Run: A Novel (9 page)

The news also explained why no one was answering the phone. They’d be too busy celebrating. The people who, till yesterday, I’d been working alongside. Who now had a rich future. People I should have been happy for. And if I’d still been there, raising a glass with them, I would have been happy. But instead, all I could think of was LeBrock’s parting shot.
We don’t want you anymore
. He was setting sail for the promised land with all his buddies, but there was no room on board for me.

And what about Carolyn? There was room for my wife. She’d be at AmeriTel now, caught up in the collective euphoria of cheating the corporate hangman. Dodging the noose and hitting the jackpot instead.
I wondered who she was with. Who was getting her drinks. Refilling her glass. Watching, as her gorgeous eyes lost a little of their sharpness. Wondering, as her sweet laugh gained an extra few degrees of warmth.

It should have been me she was with. But my wife had turned her back on me for the sake of an errand she’d been sent to run. For a few gigabytes of surplus data. Which I’d lost, anyway. How would things have played out if I’d given in to her demands? Would we be together now, somewhere fancy, all black tie and cut crystal? Tangled up in the sheets of a five-star hotel, the way we’d toasted her last few promotions? Or hopping on a plane to Europe, as we’d done after my first product had sold?

Maybe we’d have been together. But maybe not. Carolyn would have gone to LeBrock, anyway, to hand over his prize like a well-trained errand girl. And would she have come back to me again? I was beginning to wonder. The way she’d reacted yesterday, I was beginning to suspect I’d only seen the tip of the iceberg. And I’d been so certain our marriage was solid, too. Bombproof, in fact. I’d have sworn the needle was firmly in the green. But now? I wouldn’t even have put money on amber.

I slipped my phone back in my pocket. My appetite for news had dried up. I needed something to distract myself. For a crazy moment the thought of more tequila crossed my mind. Carolyn would be drinking. She’d probably be three sheets to the wind by now. I could join her in spirit, if not in body. And I knew there was another bottle of Patrón in the cupboard. I remembered seeing it last night. Still in its fancy presentation box. I’d actually flirted with the idea of opening it, when the first one had run dry.

I made it as far as the dining room doorway before sanity prevailed. I paused, still tempted, then returned to the study to look for the spare keys for the Jaguar. A bit of distance between me and the house would be good. And if I could get into town, I’d have access to the one thing that life has shown me to be the equal of alcohol when it comes to providing consolation.

Pizza.

Plus, my hangover had finally passed, and I was starving.

M
Y LOCAL ENOTECA WAS ONLY TEN MINUTES AWAY. THE FOOD
was great. And because I went there at least once a week—to take a break from my computer screen, or just to avoid cooking for myself when Carolyn was working late, especially following a debacle involving an egg and a now-replaced microwave oven—my Jaguar could practically find its own way there.

I pulled out onto the road, and right away I was stuck behind another driver. He was dawdling his way along, braking at every pothole, slowing me down, just like the idiot in the Audi had done yesterday. Only this guy was in a black, aggressive-looking Infiniti SUV. My hopes rose as we neared the end of my street, until I saw we were going the same way. Then something occurred to me. As we’d approached the intersection I’d put my turn signal on before the Infiniti guy had, even though I was behind him. Yesterday, hadn’t the exact same thing happened with the Audi? I thought back carefully, and yes, I was sure of it. Normally I doubt I’d have noticed anything as trivial, but I guess the shock of the break-in and the grilling from the police had made me more observant.

Or more paranoid?

The same thing happened again at the next intersection. Once or twice, and I wouldn’t have been convinced. But at every turn, two days running, with two different cars? I reached for my phone to call the police, but stopped before I even dialed the nine. If they didn’t believe me about the break-in, why would they take this seriously? Some guy driving too slowly in front of me? Big deal. They’d think I was wasting their time again. Or that I was crazy.

Maybe I
was
losing it. I needed to get a grip. Fast. So I looked at the situation like it was a problem with my work. What would I do if a program wasn’t behaving the way I expected it to? I’d run tests till I could determine what was going on. As we approached the next stop sign I signaled left. The Infiniti signaled left. There was no other traffic, so it pulled out without delay. I waited till it was beyond the point where it could easily swing back around, then I steered right and hit the gas pedal. Hard. The supercharger howled. The Jaguar lurched forward in a hail of gravel. And I kept my foot down till I was safely round the next bend.

