Run

by Andrew Grant

  “This is amazing. Thanks, sweetheart. It’s perfect. I love it. I just wish I had something for you in return.”

  “Aren’t you going to put it on your key ring? See how it feels in your pocket?”

  “Sure.” I pulled out my keys and pried open the tight spirals of the main ring, ready to slide the knife’s smaller one into place. It was tricky, but the gap was almost wide enough when I became aware of Carolyn’s face. She was staring at me.

  “What? Am I doing it wrong?”

  “No, you’re doing fine. But what’s that? I haven’t seen it before.”

  I looked down at the key ring and took a quick inventory. House keys—front door, back door, windows, filing cabinet. One key from AmeriTel—for a drawer in the desk I’d been using, which I could now throw away. My Jaguar’s key, with its shank folded neatly back. And the memory stick I’d decided not to use, earlier.

  “Is that why you bought me the knife? To set me up?”

  “Is that the stick with the AmeriTel data on it?”

  “No.”

  I wasn’t lying. Not technically. Because it wasn’t the stick. There were two.

  “The stick’s at the house, then?”

  Her use of the words at the house, not at home was starting to ring warning bells.

  “Do we have to talk about this again? I thought we were changing.”

  “We are. You’re right, Marc. Let’s not get sidetracked. I’ve agreed to change, to be more understanding about your interests. But what about you? What are you going to change?”

  “I could be more supportive of your interests, I guess? Like theater. I used to love watching your shows.”

  “You never came to any.”

  “I did. And to the parties. Remember after Much Ado, at college? That was the first time we—”

  “It was Merchant of Venice. Much Ado was the one your parents came to.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Still, it was fun.”

  “They hated me. They couldn’t have made it any clearer. And anyway, the acting ship sailed long ago. I’ve been out of the game way too long.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I have. Trust me. OK, what else?”

  “I don’t know. There’s nothing obvious, or I’d have changed it already. But I love you, Carolyn. I’m happy to change anything you want me to.”

  “Well, you could develop a little self-awareness, for a start.”

  “Self-awareness? About what? Could you be more specific?”

  “This should really be coming from you, Marc. It doesn’t work if I have to direct you. But honestly? I think this is all part of a larger problem. Your lack of openness.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means you’re holding things back from me. Bottling them up. Not sharing. Keeping secrets, even. I guess it’s hard, given how much time you spend alone. Not having many friends probably doesn’t help. I do try to make allowances, but even so …”

  “Wait a minute. I have friends!”

  “Whatever. But the point is, the way things are, it makes me wonder if I can really trust you.”

  “Of course you can trust me. Ask me anything. I’ll tell you the truth.”

  She toyed with her wineglass for a moment, then nodded.

  “OK, then, Marc. I’m sorry to come back around to this, but I think you’re lying to me about the memory stick. I think that one right there—that’s the one you stole from AmeriTel. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Carolyn, I’ve got lots of memory sticks. Dozens. You need to stop jumping to conclusions. And why are you all worked up about this? Just let it go. I don’t work at AmeriTel anymore.”

  “But I do. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Right. Because the subject’s closed.”

  “Give it to me, damn you!” Carolyn launched herself at me from across the table, sending silverware, serviettes, and her half-full wineglass flying in all directions.

  A wave of embarrassed silence washed over the restaurant and the two of us were left tugging at the key ring like brats in a schoolyard while everyone else sat and stared.

  “Let me have it!” Carolyn’s face was pale, like she was deathly sick. “Please, Marc. You don’t know how important this is to me.”

  “You don’t know how important it is to me. You wouldn’t listen, before. So this is what it comes down to. You told me our marriage and your job were equally important. You told me there wasn’t a choice to make. Well, I’m telling you there is. And you have to make it. Right here. Right now.”

  Our eyes were locked. Our fingers were locked. Every other person in the place was staring in our direction. The seconds ticked by. Neither of us gave ground. Murmured comments began to ripple from nearby tables. Carolyn tugged harder, and without warning a kind of howl spilled from her lips, more animal than human. Then she let go. Grabbed her purse. And ran out of the restaurant.

