You Can Run

by David Banner

  Taylor remembered the sound of his friends’ voices as they called out to him through the woods, their words bouncing off the hillsides and getting lost in the caves of Marion County. He remembered the soft way a voice echoed lower and lower until finally vanishing into the air.

  “There were two of them . . .” he said aloud, realizing the echoes he’d heard through the wall were from multiple sources. “Connie . . .”

  He placed the small glass on the counter and began pounding out the words of his article. He had a deadline, but at this rate, with his new realization, he would beat it by miles. It would take hours, but he would manage to finish it just in time for the morning news, he assured himself.

  Taylor thought about the sounds, about the muffled gunshots and distorted voices. His mind began to race, stitching it all together. He cursed himself for not listening more closely, for not realizing it was something more than a crime show. He was usually so careful, so studious about his surroundings and the chance to catch a new story.

  The truth was that he’d been a little off his game lately, trying a little too hard to find some sense of comfort or companionship in the arms of far too many women. It was an odd realization for him, the feeling that he was alone. It wasn’t at all something he was used to or even knew how to properly deal with.

  It seemed no amount of dating helped. He began to wonder if perhaps he’d been looking for something more, for a deeper connection. If he was looking for something lasting. But that wasn’t him, was it? He was always the loner type, the kind of guy who never wanted anything more than a good time with no strings attached. But maybe that was finally changing.

  Three bullets each, straight to the chest when only one would have done . . . He typed into his laptop. Was it senseless, or was it something more? Where will the duo strike next? Has this Connie found her Clyde? Was the troubled young couple only the first in a series of victims, or has this duo been operating under our noses while the authorities have failed to make the connection?

  He reached for his glass of Kentucky whiskey again. Something pulled at him, a feeling he couldn’t shake. He wanted to see her again, to know what it was she hadn’t told him. Taylor cleared his throat and wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. Writing always caused his old baseball injury to start up. His neck began to tighten and stiffen from the twenty-year-old bruise that had simply neglected to ever heal.

  He went over their conversation in his mind. The way the detective looked at him, the way she carried herself and refused his offer of a drink. It was to be expected that she would have been sizing him up. He was, after all, the one witness to the crime she was investigating. Still, the Kentucky native couldn’t help feeling like there was something else there. He just wasn’t sure what that something was.

  But what if she didn’t know anything? he thought. What if she was more clueless than him? He needed to know, he needed to draw her out. This was the man’s job, the thing that got his blood pumping and his heart racing. What if he could be the one to break the case? What would happen if he could beat the seasoned homicide detective to the punch?

  With Virginia Nixon hot on their heels, how long can this killer couple stay in the shadows? Or, with a signature way of killing, do they even want to? Game on, Virginia Nixon.

  “Publish,” he said, clicking the mouse hard and closing the computer.

  Chapter Eight

  TUESDAY, 8 AM

  VIRGINIA

  Virginia arrived at the station a little later than usual thanks to her sore shoulder and the fact that she’d stayed out a little too late the night before. She just couldn’t seem to get it off her mind, though. The young couple . . . the unceremonious way in which they’d met their all-to-early end. She stepped off the elevator, trying her best to cover a wide yawn.

  Not that there was anything wrong with being tired. She was human, after all. Still, the proper Southerner didn’t like the idea of people seeing her walk around with her mouth wide open and her eyes squinted. She stopped just short of the door and caught sight of her reflection. Her hair was a little messier than usual thanks to the pain in her shoulder, but it would have to do. She doubted anyone would notice it, anyway.

  The entire department was on the other side of that door, waiting for her, waiting to hear her insights into the case. The only thing she had to go on thus far, however, were the facts. She wasn’t a behavioral analysist, nor was she a crime scene technician. It was her job to tell them what she’d seen and what to do next. But with so little information to go on, Virginia Nixon would have to rely on instinct.

  “Good morning, everyone.” She stepped through the threshold.

  There were twelve officers in the room, including the chief. For this particular case, they’d be her go-to, the ones keeping their eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary, the ones looking for the suspect once they’d created a profile. She stepped closer to the murder board. There, displayed like facts more than lives, were photos of the young murdered couple.

  It was standard practice, having them up there like that. It was just something that never seemed like the right thing to do. But then again, what other option did she have? Their lives were over, and now it was up to her to find the man responsible.

  “Here’s where we have now,” Virginia began. “We have two victims, each with three point-blank gunshots to the chest. A witness in the next room thinks he may have heard the name Connie mentioned. They were seen at the bar earlier that night, but nothing has come from speaking to the hotel staff yet. We’re still looking for anyone else who may have also been at the bar. No forced entry, no sign of a struggle.”

  “What about security cameras?” a female officer called out.

  “Negative,” she replied. “The Chelsea House is one of the oldest buildings in town. It’s a landmark, as you know. The owners don’t like the idea of changing anything.”

  “And we know it was a couple,” Chief Hindle chimed in.

