Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  “I would, but it was body–free,” he said. “Not even our luck’s that bad.”

  “Good,” said Renee, nodding slowly. She gently put her hand on his upper arm and squeezed. “You can stay up as long as you want, but I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

  “Okay,” said Trent. “I’m going to use the restroom, but I’ll join you in a bit.”

  She smiled at him before getting back into the car. Trent stayed outside for a moment. He had a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he still had work to do.

  The welcome center was a small brick building with brown, asphalt shingles that were probably supposed to look as if they were wood. They didn’t. He walked around the building twice, noting surveillance cameras on two exterior corners. One pointed toward picnic tables while the other pointed toward the welcome center’s front door. He’d be recorded going in, but he could live with that. Chances were high that nobody would look at the film, anyway.

  He pulled open the door and stepped inside. He and Renee didn’t have much going for them at the moment, so they couldn’t afford to squander the few resources they had. If he could trust it, the thirty–eight he found could be a nice asset. Instead of going to the men’s room, Trent stopped outside the janitor’s closet. The janitor’s door was steel, so there was little chance he could just break it down. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to.

  Trent fished his key chain out of his pocket and grabbed his bump key. A modern pin–tumbler lock is made of a series of spring–loaded pinstacks. When someone inserts the right key, the tops of the pinstacks are pushed out of the lock’s cylinder, allowing someone to unlock the door. A bump key works by vibrating those spring–loaded pinstacks just enough to make them jump out of the cylinder for a split second. It takes some practice, but over the years, Trent had plenty.

  He put his bump key in the lock before grabbing the wooden doorstop that usually held the men’s room door open. He smacked the piece of wood against his key a few times. Within about a second and a half, the lock turned as easily as if he had the actual key.

  The janitor’s closet was small, maybe six feet on a side. It had unadorned cinder–block walls and utilitarian steel shelves holding supplies. He pulled the door shut behind him and locked in an almost overpowering chemical odor. The room’s only light spilled through the crack beneath the door and slits in a ventilation duct, but that was enough.

  Trent took out the revolver and looked at the shelves for a solvent. The options were slim, but he found a bottle of an industrial cleaner that was supposed to be able to eat gum from concrete; it wasn’t ideal, but it ought to work. He flipped open the firearm’s chamber and ejected the rounds before opening the cap on the solvent bottle. It smelled like cheap aftershave and pine. His head swam for a moment as the chemicals reached his brain.

  It took a while, and he used half a roll of paper towels to do it, but he cleaned the gun as thoroughly as his tools allowed. The action was smoother, and the trigger didn’t feel like it would stick. It wasn’t the best gun in the world, but he was reasonably sure it would fire. That may not be enough, though.

  He rooted around in the janitor’s tool set until he came across a wire brush, the bristles of which were coated with black char. The janitor probably used it to clean the barbecue grills near the picnic tables. If it was anything like the brush he used to clean his grill at home, the bristles were hard and sharp enough to scratch metal. It ought to work for his purpose.

  He put the butt of the gun in one hand and jammed the brush into its gullet with the other. The bristles bit into the hardened steel, hopefully scouring and obscuring the striations inside the barrel. He may not have known what that gun was used for, but its owner wouldn’t have hidden it in the trunk of the car without reason. Changing the striations in the barrel wouldn’t make it impossible for a forensics lab to match a bullet fragment to the gun, but it’d make a match more difficult. The last thing he and Renee needed was another reason for the police to hold them, especially for a gun that wasn’t even theirs.

  Trent put the rounds back in the chamber and looked around the supply closet to see if he could find anything else helpful. He hesitated at first, but then he grabbed a number of latex gloves from a box on one of the shelves and stuffed them into his pockets. None of his near–future plans included breaking in anywhere, but that could change quickly. He’d rather be prepared than not.

