Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  She dried her face with a hand towel and turned on the TV. She flipped through the stations until she found a twenty–four–hour news channel. Sheriff Amerson’s death wasn’t important enough to make the national news, so at least she and Trent weren’t pseudo–celebrities yet. She sighed and sat on the bed, her knees curled to her chin. Eventually, her exhaustion overtook her desire to stay awake, and she closed her eyes. She was out within minutes.

  She woke up when someone knocked on the door. The room was as she remembered it, although the sun no longer beat down on her window. The TV was still on, and, according to the room’s alarm clock, she had been asleep for two hours. There was another knock.

  “It’s Trent. Can I come in?”

  Renee hesitated before slipping off the bed and walking to the door.

  “Why did you lie to me?” she asked. The door felt solid, and it had a sturdy lock. Trent wasn’t getting through unless she let him, and she needed answers.

  “I didn’t lie to you,” he said.

  “Yes you did, and you just did again,” she said, her voice rising in pitch.

  “What did I lie about?” he asked.

  “Why are you really in Ohio?”

  Trent didn’t say anything for about a minute. Renee leaned against the door. She wanted some reason to believe him, to trust him. She could go on by herself, but it was so much easier with someone to help.

  “I transferred to Ohio after my six–year–old daughter died and my marriage disintegrated,” he said, finally. “I wanted a new start. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  She unlocked the door but kept the chain latched. Trent stood outside; there was a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, and his cheeks were sallow.

  “Tell me that again, and let me see your eyes when you say it.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “Yes,” she said. Trent stared directly at her, unblinking.

  “My daughter died last year. It was the worst day of my life. I lost Audrey, my wife, my friends, everything that ever mattered to me. I came to Ohio because I needed a new start.”

  Renee swallowed; his eyes hadn’t twitched.

  “How?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

  “I caught a lot of bad people doing bad things when I worked undercover. One of them found out who I was and tried to kill me. He blew up my car while Audrey was inside.”

  “Did anyone catch the guy?”

  Trent looked away and shielded his eyes from the sun.

  “Yeah,” he said. She expected him to continue, but he didn’t.

  “I looked you up on the Internet,” she said, her stomach fluttering. “I… I didn’t see anything about her.”

  “My department kept names out of the paper for everyone’s safety. My little girl died, and it was entirely my fault. I didn’t think you needed to hear that, and I don’t like talking about it.”

  Renee leaned against the door frame, feeling her anger dissipate some. She closed the door long enough to undo the chain. As soon as he was in, Trent went to the nearest bed and kicked off his shoes. He sat down, staring straight ahead for a moment.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said again. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Trent nodded again, still not meeting her gaze.

  “We need to leave soon,” he said. “But I’d like to close my eyes first.”

  “Sure,” said Renee, not knowing what else to say.

  Saturday, September 14. 4:12 p.m

  Chicago, IL.

  Anatoly balanced a paper sack of groceries on his hip with one arm while fishing inside his pocket for his keys. The air was cool and musky outside his basement apartment. Deep cracks ran along the concrete retaining wall to his right, and tiny weeds popped through the crevices. Half an inch of water pooled at his feet.

  He hated the apartment. He may have made mistakes in his life, but his family deserved better than this. Unfortunately, it was all he could afford to provide.

  He shifted the heavy bag of groceries and knocked to let his daughter know that he was home before inserting his key into the deadbolt. No one answered his knock; Annya must have still been in class.

  He opened the door and stepped inside. The interior of the apartment matched the exterior. The plaster walls and ceiling had more cracks than the retaining wall outside, and the exterior windows were so caked with dirt that the little light that came into the room was filtered a dull brown. His daughter, Annya, had tried to brighten the place with new paint and throw rugs, but there was little she could do to cover the fact that it was a cheap, basement apartment.

  Anatoly shut the door behind him and stepped inside. The room smelled like mold; he’d have to file a complaint with the building’s superintendent about that. Not that anything would happen, of course. Nothing was ever fixed in the apartment. He set the bag of groceries on the card table that served as their dining room table and walked to the fridge. They didn’t have much inside; some milk for his granddaughter’s Captain Crunch, a loaf of bread, a few apples. Annya would graduate from college in another year. Hopefully she’d be able to provide for herself and her daughter better than he could.

  “So this is where the great Anatoly Levitsky goes to die.”

  Anatoly reached into his jacket and grabbed his firearm. The fridge door swung shut as he walked back into the living room.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  The house was dark, but Anatoly had recognized the voice. Gregori. He must have been in one of the bedrooms because he stepped into the hallway and started walking toward the living room. It had been a while since Anatoly had seen Gregori face–to–face but little had changed. He still had the same deeply inset, cold eyes that Anatoly had seen years earlier, but now his jet–black hair was beginning to be streaked with gray.

  Gregori was almost graceful as he crossed the room. He had boxed when he was a kid; in another life, he might have even been able to make something of himself. Years of drinking and drug abuse had ruined any chance for that, though. He carried the laptop Victor had taken from Dr. Byram’s office but dropped it on the couch in the living room.

