Runner

by Parker Williams

  “Clay?”

  He glanced up from what he was doing, the hammer in his hand ready to tap at the hinge pins. “Hmm?”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled at me, then went back to his task. It took them several hours to get everything done right, but when they finished, I breathed easier.

  “Do you want some lemonade?” I asked.

  Clay smiled, wide and genuine. “Nah, but thanks. I have to work in a few hours.”

  It struck me then. Clay, the one who had just told me he wouldn’t call me again, had gotten up in the middle of the night, dragged Charlie with him, and come to my remote home because I’d been afraid.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, overcome with emotion.

  Clay reached out to touch me, but then let his hand drop. “It’s what brothers do,” he informed me. “If you ever need me, you call, and I’ll come running.”

  “Same goes for me,” Charlie told me. “When Clay said you needed help, I didn’t even think about why. I came.” He stretched and yawned. “But now I need to get some sleep. Though I normally work the afternoon shift, the other librarian needed off, so I’m opening the library tomorrow.”

  These two men humbled me. Clay had proved to me that despite my problems, he would be there for me. And Charlie? Charlie showed he didn’t care about the why—he only saw a friend in need. I wanted desperately to hug them both, to thank them. Instead I walked them to their trucks and we said goodbye.

  After they left, I had to touch everything in my house twice. Their presence had been welcome in the dark of the night, but still it unnerved me. I sat in the kitchen, staring at the new door. The red-and-white paint job went surprisingly well with my decor. More importantly, the solidness made me feel far safer in my home than I had before.

  And I had my brother to thank.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I CRASHED hard after I calmed myself down nearly an hour later. The past couple of days had taken their toll on me, both physically and mentally. Everything I believed, all the things I’d told myself I needed to keep me safe, had been called into question by a late-night phone call and the response it got.

  Wearing nothing but a smile, I got out of bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. I really, really wanted coffee, but I found that when I drank too much caffeine, my anxiety went through the roof. I cut that out of my life right away, though I still had decaf on occasion. Sugar wasn’t so bad as long as I didn’t overdo it. And I loved my lemonade. To me it had the perfect blend of tartness and sweetness. Just enough to give it pucker power. Deciding to give Sam Gribley another try, I slipped on some clothes, grabbed my favorite book, and headed for the porch, stopping to run my fingers over the work Charlie and Clay had done. The place felt safe again. Then I remembered I had asked Mr. Gianetti to order me a door. I thought about calling to cancel, but after this, I figured I could keep it in storage in case I ever needed one.

  As soon as the door opened, I knew it would be a beautiful day. The air had a fall crispness to it that would fade over the course of the morning, warming to a beautiful Indian summer. I had very few chores to do, and I didn’t usually start on those until about two, so I thought I had time to read until then. The swing welcomed me like an old friend as I sank into it, providing me with warmth and comfort.

  About twenty minutes later, the sound of rubber on dirt caught my attention, and I sat up straight, every nerve on full alert. Not only was it too early for Charlie, but he’d been here only a few hours ago. He’d also said he had to open the library, so it couldn’t be him coming down the way.

  “Just me, Matt!” Charlie yelled a few moments before coming into view.

  The breath whooshed from my lungs. I rushed inside and put the book back on the shelf, then returned to the porch in time to see Charlie as he came around the bend, a big smile on his face. He was shirtless, and I suppressed a moan at seeing his chest. He had a gray T-shirt tucked into the pocket of his running shorts, which made me wonder if he’d taken it off just for me. When he coughed, I realized I had been thinking too hard and felt my cheeks heat. He stood at the gate and grinned.

  “Did you want to sit?” I asked as I took my seat and picked up the now-empty glass. I rolled it in my hands, focusing on the coolness. “Sorry, I didn’t think you would be here so early.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he answered, a wide grin on his face. He pushed open the gate and sauntered up to where I sat. Without saying anything, he opened the bag he’d slung over his shoulder and reached inside. When he pulled out a stack of books, I gave him a curious look. “You said you’d like to read them. I had paperback copies at home, so I thought you might want them.”

