Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  “And your fellow agents just let him waltz in?”

  Victor shook his head.

  “No, nothing like that,” he said. He leaned forward, resting his wrists on the car but keeping his palms toward Anatoly. “This place was secret. I didn’t even know about it, and I’ve got sources Hoover would have been jealous of. The FBI didn’t put guards on it because we didn’t think anybody would find it.”

  “But Schaefer did,” said Anatoly, trying to parse together what that fact meant. “What else do we know about him?”

  Victor shook his head.

  “My guys still haven’t gotten back to me with his file, but he’s just a cop. He shouldn’t have known about the safe house.”

  Anatoly opened the passenger’s door, shaking his head.

  “He’s not just a cop,” he said. “Use whatever sources you have, but we need to find out who he is and who he’s working for. I’m not interested in getting into a fight I can’t win.”

  Sunday, September 15. 6:13 p.m

  Somerset, PA.

  Renee pulled the Pontiac into a service plaza outside of a small town called Somerset. They were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, so there were tollbooths at every exit. It made getting on and off the Turnpike a pain in the ass, something she had learned an hour earlier when she tried to get gas. To make it a little easier on motorists, some innovative capitalist had decided to build service plazas every hundred miles or so. They were like rest stops on steroids. Most had several fast food restaurants, a coffee shop, gas station and a gift shop full of cheap knick–knacks. A few she had passed even had swing sets for kids.

  She parked between a pair of minivans in a lot that seemed to go on for acres. She stretched her arms above her head, feeling her joints loosen.

  “Time to get up, sleeping beauty,” she said, reaching across the car’s center console and roughly shaking Trent. His eyes shot open, and he jumped. She smiled at him. “Morning.”

  Trent looked around for a moment, but then he cast his eyes to her. He blinked and rubbed his temples as if he had a headache.

  “How long was I out?” he asked.

  “Maybe an hour and a half,” she said. “I think it’s time we talked.”

  Trent shook his head.

  “We need to get in touch with that reporter in DC before we do anything else,” he said. “If we’re close enough, we might even be able to see him tonight.”

  She wanted to argue, but the point made sense. If the reporter knew enough to warn her against publishing her paper, he might know enough to help them out. At the very least, he might be able to point them in a new direction. She ran her fingers over her nose and to the corner of her eyes, clearing away sleep that had accumulated.

  “Fine. I’ll make the call, but then you and I need to talk.”

  Trent opened the duffel bag he had procured from his friends and rooted through it until he pulled out the iPhone she had seen earlier. Since she didn’t have the reporter’s phone number on her, she opened a web browser and navigated to The Washington Post’s website. It took her a few minutes, but she eventually found the number for the staff switchboard and placed the call.

  The reporter, a guy named Brad Gibson, didn’t answer, so she left a message asking him to call her back. Hopefully he would. As soon as she was done, she put the phone in the center console and turned to Trent. Neither of them said anything for a moment. She closed her eyes before speaking.

  “I want to make one thing clear before I say anything else,” she said. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for me. Without you, I’d probably be on a mortician’s table somewhere.”

  “I don’t know about—”

  “It’s true,” said Renee, interrupting him. “That Russian in my house would have killed me, and if he hadn’t, his friends would have. You saved my life, and I appreciate that. I think I trust you. I want to.”

  Trent sighed and leaned his head against the seat rest.

  “Thank you, but do me a favor. Don’t trust anybody; you’ll make out better in the end. And don’t make me out to be some sort of hero. I’m not.”

  Renee nodded and looked down at the dashboard.

  “Maybe, whatever,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you for what you’ve done so far, what you are doing. But it’s not enough. Since I’ve been with you, I feel like a kid who snuck down to watch her parent’s Christmas party. I’m tired of being kept out of the loop. I want to know what’s happening.”

  “You know everything I know,” said Trent.

  “No, I don’t. What kind of friends hand out guns, cash, and cell phones? Hell, what kinds of friends have guns and that much cash just lying around the house? Who are these people? And who are you?”

  Trent started and stopped speaking once. He put his hands in front of him defensively.

  “Just one question at a time, okay?” he said. He put his hands down and stared out his window. She could see his face in the reflection on the glass, but she couldn’t make out his features well enough to get a read on him; somehow, she thought that was on purpose. “The guys in Pittsburgh run an illegal dice game. I ran into them when I was undercover because they know a lot of people. They’re small time, so we never busted them. I haven’t seen them in about a year, so I told them I’ve been in jail. They loaned me a gun and money to help me get back on my feet.”

  The story was plausible given what she knew about Trent. She wanted to believe it, but she couldn’t. She cocked her head to the side, her eyes unblinking.

  “Tell me that again, but this time don’t look away.”

  Trent closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

  “I don’t know whose side you’re on, but I don’t think it’s mine anymore.”

  Trent stared straight ahead, never meeting her gaze. After about a minute, the phone started ringing. It went through four rings before either of them reacted.

  “You should get that,” said Trent. “It might be your reporter.”