  “Is this how you greet all your friends, Uncle Anatoly?”

  “Only you,” said Anatoly, his arm stiff. He kept the gun aimed at Gregori’s head as he stepped into the light.

  “You were my father’s best friend until your falling out,” said Gregori. He spoke slowly, even with a bit of deference. “You know, you were my hero growing up. Dad talked about you like you were some sort of superman.”

  “Stop right there,” said Anatoly, returning his gun to his shoulder holster. “I’m old, but I’m not stupid. I’m not interested in exchanging pleasantries, and neither are you. What do you want?”

  Gregori’s face hardened, and his back straightened.

  “I need your help,” said Gregori. “I need somebody I can trust. You owe my family.”

  “If anyone, I owe your father,” said Anatoly, rotating his arthritic shoulder to stretch it. “I owe you nothing. Now get out of here. I’m here to see my family.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Gregori. “And believe me when I say that I hope to let that happen, but they’re busy right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Anatoly, crossing his arms. His heart thundered against his ribs like a jackhammer, but he tried to keep it from showing.

  “They’re safe,” said Gregori. “That’s all you need to know.”

  Anatoly squeezed his hands into fists. Gregori may have been younger, and he was definitely a better athlete, but Anatoly had gone up against worse odds and still won. He crossed the room and grabbed the lapels of Gregori’s jacket. He pulled the younger man close enough to his face that Anatoly could feel hot breath on his cheeks. Blood coursed through his veins rhythmically as he clenched his fists.

  “Where is my family?”

  Gregory chuckled and put his hands on top of Anatoly’s.


  “Nice to know the Anatoly I’ve heard so many stories about is still in there somewhere,” he said, peeling Anatoly’s fingers from his jacket. “They’re fine. I thought I’d take care of them while you’re doing my favor. I thought if you knew they were safe with me, you’d be a little less worried about them while you finish the job.”

  Anatoly released his grip on Gregori’s jacket and took a step back. He pointed toward the door.

  “You thought wrong. Get out.”

  “Relax,” said Gregori, placing his hand on Anatoly’s shoulder. “Katja and Annya are with my wife and daughter. Do you think I’d put my own wife and daughter in danger? Just finish this job for me, and I’ll pay you enough to buy them a new house in a better neighborhood.”

  Anatoly clenched his jaw and glanced around the apartment. A trail of dust particles had followed him into the living room, apparently kicked into the air by his footsteps.

  “You do this one job for me,” said Gregori. “And they’ll never have to see this place again.”

  “Where’s your father?” asked Anatoly. “Does he know what you’ve done?”

  “My father isn’t well. If you ever visited, you’d know that. He doesn’t know anything about this.”

  “Get out of here and give me my kids.”

  “My wife took them to our house in DC for a few days. They’ll see the sights,” said Gregori. Anatoly glowered and Gregori put his hands in the air defensively. “Anatoly, we’re family. I love you like an uncle, and I want to help you. If you do this job, you’ll have enough money that none of you will ever have to return to this shitty little apartment again. Think about that. Katja will go to a better school, you won’t have to worry about Annya being mugged waiting at the bus stop, you’ll have decent food. It will be a better life for all of you.”

  Anatoly felt sick to his stomach as he glanced around the room. The brown carpet was mildewing in spots, the furniture was threadbare at best, and his granddaughter took her life into her hands every time she walked into the local public schools. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all he could give them on his own.

  “I swear to God, if you hurt my family, I will kill you.”

  “When you finish this job, you’ll have them back. Nothing will happen.”

  When he finished the job, he’d have them back. The importance of the statement was unmistakable. More than money was now riding on finding Dr. Carter.

  “Get out of my house.”

  Gregori smiled.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” he said. He walked to the couch and picked up the laptop. “Everything will be fine.”

  Anatoly balled his fists at his sides and held his breath, knowing that nothing he said would improve the situation. As soon as Gregori left, Anatoly took out his cell phone and started dialing. An old friend picked up on the second ring.

  “I just had a visit from Gregori Fortunatov. I need some help.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was silent for a moment.

  “Come by my office tonight,” he said. “We’ll discuss it over drinks.”

  Saturday, September 14. 4:04 p.m

  Franklin, IN.

  Trent’s eyes fluttered open as a shrill, intermittent beep filled the room. For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was or why he was there. When his wits finally came back to him, he wished they hadn’t. He hadn’t known what would happen when he got the call to Bluffdale, but being chased across the Midwest hadn’t even entered his mind. It sucked.

  He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the alarm clock on the end table beside his bed. Two hours of sleep was better than nothing, but not by much. Renee was on the other bed, her arms still curled around one of the pillows in a death grip.

  He rolled off the bed and picked up the cell phone from the end table between them, rubbing his eyes until the words on the phone’s tiny screen came into focus. They had received a text message from the security company that monitored Renee’s laptop. It was in Chicago. He could picture the route perfectly in his head: two hundred and ten miles straight up I–65. It’d be an easy drive. They’d pass through Indianapolis and a number of other towns too small to mention. If traffic was light, they could be there by seven–thirty. If they were lucky, they might be able to get could get Renee’s laptop that night.

