Run Rabbit Run

by Kate Johnson

I changed my clothes, gathered my wits (what few I had left) and went down to Reception. ‘Is there a mall around here that sells electrical goods?’

  There was, and I was directed to the correct bus stop. Half-an-hour later I found myself in a big bland mall and wandered around until I found what I was looking for. It wasn’t the tiny, wireless sort of device I was used to, but it would get the job done.

  And no, it wasn’t anything to with sex. I was buying a miniature digital audio recorder. Don’t be filthy.

  This sort of specialist device required specialist clothing, so I went to Abercrombie & Fitch and got myself a pair of combats with lots of pockets. The digital recorder fitted neatly into the top one. Perfect.

  I experimented with it on the way back to the hotel, turning up the volume and seeing what I could pick up. It wasn’t perfect, so recording anything more than a few feet away might be interesting, but I could just about make things out. I’d just have to stay close to Jack.

  By the time I got back to the hotel it was getting dark. I rehearsed my speech to Jack as I walked along the corridor to my room. Sorry I lashed out at him, I was drunk and hurt and acting stupid. I was highly stressed. We should work together – I couldn’t get it done by myself. Yeah. Be helpless and flirty.

  God, I’m so crap at being helpless. And flirty works so much better with blonde hair.

  I was just looking for my key when I heard it. A footfall. There was someone inside my room.

  My heartbeat speeded up. I fumbled in my bag for the gun and my hand alighted on the digital recorder.

  I stopped.

  There was always the possibility, in this sort of situation, that I might end up shooting someone. And they might end up dying. And I might end up getting blamed. And so far, with the two other people I’ve done for, there was someone else there to confirm it was self-defence and that the deceased was guilty and confessed and, most importantly, that I shot them because they were trying to kill me. But right here and right now, there was no one. If I shot whoever was in that room, it’d be another mark on my rap sheet. And I really didn’t need that.

  I pressed the Record switch, dropped it into my pocket and flicked the safety catch off my gun. Then I slid the card into the door lock and pushed the door open with my foot, gun raised like in the movies. Possibly not the wisest move because I had absolutely no defence if I was picked up for carrying concealed, but then I didn’t plan on getting picked up. By anyone.

  If it was a cop in there I was buggered.

  But it wasn’t a cop – at least, if it was, the American police system was in trouble. It was a guy in sweatpants and a hoodie. He had a greasy, stubbly face, small dark eyes and dirty black hair. There was a gun tucked in his pocket. He looked at my SIG with interest.

  ‘Nice piece.’

  ‘Thanks. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Tommy Canolti. I believe we spoke on the phone.’ Oh yeah, I recognised his voice now. One of those hard, Italian gangster sort of voices. Maybe he wasn’t with the Mob, but he wished he was.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘You’re not Irene Shepherd’s gardener.’

  ‘Well, no, maybe not.’ His hand strayed down to his gun, and I shook my head at him. ‘Hands on your head.’

  He did as he was told, leering, ‘I like strong women.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You wanted to know about Samantha Wilde?’

  ‘Sarah. Sarah Wilde.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. I know about her.’

  Yeah, sure, buddy. You know so much you can’t even remember her name. ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘A lot of things.’ He looked at me slyly. ‘For the right price.’

  I stared incredulously. ‘I have a gun aimed at your head and you’re asking for a bribe? Listen, mate, without wanting to sound like Victoria Beckham, do you even know who I am?’

  ‘I know you’re wanted for the murders of five people.’

  ‘Five?’ Oh God, oh God.

  ‘Forgot how many you’ve killed?’

  ‘Just how many I’m accused of. I know there’s probably not much room in that greasy head of yours for thought, but try this one and see if it’ll fit. Me, gun. Me, dangerous. You, scumbag who I don’t care about. How about instead of paying you for information, I just don’t shoot you?’

  ‘I don’t think so well with a gun aimed at me.’

  ‘Do you think any better when you’re bleeding?’

  He looked as if he was thinking about this.