  She let it ring once more before picking it up. The caller ID said WashPo.

  “This is Renee Carter,” she said into the phone a moment later. Trent opened his door and stepped out, giving her privacy. She softened her voice almost immediately. “Thank you for returning my call so quickly.”

  “Hi, Renee. This is Brad Gibson from The Post. I was surprised to hear from you after the colorful email I received from Dr. Byram.”

  That was Mitch Byram in a nutshell: he was sweet, confident and maybe even brilliant until you pissed him off. Then he became “colorful.” She paused for a moment.

  “Mitch is dead.”

  She heard Brad inhale before speaking.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “He seemed like a nice man. What can I do for you?”

  She cast her eyes around the parking lot, half expecting to see someone watching her through the sights on a sniper’s rifle somewhere distant. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to notice her.

  “Why did you warn me about publishing my paper?”

  Brad paused.

  “What happened to Dr. Byram?” he asked.

  Renee brushed a few stray hairs off her face and behind her ear. It felt like someone had stuffed cotton balls in her mouth. She swallowed twice, and even then it was still hard to speak.

  “He was murdered Friday night.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Brad. He sighed. When he spoke again, his voice almost sounded dejected.. “Okay. We need to talk in person. Phone’s aren’t secure.”

  “We’re about three hours away. We can meet you tonight.”

  Brad didn’t say anything for a second.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” he asked.

  “Me and the detective who was assigned to Mitch’s case. It’s a long story. Can you meet us?”

  “Not tonight. I’ve got a dinner meeting with the chairman of the House Ways and Means Commit
tee. I’ve been trying to see her for weeks, so if I canceled, people would start asking questions. Meet me tomorrow morning at eleven outside the Smithsonian Castle at the National Mall. There will be a gay rights parade, so we should be able to disappear. I’ll fill you in on what I know then.”

  Renee felt her heart drop at the prospect of another day. She shifted on her seat.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she said, trying not to let her disappointment seep into her voice.

  “And how well do you know this detective you’re with?”

  She rubbed her scalp line.

  “Not well, but he saved my life.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  She sighed.

  “I don’t know.” She paused. “I think so.”

  “If you change your mind, you can lose him in the crowd tomorrow. I know some people who can hide you until it’s safe.”

  Safe. The word had a resonance to it she hadn’t experienced before. It’d be nice to feel safe again. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good luck,” said Brad. “And I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up and allowed herself to sink deeper into her chair. Trent sat on a bench in front of the service plaza maybe fifty feet away. One decision, and she could be rid of him completely along with her doubts, uncertainties and fears. She’d be safe, or at least as safe as she could be. It sounded almost too good to be true. At the same time, she didn’t know anything about Brad except that he worked for the Post. His warnings about her paper had turned out to be prescient, but in the end, she didn’t know him, either.

  As if sensing her gaze, Trent stood and walked back to the car. He opened the passenger door and leaned in.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Good,” she said. “We have a meeting in DC. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Where and when?”

  Renee considered not telling him, but that would just make him suspicious. If she really wanted to, she could lose him.

  “Eleven. By the Smithsonian Castle.”

  Trend nodded. He straightened, and Renee could see his torso turn as he looked around the plaza. Apparently satisfied, he leaned back down.

  “How do you feel about sleeping in a real bed tonight?”

  Sunday, September 15. 6:22 p.m

  Somerset, PA.

  Trent was powering down their phone by the time Renee returned from the service plaza’s restroom. He had switched seats while Renee was inside, so she opened the passenger–side door and sat down.

  “Ordering pizza?” she asked, her voice surprisingly cheerful.

  “I was looking at a map on the Internet,” he said, dropping their phone onto the car’s center console. “I’m not familiar with this area.”

  “So the interstate system finally stumps you,” she said. “It’s nice to know you’re human.”

  Trent nodded, not meeting her gaze.

  “I’m definitely human,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I was thinking we’d be able to find something near Hagerstown. It’s an hour and a half northwest of DC, so it’ll make the trip tomorrow morning easier.”

  Renee paused for a second, her brow wrinkled.

  “Are you going to be okay to drive?” she asked. “You sound a little …off.”

  Trent sat up straighter and yawned.

  “I’m just tired,” he said. “You ready?”

  She nodded, so he put the car in gear. Traffic had been steadily increasing the farther east they drove, and, by the time they got back on the interstate, it was bumper–to–bumper. Trent put the cruise control to seventy and settled into a long, slow drive. Cars whizzed by him in the left lane, probably going eighty or ninety miles an hour. Under a lot of circumstances, he would have joined them, but not that evening. As much as he wanted to crawl into a bed, he wasn’t interested in spending the night in a holding cell after being pulled over.

  He glanced at Renee. Her skin had taken on a healthier, pinker hue, and she held herself straighter. More than that, the worry lines crisscrossing her brow were gone, and the skin was smooth. She looked almost happy. He didn’t know what the reporter had told her, but evidently it was good news.