After a quarter of a mile I spotted a gas station on the right-hand side. I remembered it had a small grocery store attached to it, with a parking lot tucked away at the back. I checked the mirror. The Infiniti wasn’t in sight, so I turned in. I followed the narrow driveway around the side of the building and slid the Jaguar into a space between a pickup truck and a delivery van. Then I ran into the store and found a spot next to a magazine stand where I could keep an eye on the road.

I’d been there maybe ninety seconds—not long enough to be distracted by the tales of teenage pregnancy and celebrity indiscretion, anyway—when I saw the Infiniti. It was traveling even faster than I’d been and, to my relief, it kept going, leaving me farther behind with every second that passed.

For a moment I basked in a glow of euphoria—I’d proved I wasn’t nuts, and I’d outsmarted whoever was following me—but the feeling was swiftly replaced by worry. Why would anyone want to follow me? And what if the guy in the Infiniti hadn’t been fooled by my trick? What if he’d followed me inside the store? Or ambushed me in the parking lot? What would I have done then? I had no idea. And how long would it be till he realized he’d lost me, and doubled back to look for hiding places? I hurried to my car, not wanting to be caught in the open.

I paused at the exit from the gas station, suddenly unsure which way to turn. Continue to the restaurant? Return home? Or head somewhere else? To some random location, where I’d be less likely to be found?

I didn’t like the idea of running and hiding. And why should this
guy in his macho car make me change my plans? I should say
Screw him
, and go get my pizza. But now that the thrill of the chase had ebbed away, so had my appetite. Unless—maybe I’d want to eat later? Maybe I should get some food and take it home, just in case.

Home. Was that the key to this thing? The same day I’d been followed from the gallery by the Audi, someone had broken into my home. And if the door had been left open because I’d disturbed the intruders before they found everything they’d wanted, could they be looking for a second chance? Was that why I’d been followed again today? To make sure the coast was clear? They could be ransacking my place even as I sat there worrying about my dinner options.

I turned for home, but the questions kept on coming. What if intruders were in my house? What would I do? Confront them? I didn’t know how many there’d be. They’d probably be armed. Even if they weren’t, what were the odds they’d just roll over and surrender if I told them to? Zero. I was stupid if I thought I could deal with this alone. I needed help. But from where? The police? I could hardly count on them to believe me. Not after our last encounter.

Photographs
. If I could get close enough to take pictures with my phone I could email them straight to the detectives. They couldn’t ignore me then. The key would be to park where I’d be out of sight and sneak up to a window. It wasn’t rocket science. But doing it without getting caught would be far from straightforward.

I slowed down, hoping to buy a few extra minutes’ thinking time. The road narrows at that point, snaking around stand after stand of broad trees. It gave the impression of driving through a small forest, rather than the kind of residential district favored by lawyers and Wall Street bankers. For miles at a time the worn pavement with its faded yellow lines and low, crumbling stone walls on either side were the only signs of human habitation. The tranquility usually reminded me why I’d chosen to live in the area, myself, but that day was different. It just made me feel isolated, until a dirty brown Ford Escape appeared in front of me. At the same moment another car—a black Volkswagen sedan—closed right up from behind. Three, maybe four seconds passed with me at the center of our little convoy. Then the Ford lurched to the left, turning hard then slamming into reverse so it completely
blocked the road. I had to stand on the brakes to avoid smashing into it. I heard a screech from behind me, and saw the Volkswagen had carried out exactly the same maneuver. It had ended up sideways, inches from my trunk, sandwiching me in like the cross bar of a capital “H.”

“Turn off your engine and toss the keys out of the car,” a harsh metallic voice ordered. The Ford driver had opened his window. He was holding a shotgun, and was pointing it right at me.

How could this be happening? They must have mistaken me for someone else …

“Turn off your engine,” the guy repeated. “Toss out the keys. Do it now.”

