Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  “If they’re using pattern recognition software, we’re in trouble,” she said. “One of the guys I went to graduate school with does consulting work on this. He told me they were developing a system to match individuals to the tones of their skin. They don’t even need a face shot, just a picture of your arms or legs.”

  “Let’s just hope DC didn’t hire your friend.”

  Despite the gloom, Renee had kept her sunglasses on. If she was right about the skin tone matching, neither of their pitiful disguises would end up doing them much good. Even still, he kept his hat on and his head low as they walked through the turnstiles and into the station proper. Renee’s posture was rod–straight.

  “Try to relax,” he said, his voice low. “Homeland security has a big budget, but they’re interested in terrorists. Even if we get picked up by the cameras, we’re probably not going to be on their watch list.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Renee.

  They followed the crowd toward a pair of escalators that went up to the train platform. Once they were off the escalator, Trent gently took Renee’s arm and led her through the crowd to an open spot away from the tracks. By all outward appearances, they could have been a couple on vacation, maybe even their honeymoon. Of course if this was their honeymoon, they must have been in hell.

  Like most trains, the DC metro arrived with a thunderous cacophony that Trent could hear and feel as well as see. There was a hurried, electric feel in the air as a train barreled toward the station. He couldn’t see any cameras or police, so they were safe as far as that went, but any number of other people could recognize them. He leaned into her.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “We can call this off now.”

  Renee’s eyes darted around the platform before she answered.

  “I’m fine. Just nervous.”

  Trent cast his eyes around the station again, but they were still in the clear.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about yet. We’re just like any other tourists on vacation in Washington.”

  That didn’t seem to convince her, but she nodded and swallowed.

  “If we get separated,” she said, looking away at the crowd. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  He looked at her for a moment, her eyes narrow. She was planning something.

  “We’ll focus on not getting separated for now,” he said. He felt a rush of air and heard a squeal of brakes as a train slowed to a stop twenty feet from them. “Come on.”

  They walked onto the train. Passengers gripped their belongings tightly as they looked for seats and hand holds. Shady Grove was the last stop on the Red Line, so when the train arrived, it had been nearly empty, and there were plenty of seats despite what had seemed like a large crowd outside. Most of the passengers sat along the windows, but Trent and Renee sat in the seats nearest to and running parallel with the doors. The position left them exposed, but they were close to the exit if they had to run out unexpectedly. It was an acceptable trade–off.

  The doors slid shut, and the train lumbered forward a second later. Trent grasped a pole beside him, while the force of acceleration pushed Renee against him. She didn’t try to hold herself upright, so he slipped an arm around her shoulders as he had done in the car. She breathed a little easier after that.

  “Whatever you’re planning to do,” he whispered. “Just know that everything I’ve done has been to keep you safe.”

  “I know,” said Renee.

  Their plan was to take the Red Line to Metro Center Station and then transfer to the Blue or Orange Line to get to the Smithsonian. Renee had mentioned that there was some sort of rally that morning, so things were bound to get crowded quickly. Hopefully that would work in their favor.

  The train filled quickly as it grew closer to the downtown area, and it wasn’t long before they left the commuter, open–air stations behind them and traveled exclusively underground.

  After about fifteen minutes of bouncing along on the hard, plastic seats, Renee’s body suddenly became rigid. Her fingernails dug into his leg.

  “I think we’re in trouble,” she whispered. “Look to your right.”

  Trent coughed into his shoulder, swinging his head around. The Shady Grove metro cop was walking toward them.

  Monday, September 16. 10:14 a.m

  Washington DC.

  “Next stop, Metro Center.”

  The announcer’s voice was so loud and garbled that Renee could barely make it out. She closed her eyes and tried to force her heart to slow, but she couldn’t. She glanced over her shoulder. The cop had stopped about fifteen feet away. His presence may have just been a coincidence, but she doubted it. She’d had too much go wrong in her life lately to believe in coincidences.

  Renee’s legs tingled from adrenaline, silently telling her that they were ready to sprint at any moment. Going to Washington had been a mistake. She knew that now. Even if the metro cop wasn’t after them, others would be. Trying to sneak past them was a stupid risk, and she shouldn’t have suggested they take it. She laced her fingers together on her lap, her hands trembling. Trent put a hand on her shoulder. The gesture wasn’t terribly comforting, but at least it was kind.

  She glanced at him. He was hiding something and probably had been since they left Bluffdale. The ease with which he shoplifted, his friends in Pittsburgh, the way he knew how to steal a car. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow playing her. At the same time, she couldn’t help but remember that he was the only person who had stood beside her though the whole ordeal. A frustrated knot tightened in her stomach and refused to untangle no matter what she did.

  Trent leaned into her.

  “It’s time to go.”

  His voice sounded remarkably composed. She didn’t know how he did that. She nodded stiffly.