  When I didn’t move, his expression slipped a little. I wanted to take them, but they didn’t belong in my house. I kept trying to tell myself that the gift from Charlie shouldn’t be an issue, but it was and I didn’t know why.

  He stood for a moment, then coughed. “Okay, how about if I set them down, and if you want to read them, you can? No pressure, honest.”

  He put them next to where I sat. I glanced down at the cover of the top one. Two men in an intimate pose, one shielding the other. The picture appeared grainy, like something you’d see on old television shows. I guess it had to do with the genre. The title, Death Comes to Allerton, had been emblazoned across the top, with a review snippet from the Literary Times Gazette that promised it to be a thrill ride like no other. On the bottom of the book, the name Charles Magnus was displayed in a stylish font.

  I quirked an eyebrow. “Charles Magnus?”

  He blushed and glanced down at his hand. “Pen name. Charlie Carver seemed too blah, my publicist said.”

  “I think it’s a nice name,” I told him. Then I realized what I’d said. “For an author, I mean.”

  That devilish smirk flashed across his face. “Sure, for an author,” he teased. “So, since you have signed copies of my books, does that entitle me to a lemonade?”

  I made a face. “You think my lemonade is only worth some books?”

  That brought a laugh. “You’re right. My apologies,” he said, crossing his right arm over his stomach and giving a slight bow.

  I flashed back on the image of him and Clay hanging the door, his tight muscles straining as they worked, the look of sheer determination on his face. He never questioned, never complained. Three in the morning, and he had come out to help Clay. That entitled him to a lot more than lemonade.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get you something to drink. If you’d rather, I do have coffee. Well, decaf. I don’t do well with caffeine.”

  He waved his hand. “I’d love lemonade, but if we ever decide to have coffee, I’m fine with whatever you’ve got. Some writers live off caffeine. Me? I can take it or leave it.”

  “One glass of Matt’s special lemonade coming up,” I said, trying to give him a smile. I picked up my empty glass and carried it back into the house.

  The pitcher in the refrigerator had enough for a glass or two, and it would take me some time to make fresh, which had been my plan for the afternoon. After I washed out the glass I’d used and dried it off, I poured lemonade for him, put the remainder back, and grabbed a glass of water for myself. When I got outside, I found him writing something in one of the books. When he saw me, he closed it quickly, set it back on the pile, put the pen in his bag, and held out his hand.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the glass from me. He drained it all in a few gulps, then wiped a hand over the back of his mouth. “You could bottle this stuff. It’s way better than what they serve at the Clover.”

  My cheeks heated at his compliment. “I had a friend who worked there once, and she said they only use a powder mix.” I sat in the swing, across from the chair Charlie occupied. He put his glass down, crossed his legs, and stared at me. I squirmed under his scrutiny.

  “Is the door working okay?” he asked.

  “Y-yes,” I stuttered. I wanted to run and hide in my bed when I noticed
the way his gaze bored into me. It seemed as though he could see right through me. I couldn’t decide if it should be comforting or terrifying.

  “Can we talk about last night?” he asked, after what seemed like an eternity.

  This had been the second time he’d seen me at my worst. To be honest it surprised me that he had come back at all after getting a call from Clay about a crazy man.

  “Hey, how did you know to get here last night?” I asked, hoping to deflect his questions.

  “Your brother and I are kinda friends. Okay, really, we’re more of acquaintances. I met him one day when he came into the library while I looked around. You can always tell a lot about a town by the books they have. Anyway, he welcomed me to town, told me a little about the history. Asked if my vacation was going well. At first I thought he was being nosey, but then I realized he genuinely wanted to help me find things that might interest me.