  With his pockets full, Trent locked the closet door as he left and used the restroom before going back to the car. He had been inside for ten minutes, a reasonable amount of time to use the restroom. Renee was starting to get paranoid, something he was going to have to be mindful of when he did similar things in the future. He didn’t want to keep things from her, but he also didn’t want her to worry more than was necessary. If he could keep her from freaking out, it would help them both.

  When he got back to the car, her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell in a deep, slow rhythm. She had left his soda and half a package of sticky buns on the hood of their car. He grabbed both with one hand and opened the door as slowly and quietly as he could. Renee stirred but didn’t wake up.

  It had been a long day. He leaned his head against the headrest behind him and sighed silently. With their back window broken, there was no point locking the doors. He shut his eyes and crossed his arms for warmth. He was out as soon as he closed his eyes.

  Renee wasn’t in the car when he woke up. He shot upright, his head pounding and his back aching. Birds flocked around a feeder beside the welcome center, and the sun was rising in the distance. It was probably about seven in the morning, and his skin felt cold and clammy. Beads of moisture clung to the fabric of his jacket. He cast his eyes around the building and felt his shoulders relax when he saw Renee at a picnic table beside the vending machines.

  Trent leaned his head back and brushed water off his arms. He shivered as he opened the door. Renee waved at him.

  “Morning,” she said as he walked over. “I thought I’d let you sleep for a little while. You looked as if you needed it.”

  Trent nodded and scanned the welcome center. He saw a minivan and a late–model Pontiac in the car–only lot, while the lot for semis was still nearly full. Several long–haul truckers stood chatting in front of their rigs, the occasional coffee mug in hand. No one paid them any attention, and no one seemed like much of a threat. He rubbed his arms.

  “How about some breakfast?” he asked. “West Lafayette is just up the road. It’s a college town, so it ought to have a Denny’s or Waffle House or something like that.”

  Renee’s eyes focused on some point beyond his shoulder. She scrunched her eyes as if she were thinking.

  “I guess I didn’t need to show that trucker my boobs for a Snickers bar this morning, after all.”

  Trent thought she was kidding, but he looked at the table behind her for an empty wrapper. There wasn’t one.

  “I found some money in the trunk of the car,” he said. “I’ll buy you some pancakes. You don’t even have to take off your shirt.”

  “Wow. You’re a real gentleman.”

  Sunday, September 15. 8:05 a.m

  Chicago, IL.

  Victor and Anatoly stayed in separate hotel rooms in downtown Chicago and met at a diner in the River East neighborhood. It was a good place to get breakfast; the food was good, the prices reasonable. More important than that, the dining room was relatively small and narrow, creating isolated corners in which they could talk without interruption or fear of being overheard.

  Anatoly stirred cream into his coffee and looked at Victor. The FBI agent looked wired. His eyes were tinged with red, his pupils were dilated, and his movements were jerky.

  “Tell me something,” said Anatoly, taking the spoon from his coffee and laying it on the table. “Did Gregori know you were on drugs when he hired you?”

  Victor’s eyebrows narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. Anatoly sipped his coffee.

  �
�I don’t have an issue with it unless it interferes with our job,” said Anatoly, continuing. “And if that happens, I’ll put a bullet in your back, solving both our problems.”

  Victor leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his gaze narrow.

  “You do that, and you’ll be shooting a federal officer. I wouldn’t make threats unless you were prepared to see them through, Mr. Levitsky.”

  “You may have a badge, but you’re not much of an officer, and I think you know that,” said Anatoly. “Besides, I’m old enough that I don’t particularly care about my future.”

  Anatoly stared at Victor until the younger man turned his gaze away.

  “Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. “What are we doing now?”

  Anatoly sipped his coffee. The cup was thick stoneware that held the heat well.

  “Did you get Detective Schaefer’s file?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Victor, already reaching below the table for his briefcase. He came back up holding a manila file folder. He slid it across the table toward Anatoly. “Here’s what I could get.”