  ‘Okay,’ he said eventually, and lowered one hand.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘I got a phone number. It’s in my pocket,’ he explained patiently.

  ‘You’ve also got a gun. That’s in your pocket.’

  ‘I could just be pleased to see you.’

  I was not amused.

  ‘You wanna get the piece of paper?’ Canolti offered, and I’m afraid I actually shuddered. ‘Okay. Look. Just one hand. Nice and slow.’

  I kept my gun trained on that hand, but what I then failed to notice was his other hand, dropping down slowly on the other side and grabbing his gun.

  And firing at me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hartford. A TV in the airport bar was showing local news. Police had named Sophie Green as the principal suspect in the double murder at Judge Shepherd’s house. A photo of Sophie on the screen, a terrible file photo she’d always hated.

  ‘Police warn that the suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. Do not approach. Please call our special hotline with any information.’

  They’d named her. They’d actually finally gone public. She was stuck now, stranded. Her face was everywhere. Anyone could turn her in at any moment.

  Luke stared up at the number and found himself considering calling the hotline, so they might put out the news about Alexa Martin, so Sophie might see it. Assuming she was still local. Which she probably wasn’t. And he’d have contravened the Official Secrets Act. So he’d be in even more trouble. If that was possible.

  He ran on, towards the taxi rank.

  I ducked just in time. Something hot burned my arm, there was a crash and I realised the bullet had smashed into the wall behind me. Canolti took advantage of my shock to shove past me, yank open the door and race out.

  I hauled myself to my feet and scrambled after him. I could hear shrieks coming from the left, so I ran that way, down the stairs, just catching a glimpse of him vanishing around the turn of the stairs. I fired off a shot and more people screamed and got in my way, milling around my feet like stupid chickens.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ I yelled, and then added as an afterthought, ‘Police!’

  I tripped and fell flat on my face at the bottom of the stairs, and accidentally shot out a chunk of wood from the Reception desk. More people screamed. It was getting tiresome now.

  There was another clanging shot, and I curled myself into a ball. A few inches away, the carpet smoked as a slug buried itself in the tiles underneath.

  I picked myself up again and raced after Canolti. I still wasn’t sure who he was or what the hell he had to do with anything, but I knew innocent people didn’t fire guns and run away.

  Usually.

  Outside, there were cars everywhere and people milling about in the dusky darkness, and I just had time to see Canolti grab a taxi driver and shove him to the ground, before someone cannoned into me.

  ‘Sophie?’

  I struggled to get past him, then my name pierced my consciousness. I looked up. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ He touched my arm, and it stung. I was surprised to see blood there.

  ‘I’m – get out of the way.’ Canolti was tearing out of the car park in the taxi.

  ‘Why is Tommy Canolti firing at you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you have a car?’ I asked urgently.

  Jack gestured to a big, ugly, American car parked at the kerb and I bounced into the passenger seat.

  No. Bugger. This was America. It
was the driving seat.

  ‘Gimme the keys,’ I said, holding my hand out. ‘Give me the goddamned keys!’

  Jack gave me the keys, and just had time to throw himself into the back seat as I squealed away from the kerb.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded as I made a hard left and very nearly drove into a Jeep coming out of a parking space. ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’

  ‘Why are you chasing Canolti?’

  ‘He shot at me.’

  ‘He got you. Your arm is bleeding.’

  I glanced down at it. Yeuch, that was a mess.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said absently, coming to the exit of the car park, onto a busy, four-lane road. Traffic streamed past, oblivious to me. I needed to turn left, straight across the traffic. It was never going to happen.

  So I rammed my fist onto the steering wheel, surprising myself with a very, very loud blast of the horn, and shoved my foot to the floor.

  The car shot forwards, distorted sights and sounds flew by me, something smashed into the back of the car and spun me in the wrong direction. Jack was yelling in the background and I remembered my brother telling me that if I ever spun a car, to turn the wheel in the opposite direction to make a bit of friction and stop the wheels skidding.