  THE JOURNEY HOME PASSED in a blur. It was like I’d been driving on autopilot, my conscious brain kicking in only when I reached my own street and a woman emerged without warning from the raised stretch of woodland that borders the road, waving her arms wildly and nearly finding herself under my wheels. She claimed to want directions to a pharmacy, and was very unhappy when I told her there were no stores of any kind within five miles. She seemed to have trouble grasping my words, making me think the kind of pharmaceuticals she was looking for wouldn’t be available over the counter anyway. And as soon as I had disengaged myself from her and started to move again, I was almost hit by two guys in a Mercedes who had picked my driveway—the only break in the tree line for a couple of hundred yards—to make a three-point turn.

  Despite the time I’d spent at the restaurant I hadn’t actually eaten or drunk anything, so my first port of call at home was the kitchen. I was vaguely thinking of ordering Chinese when my eye fell on Carolyn’s mug, still sitting on the countertop. I wasn’t happy with the way she’d behaved that evening, but that didn’t stop me worrying about her. Or wondering if I’d been too harsh, accusing her of only wanting the memory stick to appease LeBrock. Maybe she had been looking out for me? So when I pulled out my phone it was Carolyn’s number I summoned from the directory, not a take-out service.

  Her phone rang. And rang. But she didn’t answer. Eventually I was dumped into her voicemail, and as I listened to the bland generic greeting—she hadn’t bothered to record one of her own—I couldn’t help wondering if she’d seen the call was from me and ignored it on purpose. That was all it took to send the pendulum swinging back the opposite way, so when I heard the beep I followed the anonymous announcer’s instructions, and I left a message. Not a very pleasant message. But when—if—Carolyn listened to it, even she would have to acknowledge the change. Because I certainly didn’t hold anything back that time.

  ——

  STANDING IN THE KITCHEN with my absent wife’s discarded mug in one hand and an unanswered phone in the other, I realized I don’t usually spend much time in the house on my own. Not unless I’m doing something specific, like working or watching a game on TV. Then, I’m only really aware of the room I’m in. But for the first time I was conscious of the entire, empty structure massing around me. Six thousand vacant square feet. Each one emphasizing Carolyn’s absence. The fact that I’d done nothing to stop her leaving. And had failed to convince her to come back.

  I needed to distract myself. Urgently. But how? Work was out. The computer wouldn’t be ready yet. Food? I dumped the mug, wandered into the dining room, and decided I wasn’t hungry. There was a TV in the living room, and another in the den, but nothing I wanted to watch. There were books in my study, but nothing I wanted to read. I wasn’t tired. I didn’t want to exercise. Of all the possibilities our home had to offer, nothing seemed interesting. And nothing could distract me from wondering where Carolyn had stormed off to.

  Her words from the afternoon started to ring in my head. How does a pitcher of margaritas sound to you? So I crossed the
room, opened the liquor cabinet, and smiled at the irony. There’d been tequila in the house the whole time. One bottle we’d already started, and another still in its box. What if we’d just got drunk, together, instead of arguing? And with that thought in mind, I did another thing I don’t normally do. Fixed a drink for myself. Then another. And another. And I’m not sure how many others after that …

  Tuesday. Morning.

  NEVER KICK A MAN WHILE HE’S DOWN MY PARENTS USED TO SAY.

  It’s a shame no one ever urged the hangover I had the next morning to show the same restraint. It had already been to work on my head and my stomach before I woke up, replacing my brain with molten lava and filling my gut with swamp water. Then, once I was conscious, it moved on to my heart, waiting till I’d reached out across the pillow in search of Carolyn to smack me with the memory of why she wasn’t there.

  I staggered to the bathroom and once the urge to throw up had subsided, I dosed myself with Advil then headed downstairs in search of caffeine. But when I reached the hallway, all thoughts of coffee were put on hold. I stopped dead in my tracks. Because the front door was standing wide open.

