Run Away

by Victor Methos

“No,” Tate said, continuing to pace. “Shit’s fucked up. Shit’s fucked up today.”

  “Smoke a bowl and calm down.”

  “I have been smoking bowls,” Tate growled.

  “Easy, bra. Easy. You want somethin’ to eat?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, get me… get me a hamburger and curly fries and chicken, and—and fuckin’ sandwiches. Meatball sandwiches. And chips.”

  “Okay, man. You just chill, a’ight. I’ll see what I can get.”

  As Lee headed upstairs, he heard Tate talking to himself. That wasn’t good. Tate was unstable enough as it was. Lee jogged up the stairs and out to the RV. Hiapo was asleep, as was the young girl. The woman was sitting on the toilet, her hands still bound with duct tape.

  Lee was about to wake Hiapo when the woman said, “I have to use the bathroom.”

  Lee looked up at her. “What?”

  “I said, I have to use the bathroom.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Unless you want a mess in here, I need to use the bathroom.”

  Lee exhaled. Hiapo was sound asleep, snoring in fact. Lee kicked him, but the big man didn’t even stir. “Fine.”

  Lee walked to the back of the RV. He helped the woman up off the toilet. As he bent down to flip open the toilet seat, he felt an impact like a brick against his head and his forehead slammed into the toilet. He bounced off and lay on his back on the floor. The woman had something in her hands—a small black box, like a TV or DVD player.

  The woman sprinted off the RV, leaving Lee cussing and grabbing the back of his head. He could feel the blood seeping over his fingers.

  He jumped up. “Fucking bitch!”

  Lee dashed after the woman. Screaming, she ran up the sidewalk, and Lee followed. A loud pop echoed through the neighborhood, and the woman collapsed. Lee instinctively hit the ground. His eyes darted around until he saw Tate standing on the front lawn, a gun in his hand.

  He walked up to the woman and fired three more rounds. Lee covered his ears with trembling fingers. Tate yelled at the corpse.

  He ran up to Lee and shouted, “Fuck you!” Then he pointed the weapon at Lee’s head.

  “Nah, Tate, man. Nah, I ain’t done nothin’. Tate!”

  Lee didn’t hear a pop or any more shouting. There was only a slight pain in his head then darkness.

  36

  The police cruisers just ahead of them slammed on their brakes in front of the home. Stanton jumped out of the car as soon as Laka pulled their car to a stop. The Kevlar vest made Stanton feel heavy and immobile, but he knew how necessary it was.

  A SWAT van pulled up just then. The SWAT commander was heading the operation. As Stanton walked over to him to confirm the strike, he saw the body on the sidewalk—a black male with a head wound. Just ahead of him was a woman whose wrists were bound with duct tape.

  Stanton ran to the bodies. The man was cold and had been dead for hours. The woman was even colder, and most of her blood had pooled around her. Stanton recognized Sharon Miller from a photo of her in Richard Miller’s house.

  He scanned the street for an RV, but there wasn’t one.

  “What the hell happened?” Laka asked, jogging up to him.

  “The way she fell, it looks like she was running when the round entered the back of her head. But him—I don’t know why he was shot.”

  “Maybe he was gonna sell him out?”

  “Maybe. Let’s hang back and let SWAT do their job.”

  The SWAT team was a precision instrument. They didn’t have a wide range of functions within the police department, but the ones they did have, they executed better than anyone. After a shout, they knocked down the front door and delivered the tear gas. Then they slammed through the side and backdoors nearly in unison. The men shouted constantly as they cleared one room then another. Smoke billowed out from the living room window then swirled in the breeze before disappearing.

  The SWAT commander came out a few minutes later. He lifted his mask and stood in front of Stanton with his rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “House is clear, Detective.”

  “You sure?” Stanton knew he was and that he’d probably checked everything several times, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The frustration of having Tate slip through his fingers was too much.

  “Positive.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stanton watched the house. The forensics techs had arrived and were analyzing the bodies. A few of them were staring at the SWAT members in wonder and awe. The two groups worked in the same factory but couldn’t have been more different.

  “Don’t worry,” Laka said, “We’ll get him.”

  Stanton shook his head. “Before he kills the girl?”

  Laka didn’t respond. Stanton strode into the house. The tear gas had cleared, and a few SWAT team members were mulling around the living room. They filed out of the house when they saw him. A couple uniforms were around, surveying the scene for their supplemental reports.

  Stanton sat down on the sofa. The living room had only two windows, and both were blacked out with what looked like black paint or tar. He could only see because of the light coming in from the open door. He put his hands on his thighs and stared at the carpet. Sharon Miller was dead. He hadn’t gotten to her in time. All that work, all that effort, and she had died. And her daughter would probably soon follow. And to top it off, he had just gotten word that Richard Miller was MIA.

  “You all right?” Laka asked, sitting down in the recliner across from him.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The girl. I just keep thinking if I’d have worked a little faster… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “This isn’t anything you did, Jon. Her dickhead father put evil out there, and that’s what this poor family saw the universe give back to them. The father started this, not you.”