  Other cars were screaming to a halt and crashing into each other, there were horns going off all over, and I thought, hell, I’ll have lost him now. The car bounced off a cab, I rammed it into reverse and swore repeatedly at the stupid American automatic gearbox before I got the damn thing to go forwards again, and we ricocheted into the far lane.

  Better.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jack howled. ‘You nearly got us both killed.’

  ‘Aren’t you wearing your seatbelt?’ I craned to see how far ahead Canolti’s taxi was. Too far. Crap. The traffic moved so goddamned slowly. The longer we hung around here, the more likely it’d be that the police would turn up, and that was the last thing I needed.

  Oh well. In for a penny and all that.

  I swung the wheel to the right and we bounced up onto the sidewalk. Just like Grand Theft Auto. I was king of the road here. Or queen. Or whatever.

  ‘Jesus, Sophie,’ Jack moaned from the back seat.

  ‘Can you think of a better way to catch him? And anyway,’ I twisted round to look at him, ‘how do you know Canolti?’

  Jack had his hands over his face, but when he saw me looking at him he yelped, ‘Pedestrian!’

  I swung my eyes back to the road – or the sidewalk, as the case was. A startled woman was throwing herself into the hedge. Whoops. Nearly got her there.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ Jack was actually genuflecting.

  ‘I’m not that bad a driver,’ I reassured him.

  ‘You’re on the goddamned sidewalk.’

  ‘I only failed my test twice.’

  ‘Do I dare ask what for?’

  ‘Um, well the first time I accidentally got onto the motorway –’

  ‘How?’

  ‘And then the second time I ran a red …’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘He won’t help you,’ I said grimly, spying the taxi on the inside lane. And then I wondered, now that I had him, what did I do with him?

  He was turning. Bugger. The bastard was turning.

  He swung out left across the central reservation and bounced down a smaller road, veering into the left lane to overtake an MPV.

  ‘Are you holding onto something?’ I asked Jack.

  ‘My sanity.’

  ‘Try the seat,’ I advised, and hammered the horn again before barging through two lanes of traffic, hitting three other cars on the way. The car shunted and groaned – but then that might have been me – and we made it through with only the loss of the back bumper. I swore at the gearbox again and took off after Canolti, switching lanes like he did. You know, overtaking is a hell of a lot easier on the wrong side of the road. You can see what’s coming really easily. And they even sometimes get out of your way.

  ‘Are you armed?’ I asked Jack, who nodded.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Six left. There’s a spare in my bag,’ I chucked it back at him, ‘if you could get it out for me.’

  He did, and in between swerving pointlessly large penis-extensions masquerading as vehicles, I tucked the magazine into one of my pockets. I guess there’s a reason they call them combats, huh?

  ‘How did you find me?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t. I found Canolti.’

  ‘I – what?’

  ‘Remember I said I went to see Irene Shepherd about a guy she’d posted bail on?’

  There was a clunk in my head. The penny dropping.

  ‘Canolti is your skip?’

  ‘Yep. Shame I don’t have the pickup papers on me. He’s worth five grand to me.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Why are you chasing him?’

  ‘I don’t like people who shoot at me.’

  ‘Is your arm all right?’

  I glanced back down. There was blood dripping onto the seat. ‘It’s just a scratch.’

  ‘Why was he shooting at you?’

  ‘I, er – shit, where’d he go?’ If we were in Grand Theft Auto there’d be a giant pink arrow to tell me. But life does not come with big pink arrows. And there sure as hell aren’t any Reload Game options.

  ‘Right, down there,’ Jack pointed, and between some buildings I saw the taxi careering away. I made another violent turn, managing to cross both lanes of both roads, before righting myself and speeding after him.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’d be able to shoot out his tyres?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t suppose so either. You were saying?’

  ‘He turned up in my hotel room. Said he knew something about Sarah Wilde.’

  ‘He just turned up?’

  ‘Well, probably it had something to do with me standing him up on Thursday.’

  ‘Come again?’

