Run Away

by Victor Methos

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know, but when I woke up, my pillow was soaked. I thought it was sweat at first, but I wasn’t sweating. I was crying.”

  “You were weeping in your sleep?”

  He nodded. “I’ve never done that before.”

  She considered that a moment then said, “Jon, this is very important. I would like to put you on Xanax to control the anxiety attacks. And I’d like to increase the dosage for the Prozac.”

  He shook his head. “Medication isn’t the answer.”

  “Then what is?”

  “There’s something… I don’t know. It feels like I’m being told something.”

  She placed her hands together, casually rubbing them before leaning back in her seat and crossing her legs. “We’ve talked about this before. Your belief in visions. I know you have a very powerful belief in God. Do you believe God gives you visions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it just because of your Mormon faith, or do you think there are deeper reasons?”

  “No, there’s deeper reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  Stanton paused. “I’ve had them before.”

  “Tell me about one.”

  “They’re just fragments. Impressions, almost. When I was in Sex Crimes, we found some remains we couldn’t identify in an abandoned building. The most accurate way to identify a body is with dental records. Everything else fades with time and exposure to the environment. But this vic was missing all their teeth. So identification was almost impossible.” He swallowed and paused a moment. “One night, after we had already closed the case and transferred it to the Open-Unsolved files, I saw something in a dream. A young girl standing in a dress and high heels. Her hair was cut short, and her nose and cheeks were rosy, like she’d been exposed to a lot of wind or something. Her hands were up, blocking something coming toward her. And her eyes… they looked more terrified than any eyes I’ve ever seen. She knew she was going to die.

  “But she was standing still. And I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t running… until it hit me that it was a photo. There was a photo of her somewhere. A photo of the vic before she was killed.” He was quiet a long time but didn’t look Dr. Vaquer in the eyes. “A few months later, a trucker named Randy Gomez was arrested by the FBI for an unrelated case. But his home was in San Diego, so we were brought in on the search. They found a photograph of a young girl in an abandoned building. It was tucked underneath his pillow. She was in heels, her hands were up defending her, and the look on her face was…”

  “Was it her?”

  “Identical to what I saw in my dream. He confessed to killing her.”

  Neither of them spoke or moved. Stanton exhaled loudly. “Can we talk about something else?”

  12

  The RV had a smooth ride, but it was hard to hide in traffic. Tate wished he’d thought about that before following Sharon Miller. But she didn’t seem like the kind of lady who would be constantly looking in her rearview mirror anyway.

  They crossed the island, Tate always staying as far back as he could without losing her. Eventually, they reached a neighborhood Tate had never been to, large houses with immense lawns and swimming pools in the back. Shiny luxury cars were in every driveway. When he was a kid, Tate always pictured himself living in a place like that. But life had taken him another direction. He still had the desire to live there, but not the means to make it happen.

  Sharon parked in a driveway, went to the door, and knocked. The man who answered kissed her, his hands drifting down to her ass. She went inside, and the door shut behind her.

  “Shit,” Hiapo said. “She’s scandalous. Guess all bitches are.”

  Tate turned off the RV and took out a joint from a small plastic baggie on the floor. He lit up and took a few puffs before handing it to Hiapo, who was in the passenger seat. “You had a mama. Was your mama scandalous?”

  “No,” Hiapo said, inhaling from the joint.

  “Then not all bitches are scandalous, are they?”

  Sticks came up front, having just woken from his nap on the bed in the back of the RV. He was rubbing his eyes when he took the joint from Hiapo. He inhaled a big pull and held it.

  “What we doing?” he asked in that high-pitched squeal stoners got when holding in smoke.

  “She’s with some dude,” Tate said.

  “Good. Just walk up and bust a cap in her, man.”

  “Fuck no. They got gunshot residue and DNA and all that shit, man. I ain’t riskin’ goin’ back inside.”

  “So what you wanna do?” he asked, exhaling smoke.

