The Running Game (Reachers Book 1)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  “I tripped at work. It's nothing. I just need to sleep.”

  This time he got the hint.

  “I'll go meet Gary outside, let you get some rest. Starting your shift soon?”

  “A few hours.”

  “I guess I'll see you on my way out tomorrow then.” He kissed her tenderly. Beneath the suit, the ignorance and the lack of common sense, he wasn't a bad guy. Not like his partner.

  A pounding on the door interrupted them. Rachel sighed, she could already feel her body tensing. Mark gave her a sheepish shrug.

  “Open up, it's the police!” It was Gary, and he sounded drunk.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  “You'd better let him in before he wakes the entire floor.”

  Mark had barely got the lock turned when the door was shoved open. His partner's first step into the room was edgy; he was more than drunk. Then his eyes fell on Rachel. Cracking his acne-covered face into a smile he leered at her. She was wearing four layers, sitting underneath three duvets, but the gesture still made her feel naked. She pulled the covers over her exposed neck and shied back towards the wall. Gary frightened her and he took great enjoyment in doing it.

  “Sorry, was I interrupting?”

  “No, I just need to take a leak. Give me a minute and we can go,” Mark said as he rushed to the shower room. He was oblivious to how Rachel felt about his partner. She wondered, if he knew, what he would have done about it.

  “So Rachel, Rachel, Rachel,” he said, approaching the bed with more confidence than Mark had ever mustered. “Sweet dreams?”

  “You're going to get Mark sacked if you keep letting him cover for you.”

  “Hey, my partner is a team player–can't help that. Don't worry, if anything happens to him I can always put a roof over your head. For a price.” His fat fingers reached for the duvet.

  The toilet flushed. He'd let go by the time Mark returned.

  “Okay, here's my notebook for you to copy. Let's go.” Mark gave her a brief kiss on the top of her head and ushered his partner towards the door. Rachel had to take another shower before she could settle.

  5

  Cold mornings were the worst. Charlie woke early, feeling the agony ringing through his body; his very own malicious alarm clock. He lay on the bed, unable to move his legs without crying out. John was on the floor, resting calmly on his back, as though there was nowhere else in the world more comfortable. His eyes were closed, but Charlie couldn't work out if he was still asleep or just waiting – he did that sometimes. Either way Charlie couldn't risk taking his final pills in the same room. The last thing he needed was John finding out everything.

  When the pain had dulled and the ache in his bladder worsened he found the energy to haul himself up. With the crutch bearing most of the effort, he made it to the bathroom and swallowed his last pills dry before relieving himself. Immediately his head started to ease, his thoughts slurred slightly, but it was better than the pain. Anything was better than the morning pain.

  He turned to wash his hands and looked down at the orange stained sink. With the aches temporarily subdued he could work on his powers. Letting his hand hover over the tap, he concentrated. His temples began to burn with the effort. His hand trembled, but slowly the tap turned. Water trickled and then flooded out. Compared to what he had been it was pathetic, but the past year had been an endless struggle and this, at last, was an improvement.

  He left the bathroom with a smile. John was already up, sitting at the table and going through the file as though he'd been there all night. His fingers loitered on the folded sheet of torn paper. It was the remains of a letter, written seven years ago by the girl in the opposite tower. It didn't say much, just that she had work in a hospital, she would start in a week – a week seven years ago – and it was signed: R.

  “Do I even want to know?” John said without even looking at his brother's smirk.

  “I turned the tap on,” Charlie announced proudly.

  John put the letter down and gave his elder brother an incredulous stare. “Good for you,” he eventually replied in a voice rich with sarcasm. “I boiled the kettle, together who knows what we could do.”

  “I mean, smart ass, I turned the tap on hands-free.”

  John's unimpressed expression wavered slightly. “Not bad,” he replied, but they both knew for a man who had once driven a car whilst locked in the boot, it was far from astounding. “See what happens when you get your head back in the game.”