I forced my shaking hand to slide the gearshift into Park, hit the window button, pull out the key, and drop it onto the blacktop. I risked a glance in my mirror. The passenger in the Volkswagen also had a shotgun trained on me. His driver was sheltering behind the front wing, gripping a black pistol in both hands and holding it out in front of him.

What were they going to do with me?

“Good,” the guy said. “Now, hands behind your head. Fingers laced together. Go.”

I did what I was told, then closed my eyes. I was waiting for the boom. The splintering windshield. The glass shards and shotgun pellets tearing my flesh, burying themselves in my face and chest. But when I did hear a sound, it wasn’t what I expected. It was another vehicle. Approaching from behind. Stopping. And not driving away again. Its motor continued running, and that filled me with hope. Surely whoever it was would call 911? And whoever these guys with the guns were, surely they couldn’t be psychotic enough to murder me in front of a witness?

I
OPENED MY EYES AND SAW THE TWIN BARRELS OF THE FORD
driver’s shotgun still staring back at me. His passenger had a pistol, which he was aiming at my chest. The two guys in the Volkswagen hadn’t lowered their weapons. But the newcomer—a man, tall, maybe in his mid-forties, with a manila folder in one hand—had climbed out of a white panel van and was walking straight toward me.

What was wrong with the guy? Couldn’t he see the guns? Didn’t he realize he was stepping into the middle of a war zone—probably making a bloodbath all the more likely—when I needed him to keep his head down and call the damn cavalry? I was thinking I should shout a warning, but he’d arrived alongside my door before I could form a word.

“Marc Bowman?” The man leaned down toward my window.

I was too surprised to answer.

“Is your name Marc Bowman?”

Still speechless, I nodded.

“I’m Jordan McKenna.” He pulled a leather wallet from his jacket pocket and flipped it open to reveal an identity card. A photograph of his frowning face was set against a pale blue background next to an eagle clutching an olive branch in one talon and a bunch of arrows in the other. The bird was half hidden by a shield and surrounded by the words US D
EPARTMENT OF
H
OMELAND
S
ECURITY
. Then came confirmation of his name, a narrow bar code, an expiration date about two years away, and a gold data chip. “I’m sorry to detain you this way, sir, but I
have a very important question to ask. Mr. Bowman, do you have any weapons of any kind in the vehicle? Any weapons at all?”

“No. No weapons. Absolutely not.”

“Good. In that case, you can put your hands down. OK. Now, there are some things we need to talk about. Is it all right with you if I get in the car?”

I nodded.

Agent McKenna reached down and picked up my key, then gestured to the other cars. The Ford moved first, maneuvering until it was parked neatly at the edge of the road on the opposite side, facing us. Then the Volkswagen tucked in behind my Jaguar and turned on its flashers as if we’d broken down and it was there to shield us against oncoming traffic.

“Nice car.” McKenna slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, and placed the key on the central armrest. “You should see the crap we have to drive around in. Anyway, I don’t suppose our rental issues are a big concern of yours, so let’s get down to business. You already confirmed your name, and as for your profession, you’re an IT consultant?”

“Correct.”

“And you’re currently working on a contract at the AmeriTel corporation?”

“Yes. Wait, no.” I felt like a swarm of butterflies was loose in my head. “I was working at AmeriTel. But yesterday they canceled my contract. I was let go.”

“AmeriTel cut you loose? Yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

I gave Agent McKenna a brief rundown of my conversation with LeBrock and his grand vision for a Bowman-free AmeriTel. Marc-Bowman-free, anyway. I didn’t mention there was evidently still room in the company for my wife.

“OK. That’s good.” McKenna’s expression remained neutral. “Now, I’m going to take a wild guess and bet you’re a little curious about what’s going on here?”

“If you bet your house on that, you wouldn’t be left on the street.”

“All right. Well, I apologize for the drama. But believe me, it’s necessary. We’ve been watching AmeriTel for a while now and we have some serious concerns. I can’t go into those right now—National Security—but the fact they fired you puts you in a better light. And it makes me hope you might be willing to help us. How do you feel about that?”