  “We do?” Vee asked, sure she hadn’t mentioned anything about multiple assailants.

  “Yes.” A young man stood then looked at Virginia. “Last night, after your visit with him, Taylor Clarke posted an article in the Low Georgia Times giving a little more information.”

  This came as a surprise to her. She had been with Taylor last night and found nothing but the same information she already had. He was basically useless. What could he have possibly written in his article that might be seen as new information?

  “Mr. Clarke claims to have heard multiple voices. A female voice known as Connie and a male companion. According to his rundown of the events, it was the male who fired off the first shots, then, from a second gun, the female fired off another three, killing the second victim. Mr. Clarke has dubbed them ‘Connie and Clyde’. The name has been picked up by several other media outlets already this morning.”

  “Is that it?” Virginia folded her arms.

  “No,” the young officer said. “There’s also mention of the young couple appearing upset at the bar just before heading up to their room. He also mentioned the name ‘Maynor’.”

  “As you can imagine, that paired with the mention of a pattern and organized crime has really created a buzzworthy story for the media.” The chief looked at her. “Did you make any mention of thinking this crime was connected to any other?”

  “What?” she snapped. “Of course not. He mentioned something about it but I brushed it off.”

  “I would have thought you would have given me a heads-up about this article. About the fact that Taylor Clarke knew more than he’d originally stated.”

  She bit her tongue, holding back the truth that the young man had withheld so much. She’d look like a fool, like she couldn’t do her job. Virginia Nixon was one of Savannah’s best homicide detectives, and now some young fame-hungry journalist was playing her for an idiot. That just wouldn’t work.

  “Right, Chief. Sorry. I was going to tell you all here and now. I didn’t know he’d already p
ublished the article.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter.” Chief Hindle shrugged. “What matters is that we find this guy. We need to get a list of suspects in place before this thing gets out of hand.”

  “Right,” she replied. “I’ll get on that right away.”

  “Please do, and let me know the second you find anything. I don’t want to be kept up to date on my own department by way of the media. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” She left the room and headed back to her office.

  Until that day, the Low Georgia Times wasn’t at the top of Virginia’s reading list. She’d seen the paper a few times and had even stopped by the website once or twice while researching crimes in the area. But this was new to her. She’d never failed so hard at a questioning before. Her eyes grew wide as they scanned the article.

  Surely, it wasn’t real, right? Could he really have noticed all of this and then kept it from her, or was he bluffing? Was this simply nothing more than clickbait? Her teeth ground together with every word on the screen. Mention of things like ‘Maynor’ and ‘Connie & Clyde’, which if she were being honest was about the stupidest damn name she’d heard for a serial killer in some time. And then there was her name right there at the end of the article. He was calling her out and she was going to answer.

  She needed to speak with him again to let him know this kind of thing wouldn’t fly. Virginia was easygoing once. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “Tell the chief I’ll be back later. I’m checking up on something,” she told one of the rookie cops she passed on her way to the elevator.

  Chapter Nine

  TUESDAY, 9 AM

  CONNIE

  Connie stepped out of the car, her knee-high boots splashing in the shallow puddle beneath her feet. Water shot upward, spritzing her black leather skirt and spraying her legs. She moved ahead without wiping them off. Michael took the lead, his dark hair catching the morning sun and shining like wet coal.

  They’d woken to find their names scattered across every news channel for a hundred miles. It seemed the police were on to them now. Now, with each passing day, they would have less and less time as the public became more aware. Soon, the pattern would emerge. Soon, their targets would figure it out. They had to move fast.

  “Appointment for Connie and Clyde,” she said with a huge smile. “You might recognize us.”

  It was an easy thing to do, to book an appointment online, and once they saw the news, both Connie and her husband decided to roll with the punches, to kind of adopt the name. After all, they did have a message to send.

  The woman, older and frailer than any of their other victims, looked up. Her eyes were blue, flecked with age and fear. She’d likely seen the news and now realized what sort of fate awaited her. She steadied herself, reaching for the phone. Connie slammed her hand hard against the desk then knocked the phone to the floor.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Baby, close the door.”

  Her husband, strong and studied, moved quickly to lock the door behind them. To most of the world, it looked like a simple tax office. The kind of place a person goes once a year to keep the government off their backs. But it was much more than that.

  She was old, yes. But she was no fool. Maria Juarez knew exactly what she was doing when she signed those papers, when she played her part in upending their lives. She likely had her reasons. Maybe she was between a rock and a hard place. Maybe she was under the gun or owed a favor, but we all have our troubles, right?

  “Please . . .” She began to cry.

  And there it was again.

  The begging.

  Connie hated the begging, the pleas for compassion and understanding. She had been on the other side enough to know that people never listen to those. She had pleaded too, once, but she swore to herself that she would never again beg.

  “Hello, Maria.” She leaned in, her breath low and soft against the woman’s cheek. “Been a while, huh?”