  He put the phone back on the end table.

  “Renee?” he called, his voice soft so he wouldn’t startle her. “Time to get up.”

  She stirred, but didn’t open her eyes.

  “What time is it?” she asked, covering her forehead and eyes with her arm.

  “A bit after four,” he said. “Time to go.”

  “Can’t I just sleep a little longer?”

  He scratched his brow and grabbed the room key from the end table.

  “Ten minutes,” he said. “But you need to be ready to go as soon as I come back through the door.”

  “Sure,” she said, rolling over. Her eyes were closed again immediately, and her arms were around the pillow. Trent watched her until her breath settled into a slow, easy rhythm. She wouldn’t be ready in ten minutes, but if he had to, he could pick her up. He grabbed a wire coat hanger a previous guest had left on the rack near the bathroom and left the room.

  It was late afternoon, but the sun was still high enough that there were few shadows in which to hide. That’d make his plan a little more difficult but not impossible.

  Franklin was a small town, but it had a number of things going for it, not the least of which was a college a few blocks from their motel. He walked over, carrying the coat hanger tucked into the back of his pants. It was stiff, but that was okay. When he got to the college, it didn’t take him long to find what he wanted, a long–term parking lot for students. It was still early enough in the term that few students would be homesick yet, so hopefully no one would even notice a missing car for a few days.

  He knelt beside a late–model Toyota Corolla and peered at the dash for the telltale blink of an alarm system. He didn’t see one, so he unwound his coat hanger and looked around. The campus was quiet. He could hear the thwack of a tennis ball being bounced against the concrete somewhere distant, but he couldn’t see the players.

  He swallowed and memorized the expansive lot, planning his route. Since he’d be driving a stolen car, he wanted to avoid the campus as much as possible in case he ran into someone who recognized it. He was far enough from the dorms and classrooms, though, that witnesses shouldn’t have been an issue.

  He snaked the coat hanger’s hook between the glass and door frame. The wire warmed as he bent it. Trent had spent six years of his life after college in the military. Four of those years were with a small, reconnaissance unit that had specialized in infiltration and sabotage. He had probably broken into twenty cars during those years, so the Toyota posed little problem. He hooked the loop around the locking mechanism and pulled, causing the door to pop open. It had taken him thirty seconds tops; his former commanding officer would probably have been proud.

  The car’s interior was a mess. There was an empty bag of Cheetos on the backseat, soda bottles on the floorboards, and the remnants of a joint in the ashtray. Judging by the state of the interior, Trent doubted the car’s owner spent much time in the library on the weekends; hopefully he wasn’t planning on driving to a head shop in Indianapolis, either.

  Trent grabbed a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and jammed it into the ignition. He was ruining his knife and the car’s key cylinder, but it was still the quickest way to get a late–model car started. He turned his wrist, and the car chugged to life. If he had picked up a newer car, he would have had to hot wire it. It wasn’t hard, but it would have taken time he couldn’t afford. The Toyota was probably the best car on the lot for his purposes.

  He was off campus within a minute and back at the hotel five minutes after that. Nobody followed him, and no one seemed to notice when he left his car running and went inside. Renee hadn�
��t shifted from the bed, so he gently shook her shoulder. She swatted his hand away.

  “I just went to bed,” she said. “Can’t we stay here tonight?”

  “I’ve already stolen a car,” said Trent. “We need to get out of here.”

  She didn’t react for a second, but then she sat up, a confused look on her face.

  “You stole a car?”

  “Yeah,” said Trent. “So we need to get out of here. Now.”

  Renee threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her hair in disarray. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked around the room.

  “I feel like I should be upset by that, but strangely, I’m not,” she said. She blinked a few times. “I guess we don’t have any luggage.”

  “Come on,” said Trent, already walking to the door and holding it open for her. Renee slipped her shoes on and paused at the threshold, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Trent ignored it, unsure what she was thinking. He put his hand on her upper back to usher her out. Before pulling the door shut, he closed the blinds and turned on the TV, hoping that passersby would assume the room was occupied.

  Cars drove by the motel in a steady stream, getting on and off the interstate. None looked like the sort of thing a police department would issue its officers, but it was hard to tell. With money tight, he had heard of departments switching to cheaper, smaller vehicles to replace their aging fleets. He had even heard of a department in the South that had started issuing its officers vehicles they had confiscated from drug dealers. The cars may have been flashy, but they were great cover. Nobody expected to be pulled over by a minivan with twenty–two inch rims.

  He pointed at the Toyota, and Renee sat in the passenger seat, her nose wrinkled. Trent sat beside her and reversed out of their parking spot.

  “It smells like dope in here,” she said. “I assume the car came like that.”

  Trent nodded and put on his seat belt. He looked down at the automatic gearbox before moving the selector to drive. Renee buckled up quickly and looked around.

  “I had a car like this in college,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I remember the backseat being bigger.”