Run Rabbit Run

by Kate Johnson

  ‘You might have asked, instead of shoving the damn thing through the letterbox. And no, before you ask, she hasn’t called.’ Evelyn studied him. ‘I think you should see a doctor.’

  She’d been saying that since she had found him lying bleeding in her doorway last night. Maybe they’d just figured he was shagging his secretary and dumped him there as the most obvious place.

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ He was so damn tired.

  ‘Although what you’ll tell them is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Ran into a door.’ He considered the many ways in which he ached. ‘A revolving one. Does Sheila know?’

  ‘She’s said nothing to me. I’m in two minds whether to tell her. She could throw the book at him for this.’

  ‘She’s got no authority over him.’

  ‘Well, the Home Secretary has, and if she tells –’

  ‘The Home Secretary has bigger things to worry about than this,’ Luke said. ‘Leave it.’

  Evelyn looked troubled, but she nodded, and stood up.

  ‘Anything I can get you?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve done enough.’

  She stood looking at him for a long moment.

  ‘And don’t tell me I look like hell. I can’t possibly look worse than I feel.’

  ‘Luke …’

  Her pretty forehead wrinkled. Her perfect teeth bit into her perfect lip.

  ‘The other night, when I brought you back here and you asked me why?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘I wouldn’t tell you where I was staying and was in no state to be left alone. If I recall correctly which, believe it or not, I’m usually quite good at doing.’

  ‘Yes. Um. Well, there was something else, too.’

  He closed his eyes. If she revealed to him now that she was a spy for Harrington, or that she was really the killer who’d framed Sophie, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to do any more than cry.

  Then a pair of soft, perfect lips touched his, and Luke’s eyes flew open.

  Evelyn was kissing him, leaning over the bed with her hand resting ever so lightly on his shoulder. She tasted like oranges, like sweetness and uncorrupted, uncomplicated passion.

  Just for a second, he let himself enjoy it. Then guilt slammed him in the chest and he pushed her away.

  ‘No,’ he said, and Evelyn looked down at him with huge sadness in her beautiful eyes.

  Then she nodded, and straightened up, her face blank.

  ‘Evelyn,’ he said, feeling wretched.

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ She began backing away. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I just thought … I wondered … but it’s nothing. Just an impulse. You’re in love with Sophie and that’s … that’s fine.’

  She reached the door and bumped into it.

  ‘Just call me if you need anything.’

  The door shut behind her with indecent speed.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Luke said out loud. He levered himself upright against the pillows and picked up his pair of phones. Nothing from Sophie. Three missed calls on the other one. He scrolled through: Evelyn, Evelyn, Lucie. He frowned. Lucie? His contact at the Home Office. There was a message from her, too.

  ‘Luke,’ her voice sounded hushed and furtive, ‘I’m not supposed to be calling you, but listen. It’s just been released here. That woman you were asking about? Alexa Martin? She escaped. She’s not in prison any more. I don’t know how she did it but … all hell’s broken loose. No one can find her. It’s a massive disaster. Look, you can’t tell anyone this, all right, if it’s leaked I’ll be for the chop, but … well, you sounded rather desperate before so …’

  He didn’t hear the rest. The phone fell from his hand.

  Alexa Martin had escaped.

  Alexa Martin, who’d turned against the British government for her own financial ends.

  Alexa Martin, who’d killed his old boss.

  Alexa Martin, who’d been instrumental in crashing a plane that had killed nearly a hundred-and-fifty people.

  Alexa Martin, who’d been brought down by Sophie.

  She’d escaped.

  Before he knew it he was across the room, yanking the door open. Evelyn looked up, startled, and her gaze darted down. Luke realised he was wearing boxers and nothing else.

  ‘Clothes,’ he muttered, turning around.

  ‘You shouldn’t be out of bed,’ Evelyn gasped.

  ‘Don’t care. Have to leave.’ The room dipped and swayed around him. ‘I have to call Sophie.’

  He lurched back to the bed, Evelyn twittering around behind him, and scooped up his phone on the second try.

  ‘Luke, what are you doing?’

  He dialled Sophie with trembling fingers. It didn’t connect. He tried again. Still nothing.

