Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  The man’s arms seemed to move in slow motion. If it was possible, Renee’s heart beat even faster. Her breath came out in ragged pants.

  “It’s him.”

  She was shaking and couldn’t stop. Trent looked over.

  “Damn it,” he said. The Pontiac’s tires squealed, and Renee was thrown back into her seat as Trent accelerated. Her door slammed shut with the car’s momentum as the older Russian man she had seen in Bluffdale and Chicago raised his firearm. Renee covered her eyes with her hands. She didn’t see the Russian fire, but she heard bullets strike their car. For a second, she was airborne without knowing why. She hit her head on the dash, and her vision swam for a moment.

  The ride stayed rough for another thirty seconds, but eventually it evened out, and the world came back into focus. She felt like she had been beaten up.

  She looked at Trent. He sat straight in his seat, panting. He turned his head toward her. His lips moved, but she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to keep the world from spinning. Trent’s voice came in clearer then.

  “Are you all right?”

  He put his hand on her shoulder, and she nodded, still keeping her eyes closed.

  “I think so,” she said. She swallowed and leaned her head back before opening her eyes. They were driving through town. Her stomach roiled.

  “Can we pull over?” she asked. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Not yet,” said Trent. “We need to get out of here first. Can you hold on?”

  She opened her window, allowing a thin stream of cold air into the cabin. She inhaled deeply. The chill calmed her and took some of the edge off her nausea. She nodded.

  “I think so.”

  Renee tried to avoid it, but she couldn’t help replaying the past couple of days through her mind. Mitch was dead because of her. So was Sheriff Amerson. They weren’t the only ones, either. She could lie to herself all she wanted, but deep down she knew some of those blasts she had heard at the hotel were gunfire, probably shotguns. Those college kids she swapped rooms with hadn’t done anything wrong; they didn’t know what was coming; they didn’t know who they had been dealing with.

  Her face felt hot. She swallowed back bile threatening to rise in her throat. Her eyes were wet. Trent drove for about twenty minutes before pulling off at the first rest stop they came to. It was small, but it had a welcome center with bathrooms and vending machines. He parked as far from the building as he could, giving them some privacy from other motorists.

  As soon as the car was off, Renee got out, her legs feeling like rubber. She felt the tears sting her eyes before she got to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was late enough that she was alone. She went to the first stall she came to and held her hair back with one hand while leaning against the toilet seat with the other. She vomited everything she had eaten for the past day and didn’t try to hold back the tears as sobs racked her body.

  Time didn’t have much meaning there. She stayed until she was done; that could have been five minutes, it could have been an hour. She didn’t know.

  When the nausea passed, she stood. She had a metallic taste in her mouth that she couldn’t spit out. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the sharp stink of cheap, industrial cleaning supplies.

  For a moment, it felt like her legs would give out, so she leaned against the yellow–tiled wall that separated each stall from the others. The cool tile stole whatever heat may have possessed her arms and sent a chill down her spine.

  She didn’t know how long she leaned against the wall, but the chills passed, leaving her only with memories she couldn’t forget. She flushed the toilet, stepped out of the stall and walked to a bank of sinks along one wall. It felt like the cheery yellow tiles were mocking her. If she had a hammer, she would have broken every one.

  She turned the water on hot and scrubbed her hands until the skin was red and abraded. She deserved that, though. It reminded her of what she had done. A fresh wave of nausea crashed over her, and her stomach clenched tight, but there was nothing inside left to purge. She stayed at the sink, leaning against it and waiting for the stomach cramps to pass. Sweat poured down her face and back, but she didn’t wash it off. She deserved the discomfort.

  When she was sure her bout of nausea was over, Renee stepped out of the restroom pavilion and into the night air. She could hear trucks on the interstate somewhere distant. It was strange to think of people going about their lives while hers was irrevocably shattered. She leaned on the metal rail intended for the handicapped and looked around the empty exterior. She was alone, isolated, the only person in sight. A shiver traveled up her spine once more.

  Trent had moved from the driver’s seat to the back by the time Renee reached the car. She climbed in beside him and curled up on the seat. She leaned her head against his chest and felt his body stiffen. He sat up straighter and pressed himself against the door, as if he were trying to back off. She felt her stomach begin to cramp as a fresh chorus of sobs began to wrack her body.

  She put a hand flat against his chest.

  “Please,” she said. She could taste the salt of her tears as they streamed down her cheeks. “Pretend you give a shit about me. Please, pretend you fucking care for once.”

  Trent hesitated at first, but then he wrapped his arms around her and bent his head toward her. She could feel his cheek on the top of her head.

  “I’m sorry Renee,” he whispered. “And I do care.”

  Monday, September 16. 6:59 a.m

  I–70 Rest Stop.

  The sun woke him up. It was a pinprick on the horizon that illuminated the landscape in early–morning red. Trent stretched and yawned. Aside from Baltimore, Maryland was a pretty state, and the rest area was no exception. There were trees all around them and gently rolling hills in the distance. Trent shifted and cleared his throat. Renee still leaned against his chest, her fingers grabbing onto his shirt as if it were a rung in a ladder.