  “I couldn’t save her,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “I did everything I could, and it wasn’t enough.”

  “Sometimes it isn’t. But you just pick up and keep going. We’ll find her. You have to believe that.”

  Stanton leaned back on the sofa and looked around the living room. Everything was old and weathered except the television, which was at least eighty inches and clean enough to be brand-new.

  An island-wide BOLO—be on the look-out—call had been sent out for any RVs matching the description Sticks had given him. Stanton could think of nothing else to do but wait.

  “Tate’s gonna wanna get off the island,” Laka said. “He might need somebody to help him with that.”

  Stanton thought for a moment. “The only person on the island that would possibly help him is his wife.” He bit the inside of his cheek and ran his tongue over the membrane—a habit he’d had since he was a child. “Better than sitting around eating bagels. Let’s go pay her another visit.”

  37

  In the noonday heat, Richard dripped sweat. He decided he needed new clothes before anything else. But he was scared the police could follow his credit card transactions. But, then again, by the time the police saw his credit card history for today, he would be long gone. They already knew he was still on the island, so he wouldn’t really be giving anything away if he just ran in and bought shorts, a nice button-down shirt, and sandals. He decided it was worth the risk. His suit was too hot, and the pressure of his tie around his neck felt like a noose. It’d never felt that way before.

  A strip mall wasn’t far from where he was. He tipped his hat low as he walked down the street. It was a woman’s hat, and he wondered if it was actually drawing more attention to him. He tossed it in the bushes on the walk to the mall.

  The sidewalks were never really very swamped in downtown Honolulu, considering how large the city really was. A lot of people from the mainland moved there, thinking it would be paradise, only to find the cost of living was double or triple of where they had come from.

  The strip mall was j
ust across the street from where he was, and he considered jaywalking, but instead, he walked the extra hundred feet to the crosswalk at the intersection. He glanced into each car as he crossed, wondering if someone would recognize him. He didn’t know if his face was on TV.

  The mall had at least twenty stores. When he spotted the Polo store, he practically ran in. Then he forced himself to take his time perusing the shorts. He found a pair he liked then chose a polo shirt and sandals. After he purchased them, he asked the cashier if he could use the changing room, then someone else on the floor unlocked one for him. He hung up his suit and looked at it one more time. Leaving it was such a shame. The price of freedom, he guessed.

  As he headed out of the store, he stopped at the cashier’s counter. “Um, sorry, is there someplace here that sells phones?”

  “Yeah,” the cashier said, not taking his eyes off the shirt he was folding. “Just up is a Sprint or something.”

  “Thanks.”

  Richard marched over there. The two men behind the desk were talking and laughing.

  “Hi,” he said. “I was wondering if you guys had any disposable phones?”

  “Not here, no. There’s a Safeway right up the street, and they got some.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  The Safeway was another short walk, and getting around in his sandals felt better than his walking in his wingtips. Pleasant music was playing inside the store as he entered, and Richard hummed along. Given everything that had happened, he had to admit that he wasn’t in a particularly bad mood.

  Richard found the phones right at the front of one of the aisles. After purchasing a phone and minutes card, he went out to the curb and set them up. Once the phone was activated, he called the only person he could think to call: his lawyer.

  “Strain, Klep and Barnum,” the receptionist said.

  “Yeah, hi. Can I speak to Candace Strain, please?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Um, is this Marleen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, hi. It’s Richard.”

  Silence.

  “Um, Richard Miller. I work there.”

  “Oh, right, Richard. Sorry. Yeah, Candace is here. Hold on a sec, ’kay?”

  “Okay.”

  The line clicked, and Candace’s voice came on. “Richard, what can I do for you?”

  That was a good sign. The police were probably staked out outside the offices, but word hadn’t yet reached Candace.

  “Um, Candace, I think I’m going to need you to be my lawyer. You’re the best lawyer I know, so I thought I would call you.”

  “Your lawyer for what?”

  “I’ve done some questionable things, Candace.” Richard swallowed. He couldn’t believe he was sitting on the curb, begging his boss to represent him.

  “How questionable?”

  “Well, I may have set some things in motion, and people got hurt. I don’t know that for sure, but I think maybe. I may have hired someone to hurt my wife.”

  A long silence.

  “Um, Candace? You there?”

  “I’m here. Is Sharon dead, Richard?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t contact the people I hired anymore.”

  “You need to turn yourself in.”

  A car passed, and Richard glanced up at the driver then let his eyes drift back to the pavement. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I need you to help me get off the island.”

  “That’s not what criminal lawyers do. I’ll represent you, Richard. But the only way for me to do that is if you turn yourself in. I’ll be there with you to make sure they don’t ask any questions. But the process can’t even start until you turn yourself in.”

  “I… well, I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “What the hell happened, Richard?”

  “It’s a long story, I guess. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay. If you do get arrested, don’t say anything to the police. Just give them my name and number.”

  “Will do.”

