Run With Me (6 page)

When we returned to base he took
me aside and told me the truth. It hit me like a truck, knocking the
breath from my body.

“
Colt, there's something I
need to tell you,” he'd said to me. “It involves your family.”

Those first words had primed me
for something awful. I felt my blood run cold at the look in his eye.
He wasn't just any officer. He was a man I'd known for years, one I
trusted, one I counted as a friend. That he was the one telling me
made it unbearable. I knew, just from the look on his face – that
sad, pained, look – that my life was about to change.

“
What?” I asked him, my
voice stern, threatening to crack.

I remember how he took a few
deep breaths before speaking again, as if trying to compose himself.
As he did I spoke again: “WHAT?” This time my voice had grown
louder, quickly demanding of the truth.

“
There was an accident, Colt.
I'm so sorry...”

I remember nothing more from the
conversation. I know it went on a little longer, but my memory hits a
blank from there. Trauma, that's what it was. The emotional trauma of
learning that my beautiful wife and my gorgeous baby girl has been
killed. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I could do nothing but
stare forward as my body began to shake. They told me my legs gave
way, that I dropped to my knees and just stayed there, staring and
shaking as the Captain told me what had happened.

A fire, in our house. They'd
both been trapped as they slept together in the same bed, the fire
engulfing them in their sleep. Since then I've never been able to
shift the vision of them, screaming and terrified, as the red and
orange tongues of the flame licked at their skin, turning it black. I
can't help but think of it sometimes, as much as I hate to. It's a
constant threat in my head, the darkest of memories, of images, that
will never leave me.

There's a knock on the window,
and I look to my left to see the same police officer from before. I
glance quickly at my hands and see that they're still locked to the
steering wheel, squeezing tightly at the leather. I slowly unclasp
them, leaving imprints of my hands, and press the button to open the
window.

“
Are you OK Sir,” the man
asks quickly. “You look very pale.”

“
Thank you officer,” I say,
“I'm fine. Seeing the ambulance outside the house just brought back
some memories for me, that's all.”

My eyes are looking forward, but
they shift momentarily to catch the officer's gaze. He has a
consoling look on his face, his eyes showing a level of pity, as if
he knows what I'm thinking. “Are you OK to drive now Sir?” he
asks lightly.

I nod. “Yes, it's not a
problem.”

“
OK Sir, have a good day.”

Once more he turns away and
walks back off towards the cordoned off area. I watch him in my
wing-mirror and notice several men, dressed in suits, entering the
property with pads and pens. They look like detectives. Then there's
the CSI team, carefully fine combing every inch of the house for
clues.

I know just what they'll find.
Nothing.

I rev the engine again and start
speeding back down the road. Now questions begin to build in my head.
Where's Kitty? Has she already been taken? Did the killer kill her
aunt and uncle and then manage to capture her? And who killed them?
Why the fuck would Michael Carmine hire me to track her down if he's
only going to go ahead and send someone else out as well?

What it does tell me, however,
is that he wants this girl big time. He's willing to hire
professionals to trace her, and kill anyone who happens to get in the
way. It's not what I signed up for. He never told me he wanted her
dead – that's not what I do. I track, I deliver, I don't kill. Not
unless I have to, not unless it's defense, or the guy really deserves
it. Innocent people are just that: innocent. They don't deserve to
die.

I feel a pulse of regret surging
through me. Sometimes I grow numb, sometimes I do nothing but follow
orders. I'd have caught her and brought her back without asking any
questions. Ignorance is bliss. I deliver the girl, take my paycheck,
and move onto the next job.

Track and deliver, track and
deliver. Don't ask questions and don't hear lies. It's how I get by.
But now my mind's tracing forward, extrapolating into the future. I'd
have found Kitty, delivered her to Carmine, and she'd be dead before
I stepped out of the office and into my car. If he's willing to kill
her relatives, he's willing to kill her.

Now I can't help but ask why.
Why does he want her dead? Has she done something? Has she seen
something? I know the sort of man Michael Carmine is. He's powerful.
He's ruthless. He won't hesitate to kill anyone if they are any sort
of threat to him.

I keep driving, my mind
galloping as quickly as the car.
How many people might have been
killed as a result of my actions
, I ask myself. A surge of regret
accompanies the question. I've always worked in the criminal world,
tracking those who have done wrong. Or so I'm told. It's how I
intended to catch the man who killed my family, the man who set my
house ablaze and made it look like an accident. I dived deep into the
criminal fraternity as a means of working my way to the truth. One
day, I thought, it will happen. One day someone will spill, someone
will know the truth.

But nothing ever did happen.
It's been years, and I've gotten nowhere. The cops who worked on the
case – Rick included – could never get to the bottom of it. They
shut the book on it all too soon and threw it into the locker marked
'unsolvable'. Rick had no choice, but he beat himself up about it
again and again.

But me – I lived beyond the
law. For me there became nothing but the truth. Nothing but finding
the man responsible, and making him pay for it. Over time, however, I
must have lost my way. I must have stopped caring about being a good
person, and more about getting revenge.

I grew a one-track mind. I'd do
jobs all over the state and beyond, and soon my own moral compass
began to break down. Maybe I've contributed to the deaths of other
innocent people? I'd never kill an innocent, but maybe I've set them
up for death.

Is the same true of Kitty? I can
see her face smiling at me from inside the file on my passenger seat.
She's young, she's pretty, she's got a full life ahead of her. What
could she have done to make her the target of Michael Carmine's
wrath? And why, why did I agree to track her without even asking what
he wanted with her?

