Run: A Novel (15 page)

I’d had enough.

So when the last remaining bike emerged from the smoke, causing the officer to dive for cover, I did what its rider had told me to.

I ran.

T
HE DECISION TO RUN SEEMED WISE FOR ABOUT TWO MINUTES
.

It’s years since I’ve seen the inside of a gym, and I was feeling the pace before I’d covered a quarter of a mile. My heart was pounding, my legs were heavy, and with every second the dread of hearing a siren or a motorcycle engine grew greater. I’d be a sitting duck if anyone caught up with me. I hadn’t passed a single turnoff. The wall on my left had given way to a natural bank. It was steep, and covered in slippery moss. The woods on the right were accessible, but what then? I couldn’t hide forever. And the police would have dogs …

The road forked, after another quarter of a mile. The town names carved into the dainty wooden signpost were too eroded to read, so I picked at random. I went right, and after five more minutes I heard the murmur of traffic. My heart soared. I was closing in on safety.

I pushed myself faster, approaching a stand of taller trees that masked the intersection with the busier road, then stopped dead. Something weird was going on. Low down, around their pale trunks, the trees were glowing. Red, then blue. I crept closer, and saw a police cruiser parked at the crossroads, its light bar firing LED rays in all directions. An officer was standing next to the car. There was a shotgun in his hand, and his body was stiff with tension.

Trying to run quietly now, as well as fast, I started back toward the fork in the road. But as I approached I saw the same telltale colors lighting up the sky around the final bend. The police were there, too, now. The net was closing. I couldn’t go forward. I couldn’t go back. So I went sideways, off the road and into the woods.

I ran wildly, crashing through the undergrowth and pushing visions of attack dogs out of my head until I found a narrow path. It merged with a wider one, and then another until it reached a stream. The water was flowing away from the road, so I followed as it meandered through the trees. Then I saw lights through the branches to the right. They were coming from a house. The house itself was nothing special—a poor attempt at a van der Rohe clone—but it would lead to a road. A different road. One that might be on the other side of the police blockade …

Brambles snagged my clothes like barbed wire as I fought my way through the scrubby no-man’s-land that surrounded the property. I was within touching distance of the rough lawn that covered the bulk of their yard when I heard a dog bark. Then another. They were in front of me. Rushing toward me across the grass. They were small. Black terriers. Not police dogs. Nothing that could hurt me. But still noisy. Lights came on in the house. Would the occupants be armed? This was Westchester, not the Wild West, but I wasn’t about to take the chance. And if the owners didn’t have guns, they’d certainly have a phone.

I cut back to the stream and pressed on through the woods, moving as fast as I could in the failing light. After another quarter of a mile I saw a second house. It was larger and more traditional. Two floors, white clapboard, screen porches, and turrets. The kind Carolyn was always saying we should buy, as if we needed the extra space.

A light was on in one of the first-floor windows. Anyone looking out would have a clear view all the way from the tree line to the side of the house. There was no cover. I was just as worried about being seen, but the road was calling to me. Plus night was falling fast, making moving through the woods more dangerous. I’d tripped on exposed roots twice in the last hundred yards.

I took a deep breath, and went for it.

There were no brambles in my way this time, allowing me to move faster. And to rush headfirst into a deer fence. The mesh was so fine it was almost invisible. It was too high to jump. Too flimsy to climb. Too tough to tear. But as far as I could tell, it extended all the way around
the perimeter. If I followed it on the outside, could I reach the road that way?

I took a dozen steps, then gave up. The undergrowth was impenetrable. I’d never make it without a machete. I was about to turn around and slink back to the stream when I noticed a branch that had fallen from a tree a few yards farther on. It caught my eye because one end wasn’t resting on the ground. Something was suspending it, about two feet in the air. I pushed on and saw what was holding it up. It was the fence. It wasn’t broken. But it was weighed down to a height that could easily be climbed.