  The mobile on the table started ringing. John nudged it towards Charlie, he didn't like phones – or people for that matter.

  “It's him.”

  Charlie carefully picked it up, trying not to let it see how nervous he really was. He could do this – he could play the game. He had to.

  “Mr Morris, good to hear from you.”

  “Do you have what I asked for?” Pinky Morris asked.

  “We agreed we'd be done by two and we will. And I am confident you'll be very satisfied.”

  “You're sure it's her?”

  “We've got one last 't' to cross and we'll be done. But I can tell you there's no doubt in my mind it's her.”

  “Don't be late.” He made way for the dial tone.

  Charlie stared at the phone. “I don't like that guy.”

  The explosion had taken out the top windows of St Mary's Hospital. A riot six months earlier had already claimed the lower floors. From the entrance the building looked as desolate as those around it; boards nailed to every surface, decorated in anti-everything graffiti and weathering with the brickwork. If hell had a gate it looked just like the entrance to St Mary's.

  The outside of the hospital did little to prepare Charlie for the inside. The explosion victims were still piling in from the surrounding rubble. What was left of the serious injuries was awaiting identification in the morgue. Charlie squeezed himself into the manic reception room. He reached for his wallet and headed for the front desk, which was really just a sealed cage protecting the nurses inside. His eyes flicked around the emergency room. There was no sign of Rachel.

  He didn't need to see her up close. He didn't need to visit her work, or do any more investigation to complete the job. She was the girl they were looking for. He was sure of it. What he did need was a prescription and a hospital like St Mary's was a perfect cover for getting one without John knowing. If Rachel stayed out of his way all the better.

  He walked up to the reception nurse. She looked tired, but then every white coat in the building looked tired. She banged her computer monitor as he approached and settled back down into her worn seat behind the mesh frame encasing her desk. The hospital supplemented most of its income from private sales, there should have been no reason Charlie's purchase would cause a problem. If anything they would be grateful for his custom.

  “Morning,” he said with a forced grin.

  “Name?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your name?”

  “Eh, I'm just after a prescription.” He withdrew his wallet, flashing her sight of the notes he was willing to part with to speed her up.

  It was then she gave him her full, unimpressed attention. “Pharmacy stocks are running low. Emergency prescriptions only until Tuesday. If you need the pills you give me your name and a doctor will see you and sign off on any drugs you need.”

  “Seriously?”

  She gave him a self-satisfied smile. “Name?”

  “David Jones,” he replied, it was the name on his empty pill bottle.

  “Have a seat Mr. Jones, someone will call you shortly.”

  There were eight seats in the reception room and forty people wedging themselves into clusters on the dust covered floor. Charlie decided to stand to avoid the possibility of disease. The outbreaks in S'aven came mercilessly fast. When the poor got sick they crammed themselves into hospital waiting rooms to share their bacteria. You were more likely to catch something in St Mary's than crawling around on your belly in the sewers.

 
; That morning at least the waiting room seemed to be populated with open wounds and broken bones, forcing anyone with a raised temperature to wait outside in the cold. He scanned the faces carefully, checking for discolouration, pigmented eyes, any signs of N-strain or worse. Then he noticed, sandwiched between a man with a towel pressed against his bloody face and a woman with a glass shard as big as her fist wedged into her leg, a kid sweating like he was in a furnace. His body twitched impatiently, jumping at the sight of every nurse walking by. Charlie had seen kids like that growing up all over the city, hooked on a local blend, caught up in crime and left stranded when they were no longer useful. It was a short, tragic life. The length of his future was down to luck, whether it be days or weeks – never longer.

  Charlie wiped the sweat from his forehead and fidgeted and jumped when the man standing in front of him got up to leave. Patients were called, more piled in. Soon the open wounds were replaced with the split stitches and infections as the rotation of injuries aged. Charlie watched the doctors passing through, shouting out name after name. He never caught sight of Rachel.