  ‘Luke, you’re frightening me.’

  ‘Well good, because I’m fucking terrified. That woman – Jesus, Evelyn, that woman … she’s a psychopath and she’s out there and she’s after Sophie.’

  ‘Who is?’ Evelyn said, her eyes huge as she watched him career around the room in search of his clothes.

  ‘Alexa Martin.’ He closed his eyes, horror overwhelming him. ‘If she finds Sophie, she’ll kill her.’

  My dreams were fragmented and disturbing, dreams of Luke turning on me, working for Harrington, then Harrington working for Luke. Luke with a gorgeous, feline secretary, snogging madly on an expensive desk, ripping off each other’s clothes and shagging enthusiastically as I watched, appalled, from the doorway.

  Then a hand touched my shoulder and it was Jack, bleeding and burnt, and he fell to the ground and I kissed him, and then he was no longer hurt but naked, and so was I, and he made love to me on the bed in Irene Shepherd’s house, and he was sensual and skilled and I found myself crying, crying hard in the dream, and Jack faded away.

  I was alone, in the dark and the cold. It was really cold and I was hungry, alone, lost, in the woods, wolves howling, guns banging, getting closer. Then a shot echoed too close to me and I saw Harvey advancing with a smoking gun, shaking his head pityingly and sneering at me, ‘You didn’t really think I’d let you go, did you? I know right where you are. You’ve led me to Jack,’ and there was Jack lying dead at my feet.

  ‘You killed him,’ Maria said, looking ghostly, ‘you killed my brother with your lying and incompetence. You were never a spy, just a pathetic excuse for law-enforcement, thinking you were so tough, but you never did anything without help. My help, his help,’ she pointed to Luke, who was leaning against a tree, his arm around Angel’s shoulders, looking smug. ‘All our help. Bailing you out, rescuing you, working for you, taking your stupid orders while you got us shot and crashed your car and cost everyone time and money and blood. Look at all the blood you’ve spilt,’ she said, and like a ghoulish parade they all turned pale and started bleeding, Luke from his head where he’d been hurt in September, Maria’s stomach where she was shot on my first mission, Harvey’s head – no, Xander’s head, where a stray bullet had grazed him. Docherty, bleeding from the two shots I’d fired at him. A hundred-and-forty-three dead people I hadn’t been able to save because I didn’t stop Alexa Martin before she sabotaged that plane.

  I tried to back away, but my feet were stuck, and I realised someone was holding onto them, someone was holding me down, and pinning my arms behind my back, and then a gun was being brandished in my face and I realised it was mine, and the person aiming it was Sarah Wilde in her big hat and sunglasses and all I wanted to know was who she was and I was screaming, ‘Who are you, who are you?’

  And then there was a bang, and I woke up.

  I was drenched in sweat and shaking. I felt sick. Tangled up in sheets, I thudded to the floor and made it to the bathroom but not the toilet before I was horribly sick all over the floor. Heaving and sobbing, I huddled in a ball, half-wrapped in a bed-sheet, wishing that shot had been real.

  The hotel offered room service and I called for water and fruit, not feeling able to consume much more. I was so damn hungry though, and w
hen my stomach didn’t immediately repel the fruit I called for eggs and waffles and grilled tomatoes, all the ingredients of an English breakfast I could think of, wishing I wasn’t vegetarian so I could have some sausages or bacon.

  In fact, sod it.

  ‘I’ll have sausages and bacon as well,’ I said. ‘Lots of bacon.’ Then, remembering the way my mum used to cook bacon for me when I was little, ‘And don’t overcook it: I hate crispy bacon.’

  I ate all of it, all those bits of dead pig, and it felt good.

  I cleaned up the bathroom, then dragged my revolting carcass into the shower and steamed myself clean, scalding my skin to get rid of the sweat and dirt, and scrubbed at my teeth and tongue until the taste of vomit was well gone.

  I got dressed, packed my bag and went down to the lobby. As I walked past the Reception area, a phone trilled and one of the uniformed girls called out, ‘Mrs Wachowski? Delta Airlines called back,’ and an elderly lady got up from a chair and went over to the desk, leaving her bag behind.