  My first thought was that Carolyn had come home. My heart raced, and the pain and sickness were forgotten as I called her name and ran to the kitchen. I pictured her standing at the stove, humming as she cooked something delicious for breakfast. Sitting by the French doors, reading one of the historical novels she loves so much. Even striding around the room, brandishing a random utensil and looking to reignite the fight over the memory sticks. Anything would be better than her not being there at all …

  There was no answer to my call. When I reached the room, it was as empty as it had been the night before. I shouted again, louder, and went to check the dining room. It was deserted. As was the living room. And the den. I even looked for her in my study. Then I wondered if she could be upstairs, in one of the spare bedrooms. I started back along the hallway, and two other thoughts crossed my mind: If she was back, her car would be in the driveway. And if she was in the house, why had she left the door open?

  Maybe she’d gone outside to get something from her trunk? She hadn’t taken any luggage with her, but she could have bought clothes or overnight things after she left. I diverted to the doorway and looked out. My Jaguar was where I’d parked it yesterday. But there was no sign of Carolyn’s Beemer. Only the tracks it had left in the gravel when she’d sped off.

  What about a taxi? Maybe she’d continued drinking, and had taken a cab home? She’d always been responsible that way. And because the trip was unplanned, she may not have had much cash with her. She could have come inside to get enough to pay the driver. I went all the way to the street to see, but again, there was nothing.

  I stood at the end of my driveway, deflated, suddenly aware of the pain in my head, the cold pavement beneath my bare feet, and the wind tugging at my pajama top. I saw that I’d misaligned two of the buttons, causing it to gape open around my stomach. And then a question popped into my mind, far more hurtful than the embarrassment or the physical discomfort. The last time Carolyn had left the front door open, she was leaving me. Temporarily. What if this time she’d only been here to collect her things before leaving again, permanently? How deeply had I been asleep? Could she have sneaked in and dismantled our marriage without me hearing her?

  I hurried back to the house and shut the door behind me. Then I took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the throbbing between my temples. All our suitcases were still in the spare-room closet, so I moved on to Carolyn’s dressing room. I couldn’t be sure nothing was missing, because who could memorize every single outfit his wife owns—especially one as devoted to shopping as Carolyn—but there were no obvious gaps. What else would a woman need if she was going away for a while? Underwear? I checked her drawer, and it was full to overflowing with tiny scraps of colorful lace. Bathroom stuff? I looked, and the cabinet was crammed with all kinds of feminine things, the way it usually was.

  I had to face facts. Carolyn’s things were here, but she was still gone. I moved over to the bed, fighting the temptation to crawl back under the covers and wait for the disappointment to pass me by. But before I could lie down I realized that an ember of doubt was still smoldering away at the back of my mind like a warning beacon, barely visible through the mist.

  Something else was wrong.

  It had to do with something I’d seen. When I was looking for Carolyn. Something had been disturbed, or out of place. Not up here, though. And not in the kitchen. Not in the dining room. Or the den. In my study! Suddenly the picture in my head was as clear as day and I was out of the bedroom before I even realized I was moving, heading back downstairs.

  I hurried to my desk, sat in front of my computer, and stared at the screen. It was dark and lifeless. For most people, this wouldn’t be a problem. But it was a major red flag for me. Because the first thing I always did when I set up a new computer was to disable its ability to sleep. It’s an old quirk of mine. When I’m working I often have to pause to figure out a problem—often for thirty or forty minutes straight—and it drives me crazy if I have to wait for the machine to wake up when I’m finally ready to continue. So, there was no way the computer should have been dormant like this. It should have still been running my tests from yesterday, or waiting for me to review the results, patiently filling the screen with a succession of digitized Lichtensteins. Unless—could there have been a power outage when I was lost in the tequila haze?