  She stirred, and her fingers twitched as she woke up. The last woman Trent had been even remotely intimate with was his ex–wife, and that had been more than two years earlier. Renee felt strange against his chest. She used a different shampoo than Jessica had, and her arms were harder, more muscular. Her skin felt the same, though. Soft, pliant and warm. It felt nice to have her there, but it was bittersweet—more of a reminder of what he had lost than anything he had gained. He rubbed her back gently.

  “Morning,” he said.

  Renee patted his chest with the flat of her hand and pushed off, rubbing her eyes. He saw tear streaks on her cheeks, and her eyes were puffy, but she looked better than she had the night before.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

  Trent glanced at the sun.

  “Probably around seven,” he said.

  Renee nodded again and looked off into the distance.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “That wasn’t like me. I don’t usually do that.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry about the hotel. That shouldn’t have happened.”

  Renee swallowed but didn’t say anything. The silence they settled into was a little uneasy. It felt like he had just woken up beside his chemistry lab partner after a night of binge drinking in college. Renee shifted again and scooted out of arm’s reach. She looked down.

  “We’ve got that meeting at eleven,” she said. “We should change and get going.”

  Trent nodded.

  “It’s a plan,” he said. He reached to open the door, but Renee put her hand on his outstretched arm, stopping him. She opened her lips to speak, but then turned her head as if she couldn’t meet his gaze. Trent waited for a moment, but she eventually took her hand from his arm without saying a word. That was understandable; there wasn’t much to say.

  They both changed in the bathrooms quickly. He put on the jeans and shirt he had purchased at the thrift store, while she did likewise in the wo
men’s room. They looked better when they came out. He still needed to shave, but he didn’t think he looked too bad as long as he was wearing a jacket and decent shirt. Without those, he probably looked homeless. Renee looked fairly well put together, even though her entire outfit had cost her less than fifteen bucks.

  Before they left, she met Trent near their car with cups of coffee from a vending machine. It was as scorched as any coffee he had ever tasted, but it was better than nothing. Renee took a sip and winced, staring at her cup.

  “This is vile,” she said. She took another sip, and her eyebrows drew together painfully. She emptied the cup on a nearby patch of grass. “It doesn’t get better the more you drink.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said, looking at his cup. “We’ll find a Starbucks somewhere.”

  Renee nodded and leaned against their Pontiac. Trent took a quick look around. The rest area had come to life as the morning passed. A mostly Hispanic cleaning crew scrubbed the interior and tended to the plants outside, while families and long–haul commuters streamed in and out of the parking lot. Most of the semis had left before the morning rush, but there were still plenty of wandering eyes, any pair of which could recognize them and alert the police. No one seemed to be looking at them closely, at least.

  “We’re going to need to be careful when we get to Washington,” he said, sipping his coffee while maintaining a careful watch of the rest area’s entrance. “That raid last night was high profile. It will be on the news. There’s a good chance we’ll be mentioned.”

  Renee’s face turned ashen for a moment.

  “I don’t even want to think about that,” she said. “Those kids . . .”

  Her voice trailed below the point he could hear.

  “That wasn’t your fault. It was a good idea,” said Trent. “Something happened to make the arresting officers squeamish. You couldn’t have predicted that.”

  Renee swallowed.

  “No, but I should have thought of it,” she said. Her eyes became distant, but then they focused on him again. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. Maybe later. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Trent. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after seven. “We should get going, though, so we can make it on time.”

  Renee didn’t object, so Trent was about to climb in the driver’s seat.

  “I’d like to drive,” she said. “It takes my mind off things.”

  “DC traffic can be a bitch but if you want to drive, feel free.”

  She nodded, so they switched sides. They were on the interstate in about five minutes, and any trepidation that he had about Renee’s driving disappeared quickly. He had seen her drive before, but he had been so groggy that he hadn’t paid much attention. She tailed drivers hard, used her middle finger judiciously, and even flashed a few with her high beams as she jockeyed for position. She’d fit right into DC.

  It had been a while since he had been there, but Trent knew where to go. He fed her directions every twenty minutes or so.

  The previous night’s raid had added a new wrinkle to their ordeal. The police would be watching for them, but they wouldn’t have orders to kill. A gun–toting tourist wanting to play hero was something else, though. Not even the best plan could take something like that into account. Renee seemed to share his reservations because the longer she drove, the more she fidgeted. She’d move her lips as if she was starting to say something, but she stopped every time.

  “Something on your mind?” he asked, eventually.

  Renee drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Richard Kimball never went to Washington.”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “Who’s Richard Kimball?” asked Trent.

  “The Fugitive. He was on a TV show in the sixties,” she said. “Harrison Ford played him in a movie.”

  “Okay,” said Trent, unsure what she was getting at. “What do you want to do?”