The stretch of open ground was even wider than it had seemed from a distance. There was a vegetable garden to the right, backing onto what was probably the garage wall. To the left, half a dozen flower beds were separated by fancy rustic-brick paths that branched out like the veins in a leaf. Farther round the side of the house, I could see a large pond—probably a natural extension of the stream I’d been following. And beyond that, screened off from the house by a wattle-weave fence, was an aboveground pool. A little low-rent for the neighborhood despite its fancy cedar-wood sides, but in-ground pools are banned around there due to the high water table. It’s the same where we live, which is why Carolyn refuses to have one.

I reached the corner of the house and began to creep across a semicircular area of paving that fanned out from the side door. Beyond it the ground fell away and a curving brick path led down to a thicket of tall bushes. A wide gate nestled at the far end. And there was no sign of red and blue lights on the other side.

My right foot reached the path, and I froze again. A car was approaching. It was close. Its headlights cut through the bushes, sending thousands of points of light dancing toward me up the path. I willed it to keep going, but the crazy patterns grew calmer. The car was slowing down. And then it stopped, right on the other side of the gate.

I turned and ran, desperate to be back in the woods, and the house door opened. Light spilled out like a physical barrier, so I dived for the end of the fence. Then I crabbed across to the side of the pool and threw myself against its base, fighting to control my breathing.

There was no other sound, except for the car engine on the other side of the bushes. Didn’t pools usually have motors to circulate the water? Heaters? Equipment to keep them running? Maybe this one was empty. Could I hide inside? I started feeling for a way to pry open the cover, but all my hands settled on was a two-inch, flexible hose leading to an abandoned pool vacuum.

I crawled back to the fence and peered around the end. A man—short, with gray hair and a camel raincoat—was standing with his back to me. He closed the house door, very gently, picked up a tan leather suit carrier, and started down the path. And then it hit me. The car I’d heard pull up wasn’t a police cruiser. It was a cab, coming to pick the guy up. Or a car service. A way out I could have exploited, if I’d been thinking straight. Which was annoying, given that the police were searching for a man on foot.

The old guy had made it five yards when the door to the house opened again.

“Otto!” The woman looked about seventy. She was wearing a pink robe, and her long white hair was loose and disheveled. “You were leaving without saying goodbye?”

“You’re awake?” The guy dropped his bag and hurried back up the path. “My love, I was trying not to disturb you! How’s your head? Are you feeling better?”

The old couple embraced. Praying they’d take their time, I scuttled back to the pool. Found the pipe. Ran my fingers along its ridged surface until I found the connector. Poked and squeezed and wrestled until it came loose. Then I grabbed the vacuum—a cutesy thing that looked like a whale, about eighteen inches across. I crawled to the opposite corner. And flung the machine as hard as I could.

“Help!” I yelled, a second after it hit the surface of the water. “My daughter! She’s fallen in the pond! She can’t swim! Neither can I! Please! Somebody! Help!”

The old man didn’t hesitate. He ran forward, and his wife followed. I went the opposite way, keeping the pool between us for as long as I could, then making a break for the end of the fence.

I picked up the guy’s bag and ran down the path, shrugging off my
jacket and turning it inside out as I went. Bloodstains are too easy to recognize. But that thought prompted another. What if the guy had a regular driver, who knew what he looked like? Or what if it was a friend of his, coming to collect him?

Either way, I’d be finished.

T
HE CHAUFFEUR’S FACE REGISTERED SURPRISE AS I STEPPED THROUGH
the gate. But he headed for the Town Car’s trunk, nonetheless.

“Don’t worry about that.” I went straight to the rear door. “I’ll keep the bag with me.”

“Sure, sir.” He opened the door for me, but didn’t close it after I was settled.

“What are we waiting for?”

“The job sheet said two people, Mr. Schmidt. You and your wife. Going to the Grand Hyatt. Above Grand Central Station. Is that not right?”

“Oh. Well, it was. But my wife? She’s sick. She had to drop out. It’s a last-minute thing. And I’m actually in kind of a hurry now. There’s a couple of people I want to catch up with before they spend too long at the hotel bar, so the sooner you get me there, the happier I’ll be.”

“Understood, sir.”

THE LINCOLN WASN’T THE KIND
of car you’d pick to race around those narrow, curving lanes, but the chauffeur still seemed excessively cautious.

“You heard me when I said I was in a hurry, right?”