  He was considering braving the floor, when a commotion broke out. The drug addict was getting restless. The people around him had been called already, but he still sat there, going cold turkey. Paranoia fuelled him and he just flipped. Charlie watched as the muttering grew into shouting, than as the shouting grew louder. He screamed at the nurse trying to calm him down. Then he pushed her. Another nurse rushed to the commotion, but he had lost control. He grabbed her and attempted to hit her hard in the face.

  Charlie flinched, but the punch never happened. Standing behind him, hand on his shoulder was Rachel. Slowly, the kid let go of the nurse. He turned around and stared at Rachel. Charlie peered closer. The kid wasn't staring at all, he was listening. Only Rachel's mouth wasn't saying anything. The kid nodded, shrugged and left.

  Charlie swallowed. His senses were tingling. She was a Reacher. He stared at her suddenly feeling the fool. He realised now he should have asked why Pinky was so desperate to uncover this simple doctor. He should have dug a little deeper and found out more about the girl. He should have found out more about Pinky. All these regrets rolled around in his head until they settled on the one fact he could cling to. She was a Reacher, just like him.

  And that changed everything.

  6

  She was a Reacher and she was still alive.

  She had lived in S'aven for seven years, sharing a house with a cop, and she was still alive.

  Charlie couldn't understand it. Reachers had to keep running, settling anywhere for long was too dangerous. He learned that from his own tragic experience. You never knew when the patrols would come for you. All it would take was one suspicious neighbour, or somebody with a grudge, and they were carting you off for the good of humanity. It didn't matter if you were male, female, young or old–the only way to escape was to run. One year, two months, and nine days ago they had come for him, taking his daughter, an innocent child, but still a Reacher in the eyes of the government. As soon as you settled it was too late. But somehow Rachel had stayed in the same city, the same apartment, the same job, and she was still using her powers. He was in awe of her and at the same time overwhelmed with the idea of shaking her and telling her to get out before she was spotted.

  He could see her clearly now, bringing in patients with the other doctors, and he realised that was how she had stayed hidden: it was her talent, her Reacher skill. He could turn on taps with his mind and she could make herself seemingly invisible in a room full of people. Somehow she had been there all along and he had just been unable to see her. Only now he knew this. There she was, as vibrant as the blood spatter up the wall. Only now he wasn't the only one who was looking for her. He thought back to the day his daughter was taken and his whole chest started to hurt; he couldn't let that happen again.

  They needed the job and the money, but Charlie couldn't give another Reacher up. There was a code, one he lived his life by, about protecting his own kind. But it was more than that. He'd been to the laboratories; he knew what happened to those born with powers, those they called Reachers, psychics, plague-bringers. You could get a big pay-out if you found one. Was that the reason Pinky wanted her? Charlie swallowed. How could he hand her over, risk her being dragged off to spend the rest of her life in an empty white cell, with electrode burns over her body? He couldn't, but he'd already told Pinky that he had her.

  “David Jones!”

  He had to tell John. His head was all over the place, but John would be able to think straight. He'd know what to do.

  “David Jones!”

  It should have been a simple job. Father Darcy had promised them a simple job. Why couldn't it have been a simple job?

  “Last call for David Jones!”

  Charlie paused and looked at the doctor shouting his alias. He wasn't even surprised it was Rachel calling his name. With the way his luck was going he half expected John to be waiting at the door, watching the whole sorry affair unfold.

  “Sorry, that's me,” he said sheepishly.

  “Good. You nearly missed your turn there, Mr. Jones. Come on, I don't bite.”

  She led the way through the terrace of closed curtains and muffled cries, until she reached an empty bed, with a disinfected plastic sheet over it.

  “Hop yourself up Mr. Jones, I'll just get the paperwork.”

  “Actually I just came in for a prescription,” Charlie started, holding out his bottle like a beggar.

