Run With Me (3 page)

I skip the popcorn and go
straight into the auditorium to take my seat. Like I thought – this
place is dead. There are one or two groups of guys sitting towards
the back, no doubt Willis fans themselves, and a few other couples
dotted here and there. I take a seat at the side and sit back as the
film swings into full flow.

I'm starting to feel tired now,
my lack of sleep the previous night nagging on my brain. I'm semi
comatose in there as Bruce does his usual thing – saving his
family, taking out the bad guys, firing enough shots to satisfy an
army.

The flashing of gunshots and the
sight of blood brings me back to the previous night. It's different
now, seeing that stuff played on the big screen when you've seen it
for real. I see flashes of Michael Carmine in my mind, his gun
pointing straight at the guy on the floor. I see the blood spurting
from his chest, his body hitting the deck and going limp.

I turn my eyes down as the
action unfolds on screen, squeezing them tight as lights flash and
gunshots boom. I can't get the vision out of my head, it's like these
images are plastered on the inside of my eyelids. The noise and
lights begin to make me feel nauseous, my stomach churning. I can't
tell if I'm hungry or about to be sick, but know I've gotta get out
of there.

I stand up quickly and rush down
to the exit, taking a few deep breaths as I enter back into the main
lobby and search for the bathroom. I'm there in a flash, splashing
cool water over my face and staring at my reflection in the mirror. I
look pale, my hands are shaking, my brain spinning.

I breathe deep again and my mind
begins to clear, the quiet of the bathroom calming me.

Jesus Christ, what the hell
was that?! It felt like a damn panic attack.

I stand for a few minutes before
the door bursts open and a couple of girls walk in, talking and
laughing. That's my cue to leave as I step forward and grab the door
as it's closing, walking briskly towards the exit of the theater and
back out into the night air.

It's cooler now as I check my
phone to see the time. Several hours have passed since I left the
apartment and I tell myself that Tara's had plenty of time to study
by now. I try to call her to confirm but she doesn't pick up. I call
again and still there's no answer.

My head is still spinning
slightly, the lights and sounds of the busy streets around me
disorientating. I step off the main street and into a quieter alley
and lean up against the wall, once more breathing deep and shutting
my eyes tight. A sound snaps me out of it and I see a tramp emerging
from a pile of rubbish on the floor opposite me. Old newspapers fall
off him as he struggles to stand before dropping back down to the
ground, grunting.

The sudden noise makes me jump
slightly and I step back towards the main street and the pounding
sounds of heavy bass pumping from around the corner. I'm there
quickly once more, my head clearing now as I emerge straight into a
group of revelers seeking a new venue. I bump into a girl who puts
her hands up and shoves me off, telling me to 'watch it' as I spin
off her shoulder and away in the opposite direction.

I feel unusually rattled, my
normal calm and poise deserting me. I'm close now, my apartment a
block away. I detour to the corner shop and snatch up a bottle of
wine and a couple of pizzas before my eyes veer up towards my
apartment window. I can see a flashing glow from behind the curtain.
Looks like Tara's finished working and is watching TV.

My apartment building isn't
fancy. There's graffiti coloring the inside as I push the door open.
The stairs are worn in places, paint is cracking on the walls. A
light flickers as I step up towards the third floor where I live, the
sound of a booming bass shouting from inside one of my neighbor's
apartments on the floor below. He's on the other side of the
building, thankfully.

I reach the third floor and walk
down the hallway. My eyes drift towards my door, and narrow as my
eyebrows crease down into a frown.

The door is ajar, hanging
slightly open as the light flickers inside.

I walk forward and reach the
door, pushing it open. It's momentarily dark as the light of the TV
fades, my hand feeling for the light switch on the wall as I speak:
“Tara?”

I hear no answer, and I quickly
know why.

The TV flashes once more,
bursting to life and revealing the form of Tara sitting back on the
sofa. Her head is tilted unnaturally to one side, her eyes open. I
hit the light switch and the room grows clear in front of me.

I see red.

It stains Tara's shirt, her
pants. My shaking eyes drift to the floor, marked crimson with Tara's
blood. My pulse doubles as I whisper her name again, my voice weak.

Nothing.

I move forward gingerly, my eyes
set on my friend's body, on her lifeless face. My fingers tremble as
they slowly creep forward to her neck. I feel no pulse. Her heart has
stopped, her body is empty of blood.

She's dead.

Colt

I stand motionless in an office,
a desk in front of me. The man behind it is sitting casually, his
right leg crossed comfortably over his left. He holds a glass of
whiskey in his hand, lightly shaking it as the ice cubes inside clink
together.

“
So, Mr Tanner,” the man
says, “do we have a deal?”

He takes a sip of whiskey and
his eyes meet mine. I consider for a moment before nodding.

“
She's just to be found and
taken back here?” I ask. “I won't hurt her, Mr Carmine. I don't
hurt women.”

Michael Carmine nods his head
and smiles. “Of course not,” he says. “Just bring her to me,
that's all you're being paid for.”

I stare at his cold eyes and
know there's more to it than he's letting on. I know his reputation.
But it's not for me to worry about. I follow orders. I don't question
them.

“
OK Mr Carmine, we have a
deal. When was she last seen?”

Carmine turns his head to his
left where his second in command stands. I know him too. Rugger –
that's his name, or nickname. I doubt any parent would name their
child that. I suppose it's meant to sound intimidating.

He steps forward and hands me a
folder. When he speaks his voice is gruff and raspy, the result of
one too many cigarettes and late nights.

“
Her name is Kitty Munroe. Her
address is inside. Last we saw of her was down here at the bar on
Thursday night...”