  “We gonna take her in the RV and dump her somewhere in the ocean. Let the sharks have her, man. No body, no murder. That’s what this fucker in the can used to say to me. Said he killed, like, ten girls and got rid of all the bodies, so he was only in there for a robbery.”

  “No body, huh?” Sticks pulled the joint away and hungrily took a few more puffs.

  “We got a Playstation back there. Just hang out, man.”

  Several hours passed. Tate smoked so much weed that he felt slow and bloated… and hungry. But the dumb bastards had only picked up two sandwiches, which were already gone. He rose and carefully walked to the fridge. He opened it to find two six-packs of beer. At least it was something. He grabbed a bottle and returned to the driver’s seat. The beer was warm since the fridge wasn’t on.

  “Hey,” Hiapo said, “There she is.”

  Sharon Miller stepped out of the house, and the man at the door watched her for a while. She got into her car, blew him a kiss, then pulled out. Tate ducked low in the seat and waited a few minutes before turning on the RV and following.

  She seemed to be rocketing away from them, although she was probably just going the speed limit. Tate did his best to keep up, but he was so high that he was anxious whenever he hit forty miles an hour.

  “Shit,” he said. “I’m too fucking high.”

  “Let me drive,” Hiapo said.

  Tate slid out and collapsed into the passenger seat as Hiapo took his place. Tate closed his eyes then felt sick, so he opened them and rolled down the window. Warm air hit his face as the RV sped onto the freeway, and he thought he might vomit.

  They seemed to drive forever before arriving at a mall. They followed the car around and parked in a wide-open space. Sharon got out and hustled into the mall.

  “I’m fucking sick,” Tate said, opening the door.

  “Where you going?” Sticks asked from the back.

  “I don’t know. Food court. Get some Sprite or something.”

  “Get me a Big Mac and some fries.”

  “Fuck you. Get it yourself.”

  “Don’t be a bitch. Just get it.”

  Tate stumbled out, squinting in the harsh light. He reached into the RV for his sunglasses then flipped them on. The mall was large and flat. The largest mall in Honolulu, most of it was outdoors under a retractable cover. He stumbled through the parking lot and opened the doors. The food court was right inside. He staggered around until he saw a McDonald’s.

  The line moved so slowly that he started counting the tiles on the floor. The next restaurant didn’t have a line, so he strolled over there and leaned against the counter, staring at the menu. When he felt somebody behind him, he glanced back and saw Sharon Miller standing there.

  He snapped his head forward as the cashier came up to him. “What can I get for you?”

  Tate looked at the first thing on the menu. “Um, a turkey and cheese and a Sprite.”

  The clerk continued asking questions, and Tate answered, but he kept glancing behind him. Sharon was on the phone. She was, he decided, much hotter up close. His chest felt tight, and he was starting to sweat. He turned and marched out of the food court without getting his sandwich or drink, the cashier shouting behind him.

  13

  Several hours later, Tate was finally sober enough to drive. Sharon Miller spent the entire day shopping. By the
time night fell, the RV was the last place any of the men wanted to be. It stank of weed, farts, and beer.

  Tate leaned his head against the glass and let out a loud belch. His eyes shut, and he felt himself drifting off. Sticks had been passed out for a while, and Hiapo was doing something on his phone.

  Tate felt a hand on his shoulder and jolted awake. He hadn’t realized he’d been sleeping. Hiapo stood over him. “She’s out.”

  Hiapo took the driver’s seat, and the RV roared to life. It followed the car onto the freeway then headed back downtown. After a few minutes, they were in an upscale neighborhood a lot like the one they’d been to before. Then Sharon opened a garage and pulled her car in.

  “Shit,” Hiapo said. “This is her house.”

  Tate shrugged. “Let’s go, then.”

  He walked to the back of the RV and kicked Sticks. The man snored louder and turned over. Tate pushed his head into the pillow until he started struggling and kicking his legs.

