Run Away

by Victor Methos

  He opened the conference room door. Candice didn’t notice him as he entered, so he cleared his throat. She looked up, and he smiled awkwardly.

  “Hi.”

  “What can I do for you, Richard?”

  “Um, well, I was just… You know, I’ve been here a long time, Candice. I mean, I came on a year after you founded the place. And, well, I’ve seen a lot of younger guys make partner ahead of me. And I’ve held my tongue because I know you know what you’re doing, but I was thinking that—”

  “Get to the point, Richard. My time is limited.”

  “I deserve to be a partner.”

  She lowered the papers. Leaning back in the leather chair, she looked like an ancient queen about to pass judgment on one of her serfs. “Richard, I couldn’t do what I do if I didn’t have people like you. I may sign the clients up, but they stay because of the quality of work people like you do in the back offices.”

  “People like me?”

  “Yes, Richard, people like you.”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain what to do with his hands. “People like me who never become a partner, you mean.”

  “You’re a brilliant lawyer. But a partner has nothing to do with being a brilliant lawyer. I can hire brilliant lawyers. I don’t need to be brilliant. I need to know how to sell. You can’t sell the clients, Richard.”

  “Sure I can. Mrs. Dillar is one of our biggest clients, and when she calls, she only talks to me.”

  “I know. But she wouldn’t have come to this firm if you had been the one to meet with her first. That’s not your strength, Richard. We all have to go with our strengths. And yours is right where you are.”

  He nodded, staring down at the floor. “Thanks for your time.”

  As he shuffled out of the office, three of the paralegals, all attractive, passed by. He smiled, but they didn’t smile back.

  Richard shut the door to his office and put his feet up on the desk. He didn’t move for a long time. The outside walls were just windows, and he could see the streets of Honolulu below him. Fancy cars passed by, and the women who walked the streets could’ve been pulled from any Playboy he’d ever seen.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed the number he’d been given.

  “Yeah,” Tate Reynolds answered.

  “She had yoga last night. Why isn’t this done yet?”

  “Hey, calm down. You want it done right, or you want it done fast?”

  “I want it done both. It needs to get done.” Richard noticed his voice was louder than he would’ve liked. Taking his feet off the desk, he tried to calm himself. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “You sure? It’s really tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  He rose and paced his office. “I mean, if you need more time, then take it. I didn’t mean to rush you.”

  “Tonight’s as good as any. We’ll do it tonight.”

  “All right… all right.”

  “So you cool?”

  “Yeah,” Richard said. “Yeah, I’m cool.”

  “Good.”

  Richard waited for Tate to hang up first, then he placed the phone down on his desk. He was chewing on his thumbnail and pacing manically around his office when the door opened.

  “Richard?” Candice stood in the doorway, leaning against the door.

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just dandy. Why?”

  “I felt bad about that conversation. I think I could’ve handled that more delicately, and I’m sorry.”

  “I appreciate that.” He didn’t know where to put his hands, so he put them on his hips, but that felt awkward, so he put them in his pockets. That didn’t feel right, either, so he took them out and let them dangle at his sides.

  “Yes, well, how about this? We’ll give you a nice little bonus this quarter and an extra week of vacation time. Take your family to Europe or something.”

  “Yeah, sure, listen, I just kinda need to be alone right now.”

  “Okay, but I want you to know that you’re valued here.”

  “Right, valued.” He began to pace again.

  “Well, what I’m trying to say is—”

  “Candice, for fuck’s sake, I said I wanted to be alone. Damn it, what the hell do I have to do to get some quiet here?”

  Candice said nothing. Slowly, she shut the door, leaving Richard alone again. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He approached the door to find her and apologize then stopped himself. It wouldn’t help.

  He grunted and swiped at his desk, knocking his lamp to the floor. Then he stared at the ceiling and let out a big breath. He left the lamp where it was and decided he needed to get a stiff drink. He had a feeling he would be counting down the seconds until nine o’clock, when Sharon’s yoga class let out.

  9

  Stanton woke in the morning and went immediately for a run. He preferred running barefoot because the natural stride was easy on his knees and ankles. The North Shore was ideal for it. The sand wasn’t too soft, but it gave enough that he could zone out and watch the ocean, letting whatever thoughts naturally come to him take hold in his mind.

  The sun was just coming up over the Pacific, painting it light gold then crimson. Flocks of birds hovered above the waves, and farther out, blue fish darted in and out of the water.

  The run was smooth and easy. Stanton got in four miles before he stopped and checked his heart rate. Then he sat on the beach and watched the sunrise. Groups of young surfers were out. They had no jobs and devoted their lives to the ocean. Most would move on to other things. But some of them would stay because detaching themselves from the sea would be their death. They would become the middle-aged men Stanton saw on the beaches six hours a day and then later at the beach parties and weekend bonfires. They could never quite break away.

  He rose and strolled back to his house, watching the surfers glide ashore. The waves were mushy and slow. He wouldn’t be going out that day unless they picked up around evening.

  When he got back to his house, a car was out front. Laka sat inside, texting. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “Hi,” she said, stepping out.