  The officer stepped close enough that she could hear static on his police radio. He had probably been going from car to car, switching at every station to find them. Renee’s muscles tensed as the officer leaned against a nearby pole. It was the first time he had stopped moving since entering the train. If he had been on rounds, he’d probably be giving directions to hapless tourists, talking on his radio or walking from car to car. Instead, he leaned on a pole ten feet from them and did everything he possibly could not to look at either of them. He was trying hard to be inconspicuous. She clenched her jaw and tried to keep her nostrils from flaring as she exhaled.

  The crowd shifted, and the train’s brakes squealed as they pulled into Metro Center Station. The abrupt shift from the dark tunnel to the well–lit station was like stepping out of a cave. All at once, the cop’s radio stopped hissing static and started spitting words in the open chamber.

  “Suspects are believed to be on the Red Line. Do not approach. Suspects are believed….”

  The cop turned down his radio without even glancing at Trent or Renee.

  “Aww, crap.”

  Renee’s shoulders slumped, and her brows drew together. She hadn’t even realized she said it aloud. Most of the nearby passengers shot glances at her. The cop didn’t. He stared straight ahead as if he were the only person in the car. Trent nodded to her and stood. She followed suit as the train slowed to a stop. Since they were so close to the door, the crowd squeezed around them, preparing to disembark. The doors opened, and, like a wave breaking against the shore, people surged in and out of the train.

  She started forward, but Trent grabbed her arm, holding her back and shaking his head. She furled her brow, confused.

  “Trust me,” he mouthed. She nodded but couldn’t still her heart. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. She probably looked sick. The surge of people thinned a moment later as the last passengers boarded the train.

  Trent pushed her forward hard, almost knocking her down. She stumbled through the doorway, her arms flailing around her. If not for the people in front of her, she would have fallen on her face. She apologized and shot her eye
s back toward the train in time to see Trent pivot on one foot and shove the police officer hard in the chest. The cop sprawled backwards, knocking a middle–aged man in a business suit down. Trent sprinted toward the door, men and women parting in front of him. A heavy–set teenager tried to block his way, but Trent hooked his hand around the kid’s neck and flung him back into the crowd.

  The metal doors had slid nearly shut by the time Trent reached them, so he had to squeeze through. The rubber gaskets surrounding the metal edge pressed hard against his chest. He wasn’t moving. Renee scrambled forward and tried to pull him, but then she saw why he wasn’t moving. The same teenager who had blocked his path a moment earlier was pulling on his arm to keep him inside the train.

  She wasn’t sure what help it would do, but she pulled on Trent’s arm. For a moment, he seemed to slip, but then she felt a strong tug and he fell forward, free of the train. He lay on the ground for a moment, breathing hard, as the train lumbered off to destinations unknown. The passengers remaining on the platform formed a wary ring around them. One even went so far as to run.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, trying to help Trent up. He winced.

  “I’ve separated my shoulder,” he said, grunting. “We’ve got to move. That cop’s radio didn’t work in the tunnels, but he can pull the emergency brake and stop the train.”

  Renee didn’t need to be warned twice. She sprinted toward a nearby escalator as a shrill squeal filled the chamber. The train they had just departed slowed to a halt a few feet within the tunnel’s mouth. They had to move.

  It had been years since Renee was last in Washington, so she didn’t remember the station well. She whipped her eyes around but couldn’t find anywhere to hide. There were too many people near the exits to escape without being seen, which meant they had to get on another train before another cop saw them. Trent grabbed her hand and began weaving in and out of the throngs of people. A shrill, piercing whistle echoed somewhere behind them. A man shouted, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground.

  “Stairs,” said Trent, pulling her toward a concrete staircase leading to the lower level.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, vaulting down the last steps. The lower level was even more crowded than the main level. Families milled about in small groups, talking in hushed tones, while large swaths of men in purple shirts emblazoned with the slogan “Loud and Proud” sauntered around the platform.

  Her eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the dimly lit station before a deep rumbling filled the air. The lights near the edge of the platform flickered light and dark as if announcing intermission during a long play, and the warm rush of wind that preceded a train rustled her clothes. The train thundered across the tracks a second later with a cacophony of bangs, squeals and thuds.

  The crowd surged forward as soon as the train’s doors opened. Trent and Renee followed them inside like a couple on a stroll. The shrill policeman’s whistle grew louder as they stood on the train, but there was nowhere left to go. The interior was so crowded with men in purple shirts that there were no seats and little aisle space in which to stand. The vents near the ceiling spit out a constant flow of fresh air, but it did little to alleviate the warm, clammy feeling caused by so many bodies in such a tight location. The doors closed, locking everyone in place like a giant vacuum sealer.

  The train jolted forward, but as tightly packed as they were, it didn’t matter that there were no available handholds. They weren’t going anywhere. Trent looked at the group and leaned down to her.

  “I’d say we found your protest,” he said. She swallowed and nodded.

  “Thank God for the small things,” she said. “What line are we on?”

  Trent was taller than she was, so he could actually see the information bar at the front of the train.

  “Blue Line,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “We’ll get off at the next stop,” said Renee.