  Renee’s lips moved and she fidgeted again, but she never said anything aloud.

  “I don’t know,” she said eventually. “This just doesn’t seem smart.”

  Trent leaned back into his seat.

  “You’re at the wheel,” he said. “I’ll support whatever you do.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “This sucks,” she said.

  “I know.”

  They drove in silence for another hour and a half. Traffic moved quickly as rows of condominiums, restaurants and shopping centers replaced the forests that had followed them through Maryland. Renee merged onto I–370 a few minutes later, and, at Trent’s suggestion, she exited onto Shady Grove Road a few minutes after that.

  “I think our best shot is to take the metro in like we did in Chicago,” said Trent. “We’ll dump the car in the Shady Grove station’s lot. No one ought to notice until tonight when they clear the place out.”

  Renee nodded.

  “You spend a lot of time in Washington?” she asked, glancing at him when the traffic was light.

  “Some. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you know it about as well as you do Pittsburgh. Which is strange because you also told me you needed to get directions on our cell phone yesterday.”

  Trent hesitated before answering, unsure what Renee was getting at.

  “I know DC fairly well, but I don’t know rural Maryland.”

  She nodded, a disbelieving look on her face. He settled back onto his chair and crossed his arms.

  One more thing I don’t need.

  Shady Grove was the end of the Red Line in Rockville, Maryland. It was a commuter station primarily, so it had a huge parking lot. Their Pontiac would be easy to miss even if someone knew what to look for. If it hadn’t been reported stolen yet, they’d hopefully have at least twelve hours in DC before anyone had an inkling that they were in the area.

  He helped Renee disconnect the wires that kept their car running and stepped onto the asphalt. It was warm and humid outside, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He leaned against the car.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Renee nodded before reaching to the seat behind her, grabbing a pair of Jackie–O–sized tortoiseshell sunglasses she had purchased earlier. They may not have been the best sunglasses in the world, but they obscured her face well.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Trent stood, opened the rear door and grabbed a Chicago Cubs baseball hat from the back seat. The hat was a size too small, and it already had a sweat stain on the inside, but it would obscure his face enough to fool people who didn’t know him.

  They shut and locked their car doors before walking toward the station. Shady Grove station was an open–air concrete edifice a few hundred yards away. The platform looked like a pair of giant cylinders turned on their sides and cut to form archways under which the trains could pass. It was a busy place. A small roadway for buses, taxis and drop–offs separated the station from the parking lot, while benches and covered bus stops lined the street. People milled about everywhere.

  Trent reached over and put his hand on Renee’s forearm, slowing her stride. A uniformed Metro Transit police officer stood beside one of the bus stops, watching as people crossed the street. Renee paused midstride and looked at him.

  “You think he saw us?” whispered Renee.

  “I don’t know,” said Trent. Renee glanced at the police officer. He didn’t seem to be looking at anyone in particular, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of their presence. “He could just be waiting for a bus.”

  “Do cops take buses?” she asked.

  Trent ignored the question and visually searched the station for exits.

  “If he’s got us, he’s got us,” said Trent, taking a step forward. “We look suspicious just standing here talking.”

  Renee nodded. As soon as they crossed the street, a white Metro Transit bus pulled up to th
e curb. A stream of people stepped out, many of whom looked like college students. She and Trent avoided the cop’s direct gaze and stepped into the fast moving crowd. No one seemed to take notice of the new arrivals, although between their mass use of iPods and cell phones, Trent didn’t know what would make the crowd take notice of anything. Maybe if Renee flashed them.

  Trent cast sidelong glances around the station, hoping to spot the police officer. He was gone, though. He leaned into Renee.

  “I think we might have lost him,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “One down.”

  And only three thousand or so to go.

  Trent kept the thought to himself. The walkway sloped into a ramp leading into the metro station. Thick concrete retaining walls held the earth back, while a chain–link fence kept the encroaching plant life from spilling over onto the walkway. A long line of variously colored newspaper dispensers had been shoved against the walls, and a black, rectangular kiosk with the words “Shady Grove Station” printed on it stood in the middle of the path.

  Trent leaned into Renee again and whispered.

  “If we get separated, meet me at the mall side of the Smithsonian metro station. There will be a lot of tourists there, so we ought to be able to hide in the crowds.”

  Renee nodded as they stepped inside the tunnel. It took a moment for Trent’s eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. A bank of ticket–dispensing machines covered one wall, and a uniformed metro worker sat in a booth in the middle of the lobby. A Japanese family stood in front of the machines, conversing and passing out money.

  Trent bought a pair of one–day passes from one of the machines, his skin feeling as if insects were crawling over it. He could see cameras suspended from the ceiling in the corners of the room. Most were focused on the ticket machines, but they still made him nervous. Once he got the tickets, he pulled his hat low and looked at the ground so the cameras couldn’t capture his face.

  “Something wrong?” asked Renee.

  “Cameras,” he said, handing her a ticket. She took it and nodded.