  Her bag, which fitted so easily into mine.

  I checked out the contents as I sat in the back of a taxi heading to East Penobscot and found a wallet stuffed with cash, a credit card and, God bless her, a cash card with the PIN number Sellotaped to it. There was also a packet of Cheroot cigars and lighter.

  When I got out of the cab I lit up and inhaled. The cigar tasted worse than a cigarette, but it felt so damn cool that I didn’t care.

  Check me out. Eating pigs, robbing old ladies, smoking cigars. I’m Sophie, and I’m bad.

  I was still hungry, so I went back to my little diner where Louisa-May looked delighted to see me and got me a huge pizza and fries and a beer, and when I asked her if my friend Dr David-John was around, she said that he always helped his sister collecting for the Goodwill on Fridays but they should be home about twelve.

  I thanked her, paid with the money I’d taken from the old lady, and walked out into the cold, clear sunshine. It was quiet in town, there weren’t many people about. Which was odd for a Friday.

  I left the old lady’s bag in a bus shelter, telling the people there that I’d found it dumped by an ATM, and walked away.

  And then I got to the bridge over the river, and looked down at the clear water, and wanted to throw myself in. What the hell was I doing? Eating an animal I hadn’t touched for years? Smoking? Stealing from an old woman so I could buy beer and pizza? What the hell was wrong with me? What had I become?

  The answer to that was too scary to contemplate. I chucked all the cigars in the river, and would have thrown the money in too, but I knew I’d need it. Instead I sent up a rather rusty prayer for forgiveness, reminded myself that I had saved the lives of dozens of pigs and cows and chickens, and would carry on saving them, and looked long and hard at the little scar on my arm that had ended up giving me septicaemia. No more smoking. No more meat. No more robbing anyone. Hadn’t I decided I wasn’t travelling any more? I’d stay in Maine until the money ran out.

  Matter of fact, I’d stay in East Penobscot. I had a friend in Louisa-May, and a lead in Dr David-John, and the place was pretty and wholesome and hopefully not too expensive. Maybe I’d settle down here. Get a job. Rent a place. Find a new identity.

  Die in a foreign country, alone and hunted.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, I had to snap out of this. I felt black and blue all over. I hauled out my phone and when I switched it on, found several missed calls on it. Jack. Jack. Luke. Harvey. Jack. Luke.

  Boy, you know, having three gorgeous men call me up so often is actually really heartening. Even if only one of them is actually talking to me.

  There was only one message, and it was from Luke, and the signal was so bad I could barely make anything out.

  ‘… phie, this is … ant. Al … ve only just found out … can’t fucking believe … must be this Sar … I’ll … need to – I don’t know … the cops, call … safe. It’s not … God’s sake, call me. I’ll –’ Then a series of beeps.

  Gobbledegook. All I’d heard was anger in his voice. I wasn’t in a hurry to find out why.

  I called Harvey back first, since he was least likely to yell at me. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘You sound brighter.’

  I shrugged, looking up at the clear blue sky. You know, today wasn’t so cold. It might even have felt slightly spring-like, were it not for the scent of a bonfire hanging in the air.

  ‘I’m feeling a bit better.’

  ‘I tried calling you last night.’

  ‘Yeah. I turned the phone off so I could get some sleep. I was so tired.’

  ‘Did you get where you wanted to go?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Now, that would be telling.’

  Harvey laughed. ‘Angel says Luke’s been trying to figure it out ever since you left.’

  ‘Yeah. He keeps asking me.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell him? Don’t you trust him?’

  Good question.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said, because not trusting Luke would be a dreadful thing and I didn’t want to dwell on it. ‘I just don’t want anyone to follow him.’

  ‘He said you came back a couple weeks ago.’

  Surely it had been months.

  Felt like longer.

  ‘Yeah. That was stupid of me.’

  ‘Just a bit,’ Harvey agreed. ‘I told them when I got to the hotel, you were gone. Climbed out of the window. Probably left the state. No reason why they shouldn’t believe me. It’s not like they were there to measure the height of the window.’