  Trent cast his eyes around the men surrounding them. He leaned closer so only she would hear him speak.

  “I mean DC,” he said. “We’ve got to call this off. It’s too risky. We’ll figure something else out.”

  She hadn’t wanted to admit it aloud earlier, but he was right. They had taken enough risks lately. The train rumbled to a stop and opened its doors at the next station, allowing a fresh breath of air into the car. From Renee’s limited vantage point, it didn’t appear that anyone exited. She would have forced her way out, but Trent shook his head when she started moving.

  “We’ll get off when they do,” he said. “It’ll be easier to hide.”

  She nodded. Her heartbeat was finally back to a normal rhythm, and her legs felt stronger again. She stood straighter, no longer leaning against Trent. The crowd swayed as the train surged forward and braked around curves. About five minutes later, they came to a stop at another station. The shouts started somewhere up front, but they passed through the train like an electric charge.

  “We’re loud and we’re proud!”

  The chorus of voices was deafening in the enclosed space. The train shuddered to a stop, and the doors opened, allowing the crowd to spill out. She and Trent didn’t have a choice but to leave.

  “We’re loud and we’re proud!”

  The voices of their fellow metro riders mingled with the voices of riders from other trains throughout the station. It was as loud as any concert she had ever attended. She grabbed onto Trent’s jacket and squeezed so she wouldn’t lose him. The crowd pulsed like the ocean, and she was as powerless to escape it as she would have been to escape a riptide. They were forced toward the escalators. The sign on the wall said they were at the Smithsonian Station. The crowd spilled out both the Independence Avenue and National Mall exits with equal numbers.

  “We’re loud and we’re proud!”

  Trent walked with the crowd toward the escalator leading to the National Mall exit. Renee followed beside him. He tried to tell her something, but the chanting was so loud Renee couldn’t make out what he said.

  “We’re loud and we’re proud!”

  The upper deck of the station was as busy as the train platform. Marchers formed neat, single–file lines through the automatic turn styles.

  “We’re loud and we’re proud!”

  Renee and Trent followed them up and out, emerging from the tunnel like a slow–moving football team taking the field. The once–deafening chant seemed almost subdued as they walked into the open air of the Mall. Immediately outside the station, a small contingent of riot police surrounded a group of counter–protesters holding signs proclaiming God’s vitriolic dislike of homosexuals.

  Renee breathed a little easier as they stepped onto the soft grass of the National Mall. There was room to move, so they were able to escape the march and get to the sidewalk somewhere near the sandstone Smithsonian Information Center. With its soaring, red towers and Gothic arches, it looked like something from the Harry Potter movies. It was no wonder that most people knew it as the Castle.

  Renee looked back at Trent.

  “What time do you have?”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Ten after eleven.”

  Renee nodded. Trent may have wanted to get out of DC, but they were already there. The reporter they were meeting was bound to be somewhere nearby. They had already gone through the risk; they might as well try for the reward. She told Trent as much, and he reluctantly agreed. The reporter, Brad Gibson, was supposed to wait for them on the front steps of the Castle, but no one stood still. That worried her.

  “You want to give him a call?” asked Trent. She nodded and took their cell phone from her pocket. Brad’s number was still in the recent call history, so she just had to hit one button. Someone picked up before the first ring finished.

  “Hi, Brad, this is Dr. Carter. We were supposed to have a meeting today.”

  “Oh, dear.�
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  It was a raspy woman’s voice. Renee stood straighter.

  “I think I may have called the wrong number,” said Renee. “Is this Brad Gibson’s desk?”

  The woman on the other end of the line had a smoker’s cough, and she wheezed when she inhaled.

  “You’ve got the right desk, honey. How well do you know Brad?”

  Renee paused for a moment and glanced at Trent. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak. She put up a finger asking for another minute.

  “Not well,” she said. “We planned to meet to talk about a story.”

  The woman coughed again.

  “I have some unfortunate news, then,” she said. “Brad was hit by a drunk driver last night. He passed away this morning. I’m sorry.”

  Renee’s hand started shaking. She almost dropped the phone.

  “We were meeting him to talk about a story. It was about an online poker site. Is there anyone else we can talk to?”

  The woman on the other end of the phone paused.

  “Brad was one of our political reporters. Why would he be interested in poker?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Renee, her voice growing louder. “All I know is that he warned me not to publish something, and now people are trying to hurt me. Is there anyone there who might know something?”

  “Miss, you’re going to have to calm down. You may have missed out on your fifteen minutes of fame, but I’ve lost a good reporter and a good friend. If any of our other reporters are interested in following up on your story, they will give you a call.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Renee hung up the phone. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to vomit or cry. She put her hands in her pockets and balled them into fists. It was unfair. They had come halfway across the country for that meeting; it was their last hope, and now it was gone. She clenched her jaw to keep from screaming. Her expression must have said everything because Trent didn’t ask about the phone call. He just stood there, waiting for her to speak. She threw her hands up.