping exit. She stood and looked through the window she had cleared earlier, hoping she would recognize the landscape, but they might as well have been in a foreign country. Nothing looked familiar. Trent stood beside her.
“You know where we are?” she asked.
“Somewhere near Zanesville if we kept going east. If we got turned around, we could be near Louisville or Indianapolis. As long as we’re not getting shot at, I don’t care.”
That was one sentiment Renee agreed with.
Saturday, September 14. 6:55 a.m
I–70 South.
Anatoly sat on the hood of Detective Schaefer’s car and crossed his arms, st
aring into space. The engine beneath him was still warm. He felt every one of his sixty–six years. His knees throbbed, his hips ached, and he was exhausted. After forty years of work, he was smart enough to know when to quit. Dr. Carter and the detective had escaped, and this time, only one person, an old man walking his dog, admitted to seeing them. He claimed not to have seen where they went.
Anatoly took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his employer’s number. The phone rang once before Gregori picked up.
“They’re gone. We don’t know where they went.”
“Christ. I gave you a simple job. Bring me two professors. I even gave you help, a goddamn FBI agent, and you still fucked up.”
Anatoly waited a moment for him to say something else.
“Are you done whining?” he asked.
“Are you done whining?” asked Gregori, his voice high and angry. “Who do you think you are? You may have been my father’s friend, but you’re nothing to me, old man. Nothing.”
“Goodbye, Gregori.”
He ended the call and put the phone in his pocket. It immediately started vibrating, but Anatoly ignored it. His career was over. Gregori was a boy king who had inherited a legacy he neither understood nor deserved. Gregori’s father, Arman, spent his entire life building a business. Gregori had never lived on the street, had never been on a job. He didn’t understand the world his father came from, and Anatoly didn’t have the patience to teach him.
Victor stepped in front of Anatoly, a confused look on his face.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“You’re on your own,” said Anatoly. He stood, his overcoat flapping around as a cold wind whipped through the line of semis like a wind tunnel. Victor’s mouth fell open, but Anatoly ignored it. He walked back to their car. “Drive me back to Chicago. I’m going home.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” asked Victor, his hands outstretched.
“You’re an FBI agent. Figure it out.”
Victor stopped moving and put his hands on his hips as his eyebrows lowered. Anger was a good emotion when channeled correctly. It helped people do things they might otherwise not do. If Victor was angry at a target, he’d chase him harder, follow him closer. It was good to see him angry.
Just Run Page 7