  “Hey. What’re you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d pick you up.”

  “I appreciate it, but I’ve got my own car.”

  She seemed almost hurt. Stanton often forgot how young some people were. And that with youth came a sense that everyone, somehow, had to like you and want to spend time with you. “But since you’re here, lemme hit the shower, and then we’ll head in.”

  Stanton led her inside his home. He went to the kitchen for some water and noticed her examining his house—she even looked over his DVD collection.

  “Interesting movie selection,” she said.

  Stanton guzzled a glass of ice water. “They’re mostly my sons’ movies.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know you had sons. How many?”

  “Two.”

  “They live here?”

  “No, they live with their mother in Boston. But they lived here for a year before moving back.”

  She picked up a framed photo of his two boys. “My parents divorced when I was a kid, too. They went one step further, though, and told me I had to choose who to live with. They wouldn’t do it for me.”

  Stanton leaned against the island in the kitchen. “Who’d you pick?”

  “My dad. My mom remarried, had other kids. By the time I was fifteen, I only got a card on my birthday from her. But my dad’s always been there.”

  “He lives on the island?”

  “Yeah. I’ll have to introduce you to him. He makes the best Huli-Huli chicken you’ll ever have.”

  Stanton placed his water glass by the sink. “Why did Kai really partner us, Laka? There are far better detectives than me to show you the ropes.”

  “I don’t know. Before I even transferred, he said he wanted me with you.”

  Stanton watched her a moment,
taking in the way she moved. He hadn’t had a woman in his house for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like. “I better go hit the shower.”

  Stanton stripped off his clothing once he was on the second floor and threw them into a laundry bin. The water heated up instantly, and he let it run over his head and down his back. He kept thinking of Laka. She was exotically beautiful. Her straight hair was inky black, and her skin appeared so smooth that she didn’t need makeup. Stanton had to stop his thoughts, though. She was his partner, and there was no surer path to destroying a career and partnership than starting up a relationship. If it didn’t work out, one of them would have to request a new partner and maybe even transfer from Homicide.

  He toweled off and put on jeans, a button-down shirt, and a leather jacket. Laka was sitting on his balcony, watching the ocean.

  “This is why I bought this place,” he said.

  “I always take it for granted. Growing up on the islands, you forget about it.” She took a deep breath and rose. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Stanton sat in the passenger seat, and Laka drove. The car was immaculately clean, to the point that it didn’t appear to have even been driven before. Hanging from her rearview mirror was a framed painting no bigger than a few inches wide, depicting Jesus and his twelve apostles.

  H1 was practically empty that morning, and they zipped down the interstate. Stanton kept his window down and his eyes fixed on the passing landscape, but they occasionally drifted over to the beautiful woman sitting next to him. The acute pain of loneliness was never greater than when he was with someone else.

  “I read some stuff,” she said, “about you.”

  “Kai tell you to do that?”

  “No. I looked it up on my own. About how you testified against your former chief for corruption charges. That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “No, it certainly wasn’t. Mike was my friend, as well as being my boss.”

  “Then why’d you do it? Most cops wouldn’t have.”

  “I think every choice we make leads to one of two things. Either chaos or order. I can’t choose chaos. There’s so much of that already that I’m not sure we’ll ever have order. But I can’t contribute to it.”

  “So you think every choice is going to lead to that?”

  “Yes. That’s the only choice we really have. Do you want chaos? Or do you want order? Nothing else really matters.”

  Laka pulled to a stop in front of the station, and an ambulance was there. Two EMTs were talking in front of the station. Farther off was a fire truck.

  “What’s going on?” Laka asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Stanton hurried inside. The din that normally accompanied his first steps into the precinct was there, but something was off. Some people were talking in hushed tones, and a few stared as he walked by. Stanton rode the elevator to the fifth floor, where Kai was speaking with two paramedics. He waited until they were finished then went to Kai.

  “What’s going on?” Stanton asked.

  Kai’s brow furrowed like a bulldog’s. “Come into my office, bra.” Kai shut the door as Stanton sat down. Kai settled into his seat and took a sip of a fruity drink before placing his hands on the desk. “You got that confession last night. That was good work. Russell Neal. That’s exactly how I want you to work these cases. And nothing that happens after is in our control. We just make the collars and move to the next case.”

  “What happened?” Stanton asked. But the sinking feeling in his stomach already told him.

  “Mr. Neal decided to take his own life… after he found out that we hadn’t found the murder weapon when he’d confessed. Jon, we know each other a long time, bra. Have I ever been anything but straight with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then believe me when I say this ain’t your fault. Nothin’ you could’ve done would’ve stopped this.”

  Stanton nodded. “I appreciate you telling me.” He stood. “Anything else?”

  “No.” He leaned back in his chair. “That’s it.”

  When Stanton left the office, Laka was waiting for him by the bullpen, but he didn’t go there. He marched straight toward the elevator and pushed the button. When it took too long, he opted to take the stairs.

