Run With Me (24 page)

I feel a growing curiosity in me
as I continue to flick through the files. Does he have one on me? I'd
be surprised if he didn't. When I reach the section for the letter
'T' I quickly confirm my suspicions. There I am – Colt Tanner.

I pull the file out of the
drawer and set it down on the desk. It's thicker than I'd have
thought it would be. Over the years I thought I'd been fairly
anonymous, but perhaps not. As I flick through I notice that Carmine
has compiled an account of my life, from my youth all the way up to
my present day activities. In particular, he's had some sort of
spotlight on me since Sophie and Ellie were killed.

I reach a page that lists their
deaths. There are images of the house, ravaged by fire. Pictures of
the ambulance and firefighters and police gathered outside, of their
bodies being stretchered out of the blazing building. These are
things I've never seen, never wanted to see. But now that I'm looking
at them I can't turn away. The thought of my wife, my daughter, burnt
to death beneath those black plastic coverings are things I've only
imagined so far. I've never had to confront them face to face like
this.

Why does he have these images
anyway? Why has he been compiling such an extensive file on me? I
quickly turn from the images of the night that changed my life and
work my way through the following years. He seems to have kept track
of everything on me ever since, barring the odd job that was too
obscure for anyone to know about. I can't get my head around it,
can't understand why I'd be of such interest to him.

Then I find a single line,
handwritten, perhaps in his own hand. It stands out against the black
typescript and images.

I owe this man a debt, and I
will repay it.

That's all it says. The 'I' is
never specified, nor is who the 'man' is, but I assume that it's
Carmine speaking of me. That it's he who owes me a debt, and that
that debt will be repaid.

It's cryptic, and that doesn't
surprise me. Like a personal little memo written randomly in this
file, as if he wrote it one night while flicking through the pages, a
glass of whiskey in hand, something eating away at his mind, or
conscience. But is it an admission of guilt over something or a vow
for revenge? Have I tracked down someone who meant something to him?
Have I gotten in the way of a deal, or perhaps interfered with
something that was important to him? Is this entire situation with
Kitty a set up? He hired me to track her, only to try to take us both
out in one go. So maybe it wasn't about me trying to help her at all.
Maybe it was just a whole nefarious plot from the beginning. Kitty
going on the run – maybe that was just the sort of excuse he needed
to bring me in and send me after her, only to have Rugger take us
both out in one go.

But why wouldn't he have taken
me out before? If he's wanted me dead all these years then he could
have done it at any time. I thought that I'd been covering myself
pretty well, keeping myself under the radar, off the grid. But
clearly that's not the case. Judging from this file I've been under
the microscope for years, and if that's the case, any plot of revenge
against me could have been carried out at any point. Hell, only last
week I was standing right here in front of him. He could have quite
easily shot me dead right here in this basement office, and no one
would ever know.

I keep searching through the
file now, searching for an alternative. Maybe I'm jumping to a
conclusion that only my distrustful mind would come to. Any normal
person reading that line would believe that he's, at some point, been
in the wrong, and is looking to make amends. Yet how does that make
any sense at all? If he was trying to make amends for something then
why would he try to have me killed? It just doesn't add up.

A creaking sound snaps my head
up quickly from the desk. Without thinking I've got my gun in my
hands and I'm pointing it towards the door. I watch for a moment
before I feel a light draft pass by me, and the creaking sounds
again. Then I notice the door moving ever so slightly, shaking side
to side on rusty hinges. I let out a breath and lower my weapon,
setting it back into its holster.

But my eyes stick on the door.
There's something posted on the wood on this side – the inside. I
don't remember seeing it the last time I was here. I walk curiously
towards it, unable to make out what's written in plain letters
because of the acute angle. When I reach the edge I pull the door
shut, and immediately know that this is a set-up.

He must have known I'd come
here, he must have known I'd break in!

There's a large piece of paper
posted onto the inside of the door. It's something I'd never have
seen unless I'd been inside the office, and I'd only have seen it as
I left. Written in large print are the following words:

TIME TO RESOLVE EVERYTHING COLT

213-634-8739

MICHAEL

Kitty

I don't know how long I've been
out when I open my eyes. Minutes? No, I'm not in the car any more.
Hours? Maybe. Days? I just don't know.

What I do know is that I'm not
dead, so that's a start. But why? Why didn't he kill me when he had
the chance? And where the hell am I?!

The room I'm in is bland;
nondescript. I'm lying on a bed, but my hands aren't bound or tied to
it's frame. I'm free to move around, but when I do I feel groggy, my
head heavy with the lingering scent of whatever was shoved into my
neck. Some sort of knock out drug, I guess, so I could be transported
without any fuss.

I drop my legs over the side and
try to calm the spinning in my brain, focusing on my feet until two
sets of toes gradually come together to form one. Then I raise my
eyes, inspecting the prison around me. There's a window on one wall,
covered by curtains. Opposite the bed is a door with what looks like
a keycard lock, like the sort you'd get in a hotel. The rest of the
room is empty and bare, populated by no furniture but for the double
bed I'm sitting on.

I stand with some difficulty and
move to the window. When I open the curtains I immediately recognize
the surroundings and know I'm back in LA, back home. I'm about 5
floors up, on the outskirts of Downtown. I don't know the specific
area, but I'd recognize that skyline anywhere.

There's no latch on the window,
no way to open it. What good would that do anyway? What am I going to
do, jump 5 floors and hope for the best. I make my way towards the
door and find that, like the window, there's no handle. I nod with a
mixture of expectation and resignation.
Yep, I'm trapped.