  “Get up, dipshit. We’re here.”

  Tate pulled out a bag he’d brought as a back-up plan. Richard had wanted him to kidnap his wife, take her to an RV park, and kill her there. The RV wouldn’t have been bothered for a long time, and the body would have just been sitting there, decomposing until someone noticed the smell. But dumping her in the ocean would be easier. Less messy. And the cops would probably never find it.

  Tate took out three ski masks and tossed one to each man. He was the first one out of the RV, and he didn’t wait for the other two. Sneaking through the bushes, he slid along the garage and knocked on the door. The neighborhood was dark, but it was possible the neighbors could see them. He needed to work quickly.

  He heard the lock unfasten, and a young girl opened the door. She tried to scream, but Tate rushed her. He slapped his palm over her mouth, muffling her scream, and picked her up off her feet as he pushed the door open and stomped inside. Hiapo and Sticks followed him.

  Tate pinned the girl onto the floor. “Watch her,” he told the other two.

  Hiapo placed his foot on the girl’s chest, but he didn’t hold her mouth. He just said, “Shh,” and she complied.

  Tate scanned the living room. The art on the walls, the rugs, and the furniture—everything there looked expensive. None of it looked like anything he’d seen before. The place must’ve been worth a million bucks.

  The ceiling creaked. Someone was walking around upstairs. Tate looked over at the staircase near the kitchen then ascended the stairs as quietly as he could. Sticks didn’t follow him. Instead, he began going through drawers.

  When Tate got to the top of the stairs, he heard a shower turn on. He glanced into a few of the bedrooms then tiptoed to the bathroom. The door was open a crack. Inside, Sharon was standing in front of the mirror, stripping off her clothes. He stared at her as she slipped off her bra. But as she pulled her spandex down over her thighs, she happened to glance over at the door. Their eyes caught each other’s, and there was an instant of silence before she screamed.

  Tate went to push into the bathroom, but she slammed the door and locked it. He leaned back and bashed his heel into the door. He did it again and again, sending splinters flying all over the hallway. The door flew open and slammed into the wall before bouncing back. The bathroom was massive, larger than most apartments he’d had. Tate crept inside. He went to the darkened walk-in closet and flipped on the light.

  A thick shower rod smashed into his nose. He saw stars and instantly felt tears running from his eyes. The pain radiated into his head. “Fuck!” His hand went to his nose, which was already gushing blood into his mouth and over his chin.

  She swung again. He blocked the club with his forearms. Reaching back, he whipped his arm with as much force as he could. The back of his hand impacted against her mouth and sent her flying into a row of men’s suits. Tate grabbed her hair and slammed her into the wall before flinging her to the floor. She wasn’t moving.

  His gushing blood had already stained the carpet in the closet. Tate lifted his soaked ski mask. The liquid dripped down as if his nose were connected to a faucet. Plugging his nose with his fingers, he walked out of the closet and leaned against the sink. He shoved a thick wad of toilet paper up each nostril.

  Sticks ran in. He looked from Tate to Sharon, who was nearly unconscious, and then disappeared into the bedroom.

  Through the tinted-glass window over the bathtub, Tate stared down at a passing car, catching his breath. Then he rose and pulled Sharon up. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and slapped them on her wrists. She was aware enough that she began struggling, and he smacked the back of her head.

  “If you try to run,” he said, spitting blood, “I’ll kill you.”

  He dragged her down to the main floor then to the front door. He looked out, making sure no one was around. The RV was only fifty feet away. They could run there in less than fifteen or twenty seconds.

  “Hey,” Hiapo said. “What about her?” He motioned to the young girl pinned underneath him.

  “Bring her with us.”

  Night in a rich neighborhood didn’t feel like nighttime in a poor neighborhood. Tate had lived in places where he didn’t feel safe even with his piece. But the street was completely quiet. No one would think about robbing one of the houses with fancy alarms and in a neighborhood with a quick police response. He chuckled to himself.