  Though he meant to keep an even pace down the five flights, he found himself nearly running. He burst out into the warm air. He needed to get out of there, away from everyone. His chest felt tight, and his vision blurred. He was sucking breath as if he were facedown in sand. Though the world spun, he dashed for the palace across the street. A car horn blasted somewhere near him. A moment later, he felt the soft grass underneath his shoes. He leaned against a tree and slid to the ground, sweat beginning to sting his eyes.

  10

  Tate Reynolds sat in the RV in a grocery store parking lot, smoking a cigarette laced with angel dust. Much better than anything else he’d ever taken, it gave him confidence, energy, and power—things he constantly craved.

  Hiapo and the third man, an emaciated guy everyone called Sticks, were inside the grocery store. Tate had told them to get sandwiches and chips, but he knew they would come back with mostly beer. They were still kids, young punks just drifting around until they got pinched again. Hiapo had done a good stretch of three to ten before, but Sticks had only spent a week inside here and there. That made Tate nervous. He’d been in just long enough to be scared but not used to being inside. Sticks might flip if the cops applied pressure.

  The RV door opened, and Hiapo waddled in and laid a sack on the kitchen counter. The RV, as a whole, was the nicest vehicle Tate had ever been in. This Richard really didn’t fuck around when it came to spending cash.

  “Did you get sandwiches?” Tate asked.

  “A few. You want a beer?”

  “No, I don’t want a beer, dumbass. If I wanted beer, I would have told you to get beer. I wanted sandwiches.”

  “Calm down. I got you a sandwich.”

  Hiapo handed him a foot-long sub. Tate unwrapped the Saran wrap and took a bite. The bread was stale, and the mayonnaise, warm. But he’d had far worse.

  “There she is,” Hiapo said.

  Tate looked up to see a woman in spandex pants and a tank top walk out of the grocery store. The muscles in her arms and chest were visible, but her boobs were huge, clearly fake. Her blond hair was bright, almost platinum, and her nails were painted black.

  “Holy shit,” Sticks said. “She’s fucking hot.”

  Tate took another bite of the sandwich. “Shit,” he mumbled.

  “You sure we gotta do this?” Hiapo asked.

  “What? She gives you a woody and you can’t off her now?”

  “Nah, I mean, woman like that. Ya know. Husband might pay more than we’re gettin’ to get her back. Ya know.”

  Tate placed the sandwich down and picked up his cigarette. “That idea ain’t total shit. But I bet some people might pay more for a piece of ass like that.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a man named Lee.

  “Yo,” Lee said. “What’s up, brother?”

  “Chillin’. Hey, you still know Marvin up there in the docks?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He still into girls?”

  “Girls?”

  “Yeah, dipshit. He still buyin’ girls?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I ain’t seen him for a minute.”

  “Do me a solid—go see him. Ask him if he still got the hook-up on buyin’ bitches. I got a fine one for him.”

  “A’ight, I’ll check and hit you up.”

  Tate placed the phone down on the dash. Sharon Miller got into her car and fiddled with her stereo before pulling away. Tate started the RV and followed.

  11

  Stanton sat in Dr. Vaquer’s waiting room. He was hunched over, staring at the floor, when her doors opened and she said, “Please come in.”

  He rose and followed her inside. The office was always the same, not a painting or stapler out of place. Some psychiatrist
s used the method to offer their patients consistency.

  He sat down on the couch and leaned back. The ceiling fan wasn’t on. Instead, the window was open, and Stanton could hear the traffic outside. Dr. Vaquer must’ve noticed, because she rose and closed the window before sitting back down across from him.

  “Tell me about the attack,” she said.

  “My chest started feeling tight. Then my vision was affected. It was like I was looking through a rolled-up piece of paper or something. Myopic. I kept blinking to make it go away like it was something in my eye. Then my thoughts jumbled, and my chest felt like it might burst open from the pressure. I passed out, but luckily, I was leaning against a tree. When I woke up, I think a couple of minutes had passed. But I don’t know for sure.”

  She stared at him a moment. “Was there something unusual or particularly stressful that you feel triggered it?”

  “A collar I had on a murder. He grabbed a gun from the officer guarding him when he went in to feed him. He shot himself. I got a confession out of him by lying to him that we’d found the murder weapon. When he found out that wasn’t true, he killed himself.”

  She nodded. “Jon, I’m very worried about this attack. You haven’t had a panic attack in over a year. And this one sounds particularly worrisome because you fainted.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d like to put you on another medication. Xanax. It should help with these attacks.”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine. They’re rare enough that they don’t interfere.”

  “I won’t contradict your wishes, of course, but that’s the wrong choice. It’s okay to need help sometimes.”

  He was silent for a while. “I’ve been having nightmares again.”

  “What of?”

  “Last night, I saw myself in a car. It was a luxury car, a Mercedes or something. I was driving it for someone else. They had asked me to take it somewhere. The road was really dark. All I could see were the lines speeding past me and darkness everywhere else. The car kept going faster and faster, so I put my foot on the brake, but it didn’t work. This red circle came on in the dash—a warning light that isn’t actually on a dashboard. I didn’t know what it was. I called the Mercedes dealership, but no one answered.”