  I hit the space bar, and the computer came back to life. That was the last thing I was hoping for, but it did actually make sense. A hiccup in the electrical supply wouldn’t have restored the computer’s ability to sleep. Only a manual reset could do that. And more alarmingly still, there were no test results for me to view, and no indication my new program was running in the background. I was lost for an explanation. But as I sat and stared at the inert Home screen, my confusion began to unravel itself into something much more straightforward. Worry.

  I pulled the keyboard closer to me and checked the computer’s directory. There was no sign of my new program at all. It had completely vanished. As had the data I’d imported. The memory stick had disappeared, too, from the port on the side of the machine. To lose the program was bad enough, but my only copy of the data as well? That would be a disaster.

  Then, a moment’s reprieve. All the data wasn’t missing. I hadn’t used the files on the second memory stick, had I? But what had I done with it? My sluggish mind was blank. It took a real effort to recall details of the previous night. And out of the murk I dredged up—nothing.

  That was the answer. Nothing. I hadn’t done anything with the memory stick. I’d left it on my key ring. The key ring I’d put on my desk when I checked that the tests were still running. And now there was no sign of it, either. There was just my keyboard, and the monitor. Other than those, the glass surface—and the wooden floor that was visible through it—was completely bare.

  Hopes for Carolyn’s return were suddenly replaced by another, altogether more sinister explanation for the door being open when I came downstairs earlier. My stomach turned over. I looked up at the wall above my desk, neurotically checking that my Lichtenstein was still there.

  Then I reached for the phone and dialed 911.

  Tuesday. Mid-morning.

  IN A FEW MINUTES’ TIME, THERE’D BE ARMED MEN IN MY HOUSE.

  I’d never imagined myself having to call the police. In fact, like most people, I’d never given the police much conscious thought at all. Ever since I could remember they’d just been a hypothetical, intangible presence. Sometimes unwelcome—like when a guy breaks out a joint at a college party, or when your speedometer creeps a few miles-an-hour north of the limit on the freeway—but usually reassuring. Like a safety net. Only there’s a big difference between being vaguely aware of something that’s there to catch you if you fall, and finding out how it feels to crash face-first into the mesh.

  MAYBE ARMED MEN HAD ALREADY been
in my house that morning? If I was right, and someone had stolen my prototype, they’d have had to break in to get to my computer. And what kind of burglar breaks into a house, knowing the owner is inside, without being armed? I couldn’t believe I’d been there all along, asleep, and oblivious. It reminded me of my favorite TV show from a while back. Deadwood. Set at the height of the gold rush. In those days, if someone stole your stuff you were free to cut their throats and have their bodies eaten by pigs. Today, I had to wait for a couple of government clock-punchers to show up and take care of business for me. It made me feel irrelevant, like a redundant spectator on the sidelines of life, and I didn’t like it one little bit. I began to wonder if I’d been too hasty, refusing point-blank when Carolyn suggested we should keep a gun in the house after a spate of break-ins in the neighborhood the Christmas before last.

  MAYBE ARMED MEN WERE still in my house? The thought hit me as I finished making the coffee I’d neglected earlier. The front door had been left open, after all. Could that have been deliberate? Could the intruders have left it that way in case they needed to make a quick exit? They could have heard me moving around, and taken cover to avoid a confrontation. Like cornered animals. I never did check the spare bedrooms upstairs. Or the closet in the hallway. Or the laundry room, or …

  I heard a noise behind me. Someone was trying a door handle. Trying to get in? Or out? I spun around and saw two people outside, on the rear deck. Both were women. Both were younger than me—maybe in their early thirties—and both were wearing nondescript pant suits and flat shoes. I stepped back, momentarily panicked, then the obvious realization hit me. It was the police. These women were detectives. For some reason I’d been expecting uniformed cops. I relaxed, and one of them motioned for me to open the door. That was a whole other problem, though, due to the missing keys.

  “Well,” the taller detective said when I finally managed to retrieve the spare set of keys and wrestle the door open. “That was quite an adventure.”