  Anatoly put his coffee cup down and opened the folder. It was thin and held maybe ten pages of text. He glanced up.

  “Is this everything?” he asked.

  Victor nodded.

  “So far,” said Victor. “According to the notes, Schaefer transferred from the Pennsylvania State Police last week. It was some sort of special order from the Attorney General’s office, so he didn’t have the usual paperwork. Dr. Byram’s death was his first job. I’m still waiting on his file from Pennsylvania.”

  “Dr. Byram was murdered,” said Anatoly. “You did it. Say it. Own it.”

  Victor didn’t respond for a moment, but Anatoly saw his shoulders rise as he breathed.

  “Dr. Byram’s murder was Schaefer’s first job.”

  “Better,” said Anatoly. He glanced up but quickly looked back to his paper. Victor’s skin was slightly ashen, and there were beads of perspiration on his brow. Probably side effects of whatever drugs he had taken. The FBI agent was turning into a problem. Inexperience is one thing, but hesitation and a reluctance to accept a job’s requirements were quite another. Killing someone was like changing the oil on a car. No one wants to do it, but sometimes it’s necessary.

  Anatoly swallowed his annoyance along with a swig of coffee.

  “Does Schaefer have any family?” he asked.

  “None that we can find yet,” he said. “He rented a townhouse outside Cincinnati about a week ago. Paid the deposit in cash. I called the landlord yesterday, and he said Schaefer lives alone and left the emergency contact portion of the lease blank.”

  “Prior employment?” asked Anatoly, his eyebrow raised.

  “Nothing’s listed,” said Victor. “Like I said, it’s only a partial file. Someone’s supposed to fax me his full Pennsylvania file this afternoon.”

  Anatoly took another sip of coffee.

  “How are the police approaching this?”

  “Dr. Carter and Detective Schaefer are still considered suspects in Amerson’s death,” he said. “Their pictures have been distributed to most major departments in the Midwest. Every officer within five hundred miles has seen their faces.”

  Anatoly nodded, satisfied.

  “Good. They’ll show up again. In the meantime, we head to DC. They went to Chicago looking for Dr. Carter’s laptop. They found it once. They’ll find it again.”

  “It’s probably got a LoJack system in it,” said Victor. “Bureau laptops have the same thing. If it’s reported stolen, it calls home and tells a dispatcher where it is.”

  “We can use that. Let them come to us,” said Anatoly. He sipped his coffee. “If you stay sober until we find them, I won’t let Gregori kill you when we’re done.”

  Sunday, September 15. 11:43 a.m

  I–70 East.

  Trent and Renee had breakfast at an IHOP in West Lafayette, Indiana and were back on the road shortly after that. Within hours, the car they had stolen was bucking and throbbing like a horse too tired to run. She wasn’t a mechanic, but she doubted that was a good sign.

  “How are we on gas?” she asked eventually.

  “Not a clue,” said Trent. “None of the gauges on the dash work.”

  They had already filled the tank once near Indianapolis, and it had cost them nearly forty bucks. Thankfully, Trent claimed to have found money in the trunk, so they didn’t have to drive off without paying. Normally, Renee was glad to find money in strange places, but money found in the back of a stolen car made her uneasy. Even though Trent denied it, she was almost sure he had found something else back there, too. It almost made her feel sick.

  “You think this car will make it to DC?”

  Trent shook his head.

  “I’m amazed it’s made it this far,” he said. “Don’t worry, though, I’ve got an idea to get a new one.”

  Renee didn’t say anything, waiting for Trent to continue with his plan.

  “Care to share that idea of yours, Wise One?” she asked. “Or are you planning to keep me in the dark again?”

  Trent glanced over, his eyebrows drawn together and his head tilted to the side. He spoke slowly, as if he were unsure of something.

  “I was thinking of picking up a car in the long–term parking lot at Dayton’s airport. Hopefully it won’t be reported stolen for a while.” He paused for a moment, glancing from the traffic in front of him to her and back. “Did I miss something?”