  Richard hung up. Speaking to her had actually made him feel better. He liked knowing someone out there was on his side. But she was completely wrong. There was no point in turning himself in. Hawaii didn’t have the death penalty, but he would be an old man before he got out of prison. He wasn’t about to let that happen.

  So that left one problem: how to get off the island. There wasn’t a chance that the police hadn’t notified all the airports. But cruises left from Oahu all the time. Maybe the authorities hadn’t notified all the cruise lines yet?

  He rose, brushed off his bottom, and began walking.

  38

  Hiapo sat at the table as the RV raced down the freeway. He glanced back at the girl, who was huddled on the bed, crying. He’d woken to gunshots and discovered that the woman was gone. He didn’t need to ask what had happened.

  Tate was driving—and mumbling to himself. Hiapo had never seen him like that before. He rose from the table and sat in the passenger seat. Tate’s face looked different. It was pale and glistening with sweat.

  “You good?” Hiapo asked.

  “No, man. I’m pretty fucking far from good.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. Shit’s just fucked up today, man.”

  Hiapo sat quietly for a second, then glanced back at the crying girl. “Maybe we should pull over somewhere so you can sleep.”

  “I don’t need to sleep.”

  “You been smokin’ that shit, ain’t you?”

  Tate looked at him with wide eyes, full of fear. “What the fuck did you say?”

  “You need to chill, bra. We need to pull over and get something for you to sleep.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck you!” He pulled out his pistol and pressed the muzzle against Hiapo’s head. “Get your ass back there and shut your fucking mouth!”

  Hiapo didn’t flinch. That wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun against his head. But Tate wasn’t himself. Hiapo looked at him and didn’t recognize the man looking back.

  Hiapo rose without a word and went back to the table. He looked at the girl then at Tate. He was talking to himself again, and he laughed. Hiapo shook his head and sat back down.

  After nearly an hour of riding, Hiapo knew where they were going—a cabin. It was really just a shack that Tate’s father had owned. His father had lived in the jungle, away from everyone else. He owned his cabin, a few clothes, his guns, and that was it. He lived off the land. Tate had said he’d snapped later in life.

  After the family moved from California, Tate’s father had stayed with them for only a short while before disappearing into the jungle. Tate saw him regularly, and his father had taught him how to fish and how to shoot. He and Hiapo had stayed there several times when they had to let shit cool down.

  As the RV traveled the dirt road leading up a hill, trees surrounded it. Hiapo watched the jungle as they drove. Other cabins were there, too. The area wasn’t as secluded as he’d remembered it. The RV eventually came to a stop in front of a brown cabin with only two windows. The gun still in his hand, Tate got out of the RV without a word and went inside the cabin.

  39

  Stanton brought the car to a stop, and Laka was the first to get out. Stanton stared at the home for a while. A wave of pity for Cindy Reynolds washed over him. As he got out of the car, she peeked through the blinds in the front room.

  Laka knocked, but the door didn’t open.

  Stanton shouted, “Cindy, please open up. I saw you look through the blinds. I don’t want to have to get a warrant.”

  A moment later, the lock turned, and she peered out over a chain on the door.

  “May we come in?” Stanton asked.

  She nodded then shut the door, unlatched the chain, and let them in.

  The house was cluttered, and a cat, which Stanton hadn’t seen last time he was there, occupied the couch. He sat near it, and the cat wandered over to lie on his lap. Animals had always liked him. He rubbed the cat behin
d its ear for a few moments before speaking. Laka chose to stand with her arms folded, her eyes locked onto Cindy, who sat nervously across from Stanton.

  “We need to know where he is, Cindy. And I know you know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “He’s killed three people. One of them was an eleven-year-old boy. He has a thirteen-year-old girl with him now. I need to save her life, Cindy. And you’re the only one that can help me.”

  She swallowed, rubbing her hands together. “I…”

  “He’s done this before. Left you by yourself to deal with his messes. I know you love him. I’m not questioning your love for him. But I know you’re not like him. You care about people. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t want this girl to die because we couldn’t get to her in time. You don’t want to live with that. Tell me where I can find him, and I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to protect him. I’m not promising he’ll walk away from this without consequences, but I won’t let anyone hurt him.”

  Her hands trembled as she spoke. “We had a daughter once. Gloria. Our little girl.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was taken away from us. ’Cause of the drugs. She lives in San Francisco now, with a nice family. But the family don’t let us see her. They think it’s bad for her to see her own parents. But I can see why. We ain’t no good for her.”

  “I’m sorry, Cindy. I’m sorry that this is where Tate brought you. But I need your help. I want that girl to have a chance at life. Just like your own daughter has now.”

  She nodded. “He has a cabin his father left him…”

  40

  Hiapo watched as Tate paced back and forth in front of the cabin. His hands were shaking so badly that the gun slipped and fell on the ground several times. Hiapo stood next to the girl right outside the RV.

  Tate was mumbling to himself and kicking bits of dirt. He placed the gun against his head and closed his eyes. Then he started ranting again.