  “If I had to point to one thing that convinced me to stay here, it would be the feeling of kinship in the town. Like the people in the town all look out for one another. After I returned home, I found that Mitch had moved out. So I sold my place in New York and bought one here. I made the move and haven’t regretted it since. I started working at the library, and one day Clay came in. We started talking, and I mentioned that I like to run. His eyes went wide, and he asked me where. I told him. He didn’t know you were on my jogging route, and when he found out, it surprised him. We don’t really hang out, but I like to think we’re somewhat close. When he called and said you were in trouble and needed a hand, I came to help.”

  It made sense in a weird way. But….

  “If you have a truck, why do you jog down my road?”

  Charlie sat back and gave me an amused expression. “Your road? I’m sorry, I didn’t see the sign that said it led to Matt’s Manor.”

  I dropped my head against the chair and groaned. “Sorry. I might be a little territorial.”

  “S’okay,” he answered. “I come this way because I won’t see anyone else from town. I park down the road about three miles, then make my way up here, around the bend, and back. Round-trip it’s about seven miles or so.”

  I sat up and glared at him. “But this area really isn’t meant for running.”

  “That’s what makes it so perfect,” he countered. “No one else runs here, so I can be lost in my own thoughts. Hell, I was surprised to find someone lived out here.”

  He had a point. Most folks didn’t live this far from town, and those who did owned large tracts of land that they farmed. My house sat on about twenty acres, mostly wooded. It had a pond that was fed by a nearby lake, which provided me with ample opportunity to fish. So with the exception of the area my house and greenhouse took up, I had plenty of room to be by myself. In fact, my nearest “neighbor” was a few miles away.

  “I thought you were at the library today,” I said, wanting to get back to a safe topic.

  He grinned at me, and my stomach fluttered. “I switched with Mrs. Tennyson. I told her I had something I really had to do.”

  “Oh? What are you going to be doing?”

  He laughed. It was a nice laugh, full of life and happiness. “I came to see you, doofus. I wanted to make sure you were okay after last night. Or this morning.” He shrugged. “Whatever. And I realized I told you to call me, but I never gave you my number. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh, it’s okay—”

  He held up a hand. “It’s not, Matt. I know about panic. Sometimes all you need to get through it is a friendly voice. Other times a hug might be the ticket. I’m not saying it will make all the panic go away. I don’t know what causes it for you, but that’s not the important thing. What is, at least to me and Clay, is that you have someone you can reach out to when you need to. You live out here, in the quiet and solitude, but you’re never alone. Remember that.”

  The thought of being in Charlie’s embrace filled my mind and gave me a strange feeling in my chest. I likened it to what it felt like when Clay held me last night. Safety. I couldn’t process it logically. I never needed or wanted anyone to touch me. Last night, though? I sought it out, shocked by how good it felt to be held again. The warmth and comfort I got from Clay kept the fear—all the fears—at bay for a short time.

  “Thank you,” I replied softly. Charlie really seemed too good to be true. He gazed at me with kindness and what I thought might be affection. Warmth flooded through me when I realized at some point I had mostly stopped being afraid of Charlie and accepted him as part of my world. One of the biggest problems I had hinged on new situations. When whatever I couldn’t grow on my own had to be delivered, I needed to touch each item several times, then put it aside where I could become used to it before I could actually put it into storage.

  Charlie stood and wiped his hand off on his shorts. “Okay, well, I’d better get back to the library. I promised I’d be there before noon to take over. Remember what I said, Matt. If you ever need help, call someone, okay?”

  I got up, but before I could answer, he turned and went to the gate, opened it, looked back and gave a quick wave, then started off down the road. I watched until he was out of sight. I looked down at the table where he had left the books. I admit, I really wanted to read them. I should have been put off by the fact that they were new in the house, but they’d been a gift from Charlie. I had reservations, but I didn’t think he would hurt me. I sat on the swing, reached over, and picked up the first one. Opening the cover, I saw what Charlie had written there, and smiled.