  He dragged the fighting woman out and over the massive lawn. She screamed once. He kicked her in the stomach, and she quieted down. Dragging her was too much effort, so he lifted her by her hair and forced her to walk beside him. If any of the neighbors saw, they might just think she was simply having a casual stroll with Tate.

  Carrying the young girl over his shoulder, Hiapo was right behind Tate. Sticks wasn’t anywhere to be seen. As Tate reached for the RV door, he stopped. Catching only movement at first, Tate turned his head to see a boy, maybe eleven or twelve, on a bike. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes were locked onto Tate.

  “Your mask, bra,” Hiapo said.

  He had forgotten he’d pulled off his mask in the bathroom. The boy was staring right at Tate’s face.

  “Let it go,” Hiapo said.

  Tate opened the RV door and threw Sharon inside. He whipped around and pulled out his pistol from his waistband. His first shot missed, but the second hit the boy in the cheek, flinging him off his bike.

  “Your face wasn’t the one he saw,” Tate said. “Now throw his ass in the bushes, and let’s go.”

  Sticks came running out of the house, his arms full of jewelry. He tripped once on the lawn and fell flat on his face before he rose again and sprinted for the RV. He looked down at the little body on the sidewalk. “Holy shit. What happened?”

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Tate shouted.

  Sharon was screaming, and he grabbed a roll of duct tape out of his bag of supplies. He taped her mouth then her wrists. Hiapo climbed into the RV after having moved the boy, and he stood glaring down at Tate, the young girl still on his shoulder.

  “How ’bout you get goin’ so we don’t get pinched?”

  Hiapo grunted and flung the girl into the passenger seat. Then he got into the driver’s side and started the RV. Several neighbors had come out of their homes.

  Finished with the tape, Tate dragged Sharon to the back and threw her onto the bed. She kicked at him, making him chuckle. Laughing, he grabbed her tits and made her squeal.

  Tate walked to the center of the RV and sat in the built-in table. He glanced out the window at the boy’s body. His feet were sticking out of the bushes, and the front tire of the bike still spun gently.

  14

  The office was nearly empty. It was well past ten o’clock, and most of the attorneys and all the staff had gone home. But Richard Miller sat at his desk, tapping a pen against his shoe. He threw the pen onto the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d had a headache all day, and no matter how many Excedrin he took, it wouldn’t go away.

  Maybe hi
s scheme had been a mistake. Maybe he should call it off. He was bound to get something in the divorce. But if he didn’t, he would lose everything else. Richard’s father-in-law was a controlling partner at the firm, and he’d given Richard the job. And if he didn’t get any money or property, he would be left destitute in the most expensive region of the most expensive state in the nation.

  He sighed and rose. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this—any of it. All he wanted was a nice marriage to a girl who loved him and plenty of kids. He’d grown up in a family of five and remembered how much fun it was to have four best friends who could never leave him. He wanted that for Eliza. But he wouldn’t get it with Sharon. She’d had her tubes tied years before.

  Richard stretched his back, and headed out. He waved to one of the custodians, but the man didn’t notice him.

  The air outside was clean and fresh, though it had a tint of fog to it. A light wetness in the nose. Richard ambled to his car and lay on the hood for a moment, staring at the stars. Hawaii, even Honolulu with all its bright lights, had the best view of the sky he’d ever seen, except for North Dakota. He’d worked there briefly as a floor hand in the oil fields. There, the stars and galaxies above him appeared like a magical painting in the night.

  Richard got into his Cadillac and drove home. Because of the light traffic, the drive was quick and pleasant. He checked his watch. It should be done. His heart was pounding, and his guts felt bound up tight.

  Without warning, a rush of vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it but had to pull over to the shoulder of the highway. He stuck his head out the driver’s side window, and his lunch came spilling out. When he was through, he sat back in the driver’s seat and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. Then he headed home.