  “I’m sorry. Connie . . . I don’t—”

  “Save it,” Connie said. “I don’t care. You knew what you were doing.”

  “I swear, I—”

  “You were at my wedding, Maria. How could you do this?”

  “You don’t understand, I—” she cried.

  “You’re right. I don’t understand, and I never will.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I am. I paid a price, and now you will too. At least this time, the person paying will actually be guilty, right?”

  “I never meant for any of this to happen. It was supposed to be for show. A threat, that’s all. They promised me. Michael, please.” She turned to Connie’s husband.

  “Quiet,” he replied.

  Michael Miller had seen enough of this kind of thing. Aside from that, he’d never much cared for the woman, anyway. Her inquisitive nature and crass attitude never sat well with the born and bred Southerner. He’d always found the woman unpalatable and rude. Why she seemed to think he would be willing to help her, he couldn’t say. Not after the things she had done.

  “You really think he’s going to help you?” Connie pressed the gun hard against Maria’s temple. “Get up.”

  “Wait.” Connie snapped to action as her husband grabbed Maria’s arm and began dragging her toward the door. “What are you doing? Michael, what are you doing?”

  “Outside!” Michael yelled, spinning the old woman on her heels and marching her toward the door.

  “Michael!” Connie pleaded.

  “They’ll be days finding her in this hell hole. We need to make a statement now. To let them know we see them too. That we’re not hiding, that we won’t stop.” He pushed Maria through the door and onto the streets. “On the ground, old friend.”

  “Mike!” she yelled from the doorway. “Get back inside now. Someone will see you.”

  “They need to see me,” he exclaimed, the gun still pointed directly at the woman’s chest.

  “Michael,” she said again then disappeared around the corner.

  “Anything left to say?” he asked, the heel of his black boot pressed against the woman’s cheek.

  “I’m a good pers—”

  Three bullets ended her life.

  Blood poured from her chest and pooled beneath her, trickling down the weathered Savannah sidewalk.

  “Michael. Get in.” Connie pulled the car to a stop next to him as sirens began screaming in the distance. “Now!”

  He placed the gun in his pocket and marched toward the car.

  “Do you know how stupid that was? What the hell is wrong with you?” Connie slammed her fist against the dashboard then made a hard right. “What if someone was out there? What if someone saw? That could be on someone’s phone now. What the hell, Mike?”

  “I’m tired of hiding. Screw ‘em. Let them chase us. Let them fight us. This is what you wanted, right?”

  “What I wanted?” she said, her eyes wide with anger. “What I want is revenge. What I want is for them to pay for what they did, but that can’t happen if we’re behind bars. Stick to the plan, got it? No more going rogue.”

  Connie turned the wheel hard as the car entered the freeway amid a flurry of lights and sirens. Three police cars sped toward the site of the shooting. It wouldn’t matter, though. Maria Juarez was dead, now only a pile of waste on the ground, and in the eyes of her former friend, even that was too good for her.

  Chapter Ten

  TUESDAY, 3 PM

  VIRGINIA

  Anger is a funny thing. You spend your whole life hearing about things like yoga, Zen, and meditation. You tell other people not to lose their temper, that anger won’t get them anywhere. You preach calmness and clarity. Yet still, when it’s your emotions on the line, all of that just seems to go out the window. At least for Virginia Nixon.

  A song she barely recognized about love and breakups played softly in the background as she sat in her car waiting for the so-called journalist
to return home. She’d done the whole slow breaths thing and she’d considered praying, yet still, she was upset.

  Minutes ticked by slowly under the Georgia sky. Her car sat parked under the shade of one of the many magnolia trees lining the small residential street. She brought her coffee to her lips and let the dark aroma fill her lungs. That scent could always do more to calm her than even vodka, but after nearly two hours of sitting in her car, it was no longer fresh. She sighed and placed it back in the cupholder.

  Her eyes scanned the exterior of the apartment building. It was early, though, which meant most people were at work. What was once a voyeuristic view into the lives of strangers was now nothing more than a barren look at empty homes. She focused on a pair of small girls no more than twelve years old. They chatted to one another, slowly rocking back and forth on the rusted swings of the apartment playground.

  She wondered who they were and where their lives would take them. Would they be actresses, politicians, or stay at home moms? Would their lives turn out the way they’d planned as they talked about the future with their best friend? Or would Virginia wake tomorrow to find one of them murdered or captured by the darker side of the city?

  “Finally . . .” she muttered under her breath as he pulled his car to a stop on the side of the street.

  She wanted to stop him there, to accost him in public, but that wouldn’t be the wisest move, not now, not for her. She watched from the seat of her car as he grabbed a backpack from his back seat and headed into the building.

  He wore a dark red vest with blue trim and dark red pants. It was a uniform of some kind, one the detective vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. She hadn’t put much thought into what he did outside of the writing, but seeing him in those clothes somehow affected her and in that moment, she began to wonder who Taylor Clarke really was.