  I explained briefly about going to see Consuela Sanchez, Canolti’s phone call, and Sanchez’s death. I omitted the part about Harvey. I’m not a complete idiot.

  ‘You think he killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know. He could have.’

  ‘She did post bail on him –’

  I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘I meant Sanchez. You think he killed Shepherd, too?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He could have.’

  My head was swirling and my arm was starting to hurt quite a lot. Despite what they say about women and multi-tasking, I’ve never been very good at concentrating on two things at once. Well, I mean, I’m excellent at eating while watching TV or reading a book, and I can sing and drive at the same time, which I count as a major achievement, but as for thinking hard about a tangly murder case in which I play a large part, chasing after someone who appears to be (much as I hate to say it) a much better driver than me, and trying to figure out if I trust the armed man sitting behind me, well, that was all a bit beyond my exhausted and never very clever brain.

  Canolti was heading out of town, taking as many turns as he could. I glanced at the petrol gauge on Jack’s hire car and was relieved to see it was mostly full.

  ‘He’s heading out towards East Penobscot,’ Jack said.

  ‘Oh, did you hear about Dr David-John?’

  ‘Yep. Burned extra crispy.’

  I winced at his insensitivity. ‘And his sister, too. She was really nice.’

  ‘You talked to him?’

  ‘No, just her. I never got around to him. Don’t suppose I will now.’

  Jack was silent a bit. Then he said, ‘Sophie, do you think it’s a coincidence that Canolti was in Hartford when you were in Hartford, and in Bangor when you’re in Bangor?’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ I said, screaming around a corner and saying goodbye to the exhaust pipe.

  ‘No. You think he followed you?’

  ‘Maybe he followed you. How did you even know he was here?’r />
  ‘I saw him,’ Jack said. ‘In a diner in town. That was a total coincidence. I followed him to your hotel. Wondered what the hell he was doing here.’

  ‘How did he find me?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t – Sophie, Mack truck, Mack truck –’

  I swerved back onto the right side of the road away from the unfeasibly large lorry. I don’t know, it’s just unnatural to me. People should drive on the left. It makes sense that way.

  But when the truck had rumbled off and my vision of the road was clear, it was – well, clear. There was nothing there.

  ‘He’s switched his lights off.’

  ‘No, he’s gone off-road.’

  ‘In that old banger?’ Suddenly, I longed for Ted, my darling, old, battered Defender. Off-road, he could not be beaten. I hoped Luke was taking good care of him. Well, better than I did with his car, anyway.

  I sighed and swung the wheel off to the right. We were in open country now, the wide Penobscot river stretching away a few metres from where we rattled along over a rutted field. There were cows standing and lying around and I could see Canolti’s taxi wobbling around between them, obviously hoping to get them in my way. It was working: the cows were getting up and jogging around, looking menacing.

  ‘There wouldn’t be any angry bulls around, would there?’ Jack asked with a hint of apprehension.

  ‘No. Bull’ll be in a separate field, away from the herd.’

  ‘Farm girl.’

  Far from it. Ugh, think of all the mud. I live in arable country anyway. But, doesn’t everyone know you keep bulls away from the –

  ‘When you say a separate field,’ Jack said, and pointed over my shoulder to a fence. A fence that Canolti was now approaching at high speed.

  ‘Never gonna happen,’ I said, ‘you’ve got to have a stronger car than –’

  There was a huge, tearing crash. Goddamn. He made it.

  ‘Makes it easier for us.’ I shrugged, and followed.

  And then I slammed my foot on the brake.

  ‘What?’ Jack said.

  ‘Found the bull.’

  ‘Well, they can’t be that dangerous, can they?’

  ‘You want to get out there and test the theory?’

  Jack was silent. I was silent. We stared at the scene playing out in the headlights of the hire car. The bull ambled towards Canolti. Canolti didn’t stop. The bull ran away. Canolti revved faster. Then he suddenly swerved, away from a tree. He spun on the mud, and then ended up facing us.