  “Well you're in luck, today we're giving free examinations with every bottle of pills. I'll be two seconds, don't you go away.” She swiped the bottle from him, probably to check his non-existent record.

  Charlie scowled to himself. She was a good doctor. Things were going from dire to disastrous.

  She returned with a professional, knowing smile. He'd been tracking her for two weeks but this was the first time he had seen her in the flesh. Her photograph had made her look older, but up close he could see the city hadn't totally robbed her of her youth. And she was sharp too; he could tell that just from her eyes. There would be no chance of getting one over on her and she wouldn't appreciate him trying.

  Charlie realised he was staring. He turned away and tried to decide what he was going to do. If her powers were stronger than his she might be able to read his thoughts, and then there'd be nowhere to hide. He had to think quickly, but his mind went blank.

  “So, repeat prescription is it, for the leg?”

  “Eh, no, it's for my back.”

  Her pencil tapped against her clipboard. “And what's happened to your back?”

  “It's an old wound, happened a year ago.” One year, two months, and nine days to be exact, he thought to himself. “Nerve damage.” He didn't like talking about it, especially to her.

  “I see, and you're still getting pain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are we talking here, bad pain, sharp twinges, rolling on the floor in agony?”

  “Very bad pain.”

  Rachel sat on the bed beside him. He'd never been good at the mind reading side of his powers, sure he could have lifted her into the air back in the day, but he would have no idea what was going on in her head.

  “Would you mind if I took a peek, make sure all's healing well?”

  “There's no point, I just need the prescription.” He tried to squirm away from her. If she wasn't strong enough to read him from a distance, touching him would probably do the trick.

  “If it's an old wound and it's still giving you so much trouble that you have to take a daily morphine pill, I need to make sure everything is okay.”

  She had his shirt up before he could protest further. Charlie slumped forward, feeling like a child getting ready for his jabs. She had a way about her. It was forceful but at the same time friendly. Her hands hovered over his skin. She wasn't wearing gloves, probably due to cutbacks, so she was trying to avoid making skin contact.

  “A knife wound,” she stat
ed. “Stabbed three times, nasty. Healed up nicely though. You must have had a good surgeon. But I'm thinking, given you're still on medication, that you didn't bother with the aftercare.” She pulled his shirt back down and stood with an air of empathy about her.

  He sighed. She didn't suspect he was a Reacher, just another useless junkie after a fix. Relief almost set in and then he realised she was going to have to know the truth – the whole truth. She was a Reacher, he couldn't just leave her to her fate.

  “I take it you didn't get any counselling?”

  “My budget only ran to the surgeon.”

  “Well if you've got to spend your money you might as well get stitched up first.”

  “There's not much point getting follow up care if I'm dead.”

  “Exactly. I'm going to level with you Mr. Jones. You know as well as I do the medication you're taking is way too strong for an injury like yours. The pain you're in is likely to be psychosomatic…”

  Charlie put up his hands. He had to do something. “A lecture isn't necessary. Listen I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay, if that's what you want.” Her smile stayed, but her eyes betrayed her unease.

  She was going to read him, or press a thought into his head. Then it would be over. He had to act now. He needed money, so much so he was contemplating leaving her in Pinky Morris's hands, but he couldn't do it. He'd lost nearly everything in his life–giving away his morality would finish him.

  “You need to get out of the city tonight,” he said quickly.

  Her smile faltered. “I'm sorry?”

  “I know what you are,” he whispered.

  She started backing away. Charlie jumped off the bed, meaning to stop her but his leg buckled. He fell into her and was amazed she managed to catch him and help him back to the bed.

  “It's okay,” he assured her. “You're safe. We're the same. I'm not going to tell anyone.”

  She didn't believe him and why would she? Reachers were rare and getting rarer. Charlie hadn't seen another one in years, apart from his daughter. But then her senses got the better of her and she could feel, just like he could, that bond that only exists between their kind. It was like coming home, a warm comfortable sigh in the bottom of your stomach.