My mind is still racing as I
drive. I've been locked in thought for over an hour now, driving
aimlessly. Just driving. Eventually I slow and gather my bearings.
I'm outside of the city now, cruising up a quiet road with wide,
open, fields on either side. The sun is beating down and my car is
growing warm. I haven't even had the sense to turn on the air-con.

I pull to a stop at the side of
the road, with a a dirt track leading through a parting in the fields
to my right. The crops are high here and I can hear the growling of
combine harvesters chugging through the tall grass.

My phone is in my hand now, and
I'm staring at it. I stare for what seems like hours before dialing
and waiting for the call to connect. It rings several times before I
hear the voice on the other end. It sounds strained.

“
Hello?” says Michael
Carmine. He doesn't have this number, and I always block my calls.

“
Mr Carmine,” I say, “I
have some questions.”

His voice remains gruff. There's
a stress to it. “Colt, is that you?”

I don't answer his question. He
knows it's me. “Why have you sent someone else out to find this
girl?” I ask, my voice maintaining its calm. “Do you not trust me
to bring her to you?”

“
Someone else?” he says.
He's doing his best to sound confused, but I can tell a liar from a
mile off.

“
The girl's aunt and uncle.
They've been killed. I want you to tell me the truth.” My fist is
clutching at the phone tightly as I hold it to my ear. I have to
control myself, however. Michael Carmine is someone you have to watch
your tongue with.

There's a short silence on the
other end, as if he's considering his next move. “OK Mr Tanner,
here's the truth. This girl is important to me. I always hedge my
bets, so you're not the only one tracking her. You'll still get paid
your fee, whether you bring her to me or someone else does. Does that
satisfy you?” His voice has grown colder now. There's a menace to
it, like he doesn't enjoy his authority being questioned.

So, she's not been found yet
,
I think to myself.
Whether you bring her to me or someone else
does.
She must have escaped before the killer caught her. If
she'd have been caught already, he would tell me.

“
That satisfies me Mr Carmine.
I'll find her.”

I wait a moment, listening
intently for the inflection of his words. “Good. Make it quick.
It's urgent.”

Then the phone hangs up, and the
sound of combine harvesters once again fills my ears. But my head
fills with something different. This girl: when she's found, she's
dead. I can't escape that thought, I can't escape the growing
suspicion that through my hand, other innocent people have been
murdered.

But is she innocent
, I
ask myself. How can I possibly know what she's done? How can I know
why Michael Carmine wants her so badly if he won't tell me?

I hear a response to my question
echoing from the back of my head. It's my own voice, my own
conscience, giving me the reply:

She knows. So find her Colt.
Find her before anyone else does.

Kitty

The gentle sound of tapping on
glass breaks me from an uneasy sleep. My eyes crack open and bright
light spills into them, pouring through my windscreen. I squint as my
eyes adjust and see a man standing outside my car. He's wearing a
pair of light jeans, a beaten up old shirt, and a large straw hat. He
looks almost like a live scarecrow.

“
Excuse me darlin',
um...you're kinda in my field,” he says, his voice muffled by the
glass.

I open my mouth to speak back
and feel my lips crack from dehydration. My throat croaks quietly,
trying to spout a reply; an apology, but he can't hear me. He leans
in closer, gesturing with his hand to his ear to indicate his lack of
understanding.

It's stifling in the car, and I
quickly realize why my mouth is so dry. The heat, and my tears from
the night before, have dehydrated me. My head hurts too for the same
reason, my brain pulsing inside my skull.

I reach for the door and pull on
the handle. It cracks open and cool air washes over me from outside.

“
What time is it?” I ask,
rubbing my head and letting my legs drop outside of the vehicle. I
catch my reflection in the wing-mirror. I look horrible. My face is
all blotchy, my eyes red and raw. It's obvious to anyone I've had a
bad night.

“
It's around midday
sweetheart. Now what you doin' all the way out here off the road?
This track's private.”

I arch my neck up and look into
the man's face. He's got a kindly expression hidden behind a thick
white moustache and tanned, grizzly skin. He looks to be in his 60's,
but his sun beaten and weathered skin makes it hard to tell.

“
Oh...sorry,” I say glumly,
“I was just trying to find somewhere quiet off the main road for
the night.”

I hang my head back down to the
ground to shield my eyes from the blistering sun. The man follows me
down, kneeling on his right knee and appearing at my level.

“
You look like you've had a
rough night sweetheart. You could do with a strong cup of coffee and
a little rest out of this sun.”

He speaks in a warm tone, his
words of comfort causing me to well up slightly. I hold my eyes down
to avoid his gaze, but can't help but sniff as my nose begins to run.

“
Come on. My wife makes a mean
cup of joe. The house is just at the top of the field. See.”

His final words force me to
raise my eyes to look up the dirt track. I can see a beautiful farm
house in the near distance. There's a woman walking from the field to
a large barn, a bucket in her hands.

“
My wife,” says the man.
“She's just feeding the pigs. What's your name darlin'?”

“
Kitty,” I say quickly.

“
All right Kitty. Come on,
let's get you some water first. You look like you're a little
dehydrated there.”

It's the suggestion of water
that finally clicks me into gear. My mouth is parched and my head is
throbbing. A cold glass of water would be perfect right now.

I stand from the car and shut
the door. My legs feel heavy beneath me, wobbling slightly over my
first few steps towards the house.

“
My name's Derrick, in case
you're wondering.”

I look into the man's face and
he's now wearing a warm smile. There's something extremely fatherly
about him, or even grandfatherly. I've spent a life being told not to
trust anyone by my own father, yet I somehow trust this stranger
completely. Maybe it's an out of town thing. I don't think I'd
readily accept the Good Samaritan act from anyone in LA. Or maybe I'm
just desperate.