Without the drug still making
its way through my system, I'd probably be freaking out right now.
Banging on the door, demanding I be released. Pleading with my captor
to let me go free. Bargaining with whatever I can think of.
Threatening that Colt will kill the lot of them when he finds me, and
that he
will
find me....

But I don't do any of that. I
just wearily return to my bed, lie down face up, and stare at the
ceiling. The drug clearly has a numbing effect, both on my body and
my emotions, because right now I don't care that I'm locked up here.
Right now I don't actually care about anything.

It's strangely liberating, this
feeling. Even though I know it's the drug, and that it will wear off
eventually. Right now, for this briefest of periods, I can just lie
here, not a care in the world, and pretend that everything's just
fine. Respite from this world of car chases and police hunts and gun
fights outside motels. A small release from the relentless fear that
had been gnawing at me. Fear of losing my friends and family. Fear of
having to start a new life. Fear of being hunted, of being killed.
Now there's nothing. Emptiness in my head. No guilt of the past, no
dread of the present, no hope for the future. Just blankness. If only
I could stay like this forever.

I drift off again after what
seems like only a few minutes. Even my dreams are empty, like I'm
walking through a weird world with no sharp edges. Everything's
white, cloudy and ethereal. It kinda seems like a version of what
Heaven might be like. Maybe it's a premonition.

When I wake again my head aches.
Outside the world has grown dark, the window a stark black against
the horrible pallid yellow in the room. I blink a few times, spots
gathering in front of my eyes and slowly disappearing as my head
clears and my vision improves. The drug has evidently worn off now,
leaving me dehydrated and lethargic. My limbs feel heavy as I bend to
sit up, my joints aching and stiff. I feel like I've gone a few
rounds with Mike Tyson, although when I check there are no signs of
injury on my body except for a couple of bruises I sustained when
quickly descending that tree.

It grows quickly clear that the
drug has been masking my pain, not only in my body, but in my mind as
well. Now that its been expelled from my system, that very familiar
feeling of dread begins to rebuild inside me. There's something about
the darkness outside, about the silence brought about by the heavy
glass window that blots out any eternal noise that is unsettling. I
sit for several minutes and hear nothing, not a single sound but for
the pounding in my head and the ringing in my ears. That started ever
since Colt fired all those shots right next to my ear in the motel,
and grows more pronounced the quieter it gets.

There's no calmness inside me
now, and I want to cry out. Cry for help? For information? To get
some damn clarity on what's going on. Maybe there are other people in
this building who might hear me and come to help? Is it even a
residential building? Maybe a hotel? If it were why the hell is it so
quiet. Surely I'd hear some movement. The sound of footsteps on the
floor above. Of a TV being watched in the room next door. Of an
elevator pinging as it opens on my floor. But there's nothing. It's
more silent that the woods at the dead of night, and that's saying
something.

The longer this goes on for, the
more anxious I get. Yet still, I don't make a sound. I'm scared to,
as if banging on the door will bring some sort of physical
punishment. Logically, what can shouting and crying out achieve? I've
been put here for a reason, and I won't be let out until I'm needed.
Clearly there's a reason I'm still alive, although right now I can't
fathom it. Whatever I do, I've got to keep control my my emotions,
keep my senses intact. If I start to lose it, if I start to crack, it
won't be long until the entire dam bursts. And if I'm going to go
out, I don't want to leave this world a blubbering mess. I'll hold my
head up high and die with some pride. And then just pray that Colt
can deliver some sort of retribution for the both of us.

As the minutes tick by, I begin
to wonder what Colt's doing. If only I'd found that damn tracker then
maybe he'd know where I am. They'd probably have searched me and
destroyed it anyway, but you never know. It would have given me some
hope had I woken up feeling the pinch of it against my skin.

As things stand, all I managed
to do by turning it on was drag Colt's attention back to the cabin,
back to the woods. For all I know he might have been getting
somewhere in his hunt for Carmine, and I screwed everything up for
him. For us. How long would it take him to get out there? At least a
day, even at the speed he drives at. Even if he flew, it would still
take an age. He'd have to get up there, find that there's nothing but
a flashing tracker stuck in the mud at the base of a tree, and leave
with more questions than answers. At least, before, he thought I was
safe so he could get on with his job. Now he probably thinks I'm
already dead.

Am I giving myself too much
credit here? I mean, really, does he actually care? If he could walk
away right now without any further repercussions, would he do it? I'm
still slightly amazed that he started helping me in the first place.
He put himself on the line for me, sold my car for me, covered my
back for me, arranged to keep me safe. When he gave me that tracker,
his eyes were like steel. “I'll come find you straightaway,
wherever you are. I promise.” That's what he said, and I know he
meant it.

The memory of our last meeting
brings me hope.
He'll come for me
, I think to myself.
If
he's alive, he'll come for me.

A light pattering of rain
suddenly starts falling, slashing at an angle against the window.
It's the first sound I've heard since I woke, and I'm happy for the
distraction. I stand and walk towards it and watch the droplets
wiggle their way across the glass. Down below it's quiet, just a few
streaming car lights flashing by from time to time. I look on and
pray that one of them is Colt, that he knows where I am, that he's
found me and is coming to release me. But then, I've never been a
girl of faith, and my hope is weak and fleeting.

Time lingers on, although
without any way of telling it that seems irrelevant now. I know my
sentence is death, but I have no execution date. Will I just be left
here to die of thirst? Will I be killed in my sleep, a needle slipped
into my arm? Or is there something even more sinister at work here?
Terrible thoughts cross my mind. Slavery, torture, rape. In this
room, anything could happen to me, and that thought scares me more
than any I've had before.