  Rather than go directly into Hagerstown, Trent pulled off the interstate near Twycross, Maryland. It was a tiny town nestled among picturesque hills and forests. He hadn’t chosen it because it was quaint, though. Twycross was small enough that it wouldn’t have had more than one or two deputies permanently assigned to it. More than that, it was isolated, at least an hour away from a major population center. If they were spotted, there was a fair chance they could get away from the local PD.

  He drove for about a mile down the town’s main drag, making note of the grocery store and a secondhand store that still had its lights on. Hopefully it’d be open for a while.

  “How about that place?” asked Renee, pointing to a cream–colored stucco structure about a block away. The Rodeway Inn. It didn’t look luxurious, but it was shelter. Trent nodded and pulled under the awning in front. The sun was just setting as he opened his door. A breeze blew from the woods surrounding the town, carrying with it the sweet scent of falling leaves and grass clippings. It reminded him of fall in the Black Forest in southern Germany. Renee breathed in deeply, a hesitant smile on her face.

  “It’s pretty here,” she said. Trent nodded his agreement. She wasn’t just being kind; the Rodeway Inn may have seen better days—its stucco was chipping, and the paint on its woodwork was faded and dull—but the area surrounding it was beautiful.

  Trent looked around quickly. The parking lot was U–shaped with a still–open pool in the center. It was nearing the end of the season, but a little girl in a light blue bathing suit and a matching light blue inner tube splashed around under the watchful eye of her father. The parking lot had two exits—three if he didn’t mind driving over a field. It was as good a place as any to bed in for the night.

  “I could fall asleep right now,” said Trent, rubbing his eyes. “We’ll check in and get something to eat.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Trent walked toward the front office with Renee close enough beside him that he could smell the remnants of her perfume. It smelled better than he remembered. He held open the door, and they walked into a cramped lobby that appeared to be a time capsule from a purposefully forgotten past. An orange couch with fake wood accents sat along one wall with orange plastic chairs in flanking positions. The carpet was light green shag. At least there wasn’t a disco ball on the ceiling.

  As soon as they opened the door, an older woman with artificially black hair stepped into the cutout in the wall that served as the front desk. She smiled at them both.

  “Can I help you two?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we’d like a room please,” said Renee. “Preferably nonsmoking.”

  “All of our rooms are nonsmoking, honey,” said the woman. “Unfortunately this is our busy season, so we’ve only got two left. Do you guys want a room with a single queen bed or the suite with two beds?”

  “The suite,” said Renee, glancing at Trent. He nodded.

  “Okay,” said the woman, punching buttons into a register they couldn’t see. She looked up at them, that same smile on her face. “With tax, that comes to two hundred and twenty–six dollars for the night. If you wait just a moment, my son will help you with your bags.”

  Before Trent could tell her it was unnecessary, the woman yelled and a young man appeared behind her in the window. He looked like he was in his early to mid–twenties and had shaggy black hair and a nose that was too big for his face. His eyes traveled from Renee to Trent and back, holding on Renee. She was attractive enough to stop traffic on most major streets, so it wasn’t surprising that a twenty–something kid would check her out. His stare seemed like more than that, though; he recognized her. Trent shifted uneasily on his feet.

  “We can get our own bags,�
� he said. He slid his hand into his hip pocket and pulled out about half of their roll of bills. He counted off thirteen and handed them across the counter. The clerk counted the bills and smiled at him.

  “And I just need to see some ID before I give you the keys.”

  Trent peeled off five more bills from the roll.

  “My wife is a curious woman, and I’d like to keep the paper trail as small as I can,” said Trent, placing the bills on the counter. “So could you just register me under Andrew Jackson?”

  The clerk winked at him, smiling.

  “Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” said the woman, pocketing the cash. “And welcome to the Rodeway Inn, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Thank you,” said Trent. The clerk handed him a key a second later. He stepped back and put his arm around Renee’s waist, pulling her close. He thought she’d object at first, but Renee pressed herself hard against his side. She put her hand flat on his chest.

  “And could you warn the maid not to disturb us tonight or tomorrow morning?” asked Renee. She winked at Trent. “I think we’re going to be kind of busy.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Jackson,” said the receptionist.

  “You ready honey?” asked Trent.

  “I am, darling,” said Renee.

  They left the office arm–in–arm, but separated as soon as they hit the parking lot. Trent’s heart was beating fast, but Renee seemed relatively unfazed.

  “That was good in there,” she said. “With the affair thing.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Trent, his eyes searching the parking lot. “That kid recognized you.”

  Renee looked down at her feet and scratched her brow.

  “He didn’t recognize me. He ogled me,” she said. “There’s a difference. I work on a college campus. I get checked out two or three times a day. I’m used to it.”

  Trent cast his eyes around the parking lot again, feeling the hackles on the back of his neck stand. Adrenaline built in his legs. Renee may not have seen the kid as a threat, but she wasn’t trained to see threats. He was. The kid had done more than just check her out; he had memorized her face.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said. “We can get back on the road. We’ll hit DC and get lost amidst the tourists.”