  ‘Thanks, Harvey.’ Although it does make me look guilty. Why is it that I keep getting accused of crimes I didn’t commit, and getting away with the ones I am committing? How is that fair? Especially since the crimes I am guilty of are only being caused by the ones I didn’t do.

  Or something.

  ‘You owe me. Lying to the federal government is not something I want on my record.’

  ‘Hey, can’t we chalk this one up with introducing you to your wife?’

  ‘I think that one’s full up.’

  ‘How about convincing her not to call the wedding off?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Telling her you loved her?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Saving your worthless arse?’

  ‘Hmmmm.’

  ‘Harvey, did you turn into a hummingbird?’

  He laughed. ‘Sometimes feels like it.’

  ‘I hear ya. Anyway. I should go. I have someone to see. Crimes to clear. Very busy girl.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘You, too.’

  I checked my watch. Nearly midday. Dr David-John and his sister should be back by now. Feeling somewhat cleansed, I took in a deep breath of smoky air and headed for Belinda Marple’s home.

  Why was it so smoky? Mason Street was thick with it. It was as if –

  Oh no! Oh God! Oh hell!

  I knew before I got there that the police barrier across the road was protecting the burned-out shell of number 166. I knew it had burned down while I’d been robbing old ladies and smoking and sending myself to hell. And I knew Belinda Marple and Leonard David-John had been trapped inside. And had burned to death.

  I knew, but it was still a shock to have it confirmed by the policeman guarding the barrier.

  ‘Fire started slow,’ he said, ‘probably in the kitchen. Half of the house was burning by the time anyone noticed. No fire alarm. Wood-framed house. No one could get in. It was too dangerous. Those poor folks must have just suffocated.’

  ‘Burned to death,’ I said. ‘Like a witch trial.’

  ‘Ayuh,’ he said, which seemed to be Mainer for ‘yes’.

  ‘Horrible way to die,’ I said, shuddering.

  ‘Ayuh.’

  I backed away, and went back to the river, walked down to the bank over the rushing water, and sat and looked at it for a while. So it was not only Sir Theodore and Irene Shepherd who’d been ki
lled by Sarah Wilde, but the security guard at Sir Theodore’s office block, Consuela Sanchez, Dr David-John and Belinda Marple.

  If indeed it had been her who killed them. For all I knew it could have been Tommy Canolti. Or Docherty. Or Jack. Or even sodding Harvey. I just didn’t know.

  My hands shaking, I got out my phone and called Luke. I needed reassurance. I needed familiarity. I needed to hear the voice of someone who didn’t want me dead.

  Voicemail. God bloody dammit.

  I only had one lead left. One more person who could help me figure this out. And if he wouldn’t talk to me, then I had nothing.

  Which was a bugger, because last I’d seen him he’d been flat on his back with a bleeding face and my gun aimed at his head.

  Bugger.

  JFK airport. Luke stumbled down the jet-bridge, ignoring the concerned queries of the cabin crew, and leaned against the wall, trying to turn his phone on.

  Nothing. The battery was dead.

  In his haste to get on a flight, any flight, to America, he’d brought no luggage. No phone charger.

  He stumbled on through the airport to make his connection, desperation pounding inside him.

  I got back to my hotel, paranoid about being watched. It wasn’t going to be good news when Louisa-May told everyone I’d been asking after the good doctor. And once Mrs W’s bag was found, and traced to the hotel, things could get really sticky. Probably it might be wise to keep out of East Penobscot for now.

  I sat in my room for a while, thinking. So someone had killed Consuela on Wednesday night and Dr David-John this morning. Was it coincidence that I’d been to see them both? Or simply that whoever was killing them was interested in them for the same reason I was: that they knew something?

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t talked to Dr David-John. He probably knew a lot about Sarah Wilde. He must have known her real name. Where she was from. A medical record that could help me trace her. Doctor-patient confidentiality wasn’t important: the SIG would have seen to that.

  But now I was at a loss. And full of suspects: Tommy Canolti, Sarah Wilde, even Jack.

  I needed to talk to him, and I needed to make sure I knew what I was talking about.

  And I needed something else, too.