I slip the files from the folder
as he speaks and flick through them. “Is this everything you have
on her?” I ask.

Rugger nods. “It should be
plenty. There's next of kin in there. That's where you should start.”

I glance from the files to his
face and glare at him a moment.
Don't tell me how to do my job.

“
So what's your beef with this
girl?” I ask, my eyes flashing over a picture of her. She's young,
early 20's, and attractive. Dark brown wavy hair, hazel eyes, soft
features.

“
That doesn't concern you Mr
Tanner.” It's Carmine again. He sits forward, his deep voice
rumbling towards me. I look at him again. His eyes are icy cold,
narrow and piercing. Most people would look away. But not me.

Whatever it is, I know it's
serious. He wouldn't have hired me otherwise.

“
Let's just say she didn't
turn up to work and I need her back here, ASAP. Is that good enough
for you?”

“
Plenty. I'll start at her
apartment, see what else I can dig up.”

I see Carmine glance at Rugger
once more. “Forget the apartment. It's already been swept. As far
as we know, she's left the city. This is very time sensitive Mr
Tanner. I need the girl found, right now.”

I can see a fire, a desperation,
lit in his eyes. The eyes tell you so much about a person. He's got a
calm exterior, a relaxed manner – but those eyes tell a different
story. I can tell that inside he's in turmoil; inside he's raging.

“
Yes Mr Carmine. I'll find her
for you.”

He nods and leans back in his
chair as Rugger walks past me towards the door. He opens it and the
noise from the bar down the corridor immediately rushes into the
room. I turn on the spot and walk slowly to the door, Rugger's eyes
lingering on me the whole way. I don't like the way he's looking at
me, and tell him so with my eyes as I pass him by.

“
Don't fuck this up boy,” he
whispers as I pass. “Mr Carmine is counting on you.”

I stop in the doorway and turn
my head directly to his. He stands tall, his shoulders wide and
imposing. His face is wrinkled and covered in lines, a scar visible
under his chin and across his neck, like his throat was once slit
open. He looks about 50, a sprinkling of gray stubble littered across
his chin.

I stare into his colorless eyes,
my jaw clenching as I whisper back. “Don't call me boy.”

My eyes stick to his for a few
moments, his toxic breath filling my nose, heavy with the smell of
smoke. Then I turn my head, slowly, down the corridor and step away,
hearing the door shut quietly behind me.

My clenched fists begin to
unravel as I walk down the corridor towards the bar. I step through
the door and my eyes glide around the room. It's dark and dank, not a
place you'd want to stumble into uninvited. I see groups of burly men
sitting round tables, their arms riddled with tattoos. Some are
smoking as they drink. It's illegal, but they don't care. No cop is
going to come down here.

I walk through the bar and all
eyes drift to the newcomer. It's nothing for me to be concerned
about. They have no idea who I am. No one has any idea who I am. A
place like this might have made me nervous once, a long time ago. But
not now. I've seen a hundred similar dives, and a hundred more ten
times worse. That's my life now, that's my path. It's not the one I
chose, but it's the one I'm on. I guess most people end up the same,
one way or another.

I move through the bar and up
the steps towards the exit. It's dark now, the streets quiet as light
rain falls from the sky. I walk down the street and step into my car.
It's a black sedan, nondescript and hard to trace. Fake number plates
adorn the back and front. I've got plenty spare if I need them, too.
Not that I've ever had any close run in's with the cops.

The sound of the rain on the
roof is soothing as little raindrops dance on the windshield. I slide
the files from the folder once more and look through them, soaking
the information up as I go.

Kitty Munroe, 23 years old, been
working as a waitress and barmaid for several years. Mother –
deceased. Father – in prison, serving a 7 year stretch for GTA, 2
years left on his sentence. Aunt and uncle on father's side living
near the city of Redding in Northern California. Aunt and uncle on
mother's side in Bakersfield. One cousin in Santa Monica.

I keep on reading, but find no
other next of kin. I lift my eyes to the windshield as the rain
begins to grow harder, the sound of thunder cracking through the
heavens. I wonder what this girl might have done for Carmine to want
her back so bad. She can't have just not turned up for work one day.
No way a man like Michael Carmine would hire a guy like me to track a
girl for that. No, this is much more.

I halt my mind in its tracks as
it surges forward. “It doesn't matter what she did, Colt,” I
whisper to myself. “Just find her and bring her back. That's your
job.”

I put any theories and thoughts
from my mind, but they remain lingering in the background like a bad
smell that won't drift away.

My eyes turn back down to the
files and I keep reading, but there's little more for me in there. I
know her name, I know her address, I know her next of kin. That's
more than I need if the person doesn't know they're being tracked.
All I need is a credit card transaction or a cell phone call and I'll
know just where they are. This one will be a piece of cake.

I check my watch – 9.30 PM.
It's early still, and I know just where to start.

A half hour later my hand knocks
hard on a door and I listen for movement inside. I can hear a TV on
behind the door, quickly drowned out by the sound of a man's voice.

“
Who is it?”

I don't answer, but knock again.

“
I said, who the fuck is it?”
comes the man's voice, louder and more aggressive this time.

Again, I say nothing, but just
knock, this time with more force.

Now I hear footsteps, a heavyset
man marching quickly towards me. I step to the side and up against
the wall and hear a light thud against the door. I know he's looking
through the peep hole, but now I'm hidden from view.

“
Who the fuck's out there?”
he growls.

I don't react, but stand calmly
to the side.

I hear him mumbling “fucking
kids” as his footsteps thud back towards his sofa. I lean across
and knock again, hard and loud. I know from the file that this guy's
got a a history of violence. He's not going to take this for long.