  It takes courage to ask for help. Thank you for trusting me last night. He’d also written his phone number.

  The warmth of tears on my cheeks didn’t surprise me. I’d always known my emotions were close to the surface, which probably accounted for a lot of the overwhelming sensations I dealt with. Today I tamped them down, determined to trust Charlie. After all, it was just a book.

  THREE HOURS later, I closed the cover and sagged onto the seat. I’d never known someone could write like Charlie had. The level of violence stunned me, but it didn’t come across as gratuitous. Every act fit into the story, drove it on. In two hundred pages, he made me laugh, cry, cringe, and worry about the protagonist in a way that almost made him seem real. Even though I had an inkling about the ending, thanks to Charlie’s telling me about the book, it still came as a total shock when the detective watched the man die and did nothing to save him.

  Donald Tremaine could be a coldhearted bastard, except when it came to Lucien James, his lover. He protected him with a ferocity that overwhelmed me, even though Lucien proved perfectly capable of protecting himself. But when they went to bed together, Lucien gave himself over, and Donald took what he wanted—what he needed—though he did it with love. And it wasn’t just said. I could feel it in everything they did for each other.

  I picked up the stack of books and took them in the house, placed them on the shelf with my very favorite stories, then glanced over at the clock and groaned.

  My chores needed to be done or I would have dived into the second book immediately. Murder in Times Squared looked to be even better than Death Comes to Allerton. The cover had two crossed knives, dripping with blood. I could make out a shadowy figure in the background, but any details were kept temptingly out of reach. I really wanted to read this book, because Donald had two murders to deal with. They both had similarities, but his main suspect had been miles away from the site where the body had been found, so there was no way he could have done it. I kept looking from the book to the clock. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t rake leaves and mulch them today. They’d still be there tomorrow, I told myself.

  But it would seriously disrupt my schedule. The same one I’d adhered to for years. Nothing bad would happen, I tried to convince myself. When the fear welled up, for the first time I pushed against it. It had controlled my life for so long, cost me too much, and I had grown tired of it. I wanted to be me again. The kid who, at thirteen, ran
naked through gym class on a dare. The one who wanted to take Marty Hendricks for a drive and park with him, just to see where it would lead. The one who could look at a man and feel something that wasn’t fear. I just wanted to be normal again.

  Today I would prove to myself that I wasn’t a slave to my schedule. I could do this. I took the book back down from the shelf, poured a glass of ice water, and went to sit down so I could once again immerse myself in Donald’s world. At first I had problems focusing. My gaze would stray to the leaves that waited to be raked, think about the plants in the greenhouse that needed water and the compost that had to be added today. But I kept at it. I forced myself to read and did indeed start getting into the story. When I snuck a peek at my watch, it had just passed three, and I jumped up. I put the book down and raced to do the chores I’d neglected for an hour. Mentally I berated myself, but inside I felt a glow of pride, because even though it had only been sixty minutes, it was still more than I’d ever done in the past. And maybe that was the key. Doing a little bit at a time, not trying to get everything in my life right at once.

  As I spread the fertilizer on the plants, I made a vow to myself that I would try harder. I would do my best to work past one thing each day that caused my anxiety to flare. Not forever, because I didn’t think that possibility would ever happen, but like I had done today, I would do it again tomorrow. Maybe one day I would work my way up to two hours. Then maybe a full day.

  And tomorrow it would start with Charlie.

  AS SOON as I heard the larks the next morning, I hustled out of bed and hurried to the bookcase. Books one and two had been incredible. I’d stayed up way later than I should have to find out who the killer—or should I say, killers—were. It left me breathless. Book three, The Corpse Wore Death, beckoned to me. So at five o’clock I sat on the porch, glass of water beside me, poring over the book. It opened with an intense sex scene, which turned out to be the cover for the murder. I shivered at the descriptions Charlie used when the killer went ballistic on his prey, because they were so damned vivid they made me glad I hadn’t read them the night before.