“Sorry, sir. Can’t risk it. Too many police around here tonight.”

“Police? Why?”

“They’re looking for someone. Homeland Security’s involved, apparently …”

“How do you know?”

“I got stopped on the way here. They only let me through because I was picking up two people, and the job was booked a fortnight ago.”

“Where—”

The blue and red pulsing light that appeared around the next bend answered the question for him. I was heading straight into a trap, but I couldn’t tell the chauffeur to turn around. It would be like screaming,
I’m the one they want
. And we were only seconds away from the roadblock. There wasn’t much time to think.

I pushed my incriminating jacket down onto the floor, then unzipped the suit carrier. There was a tuxedo in the main compartment, along with a fancy shirt and a paisley bow tie. A pair of patent leather shoes was in the outer pocket. And a pair of silk pajamas in a narrow, central section. But there was no ID. No formal invitation. Not much to work with. And without my phone—I cursed Peever for confiscating it—I couldn’t Google to see what events were being held at the Grand Hyatt that week.

The officer stepped away from his car when we were still twenty feet away. He signaled with his flashlight and the chauffeur touched the brake, winding down his window as we coasted to a halt.

“You told me two people.” The officer flashed his flashlight at me, alone on the backseat.

“I was booked for two.” The chauffeur’s shoulders rose a little in a muted shrug, but his hands stayed prudently on the wheel. “His wife’s sick, he said.”

The officer reached back and pulled open my door.

“Step out of the car, please, sir.”

I complied, willing my legs not to shake.

“Your name?”

“Otto Schmidt.”

“And where’s your wife, Mr. Schmidt? Why isn’t she with you?”

“She has a migraine.” First I had to account for the absence of my real wife. Now, for someone else’s I was pretending to be mine. The irony was killing me. “She stayed home.”

“Let me see your ID.”

“You know, Officer, I don’t have my wallet. I’m not driving, so I
didn’t think I’d need my license. Everything’s pre-paid at the hotel. Except for the silent auction. It’s for charity, and I’ve learned from experience, the only way to avoid leaving a few thousand dollars lighter is not to bring any money with you.”

“Really?” The officer didn’t join in my forced laugh. “What’s your home address, Mr. Schmidt?”

“This is my street.” I gestured to my left. “Mine’s the first house you come to, that way.”

“And your phone number? Let’s call your wife. See if she confirms your story.”

“I’d rather not disturb her, actually, Officer. Her migraine was wicked bad. Why not call the car service, if you have any doubts? My secretary made the booking, what, a couple of weeks ago.”

“Sir, please turn around and place your hands on the car.”

“Officer, please. Is that really—”

“Hands on the car. Now.”

I turned and leaned, and the officer jabbed my ankles with his foot to force my legs farther apart. He didn’t say a word as he patted me down, starting low and working his way up to the collar of my shirt. Then I heard something metallic jangle behind me.

The officer took hold of my right wrist and pulled it down behind my back. This was it. My escape had failed. I felt numb. Then his radio squawked. He stepped away to talk, but after a minute moved back and tapped me between the shoulder blades.

“Sorry, sir. You can put your hands down now. Your wife is at home, like you said. She just called 911 and reported an intruder in your yard. You’re welcome to follow me over there, but stay in the car until I give you the green light to get out, OK?”

I sank back into my seat, and the chauffeur started to turn the unwieldy Town Car around.

“What are you doing?”

“Going back to your house. Like the officer said. To make sure your wife’s all right.”

“Forget about it. You know
the boy who cried wolf
? It should have been the
wife who called the police
. This is the fourth time since Memorial
Day. We’ll probably get billed for it. Seriously, don’t worry. Just keep going.”

WITH THE POLICE BEHIND US
,
the chauffeur’s right foot became a little heavier. I pictured the cop, racing in the opposite direction. Reaching the Schmidt home. Finding the old woman’s husband still there. And then what? Jumping back in his patrol car, and trying to catch us? Radioing ahead, to have more cops lying in wait at the Grand Hyatt? Or would they intercept us on the way to the city? And what about the car company? Could they contact the chauffeur, and have him divert somewhere to hand me over?