  She crossed her arms and stared forward, shaking her head slightly.

  “I have the feeling you miss a lot of things,” she said, under her breath. Trent either didn’t hear what she said or didn’t know what to say because he remained silent. He moved his arms slowly, and she could see him drum his fingers against the steering wheel. She even caught him peeking her way every few minutes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, eventually. “I’m not used to explaining myself.”

  “Well get used to it,” she said. “At least while I’m here. I’m not some stupid kid, I’m not a junior officer to order around, and I am not a suspect. And besides, even if I were, you’re not a cop anymore. Let’s be entirely honest here. As soon as this is over, you’ll probably be arrested. I’m tired of you holding things back.”

  “What have I held back?” asked Trent.

  Renee squeezed her hands into fists and ground her teeth.

  “What else did you find in the trunk? And don’t give me that bullshit story about just a sweatshirt.”

  Trent kept his eyes on the road this time.

  “A hundred and twelve dollars in cash, a thirty–eight caliber revolver, and a g–pack,” he said. He looked at her. “And one White Sox sweatshirt.”

  She nodded.

  “What’s a g–pack?” she asked. Trent paused before answering.

  “A thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine cut into fifty half–gram vials. I didn’t think you needed to know.”

  Renee swore under her breath. That was just great. Illegal weapons and cocaine.

  “I do need to know, jackass,” she said. “It’s one of my little quirks. I like to know when I’m transporting narcotics across state lines.”

  Renee stared out her window. They were about ten miles north of Dayton, but it was Sunday and traffic was still fairly light. Neither she nor Trent said anything until they pulled onto the exit heading to the Dayton International Airport.

  “Have you ever flown out of here?” he asked.

  Renee nodded.

  “Yeah. If we’re going to steal a car, go to the green lot. It’s the farthest from the terminal. And let’s try not to get shot at this time.”

  Trent didn’t respond, but he did take her suggestion to pull into the green lot. It was the size of a football field, and most of the spots were taken. Trent parked between an SUV and a truck near the exit. He looked at her, but didn’t say anything until she raised her eyebrows expectantly. />
  “What?” she asked.

  “We need to find an older car, preferably American because they’re easier to hot–wire, and preferably one with the ticket on the dashboard. The more recent the ticket the better,” he said. He paused. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the drugs earlier. I’ll try to tell you about things like that in the future.”

  “Good,” she said, grabbing her door handle. She stopped before stepping out. “A shuttle comes through the lot every few minutes. I’ve also seen security make the rounds.”

  Trent nodded.

  “We’ll be careful,” he said, opening his door. She climbed out after him and looked around as if seeing the parking lot for the first time. Cars stretched all the way to the airport terminal, and she could hear the roar of jet engines in the distance. It smelled like diesel exhaust, probably from one of the shuttle buses that buzzed around nearby lots. She couldn’t see security cameras, but that didn’t change anything. Security cameras or not, they still needed a new car, and they still needed to move fast.

  Trent immediately looked through the front window of the SUV beside them but shook his head and moved on to the next down the line. She did likewise on the cars on the other side of their row, stopping only long enough to peer through windows. After about thirty cars, she looked up. Trent was still across the aisle, still peering through windows. Eventually he looked over, and their eyes met. He shook his head, signaling that he hadn’t found anything.

  She kept walking and kept looking until she found a white Pontiac with rust stains near the bottom of the door. It fit their age criteria well, but the ticket on the dash was already four days old. Worse, they were only fifty feet from a cashier’s booth on the edge of the parking lot. She waved Trent over anyway and showed him what she had found. He wiped perspiration off his forehead and nodded.

  “It’ll work,” he said. “Stay here for a second. I’ll be back.”

  Trent jogged toward the cashier’s booth, but she lost sight of him amidst the living–room–sized SUVs. When he came back, he carried a wooden wedge that had probably been used to hold open a door.