Runner (Sam Dryden Novel) (36 page)

Dryden tied off the trash bag and hauled it out, ran the taps, and then opened every window in the place. Moist night air pressed through the house, scented with evergreens and sea salt.

In the master bath he disrobed and studied himself in the mirror. He’d lost ten or fifteen pounds, and there were faint red marks where the shock paddles had touched his skin. He stared at the beard he’d grown, ragged and unkempt beneath the hollows of his eyes, then opened the vanity drawer where he kept his razors and shaving cream.

An hour later, showered and dressed in clean clothes, he walked the rooms of his home. The smell of decay was gone, but he kept the windows open. He tried to remember the last time he’d opened any of them, in all the years he’d lived here, but couldn’t recall a single time. How often had he even bothered to pull up the shades?

When he finally closed all the sashes again, the house’s silence surprised him. Had it always been like this? So dead that every metal tick of the air ducts stood out?

He went to his bedroom and stretched out on the sheets. Exhausted as he was, it took forever for sleep to find him.

*   *   *

He stood on the wet sand margin of the beach, watching the sunset. The day had been hazy, and the sun was deep red by the time it touched the horizon.

Behind him was the boardwalk, and up and down the shore, campfires burned. There was a dog barking, a couple hundred yards up the beach. Little kids were throwing a Frisbee for it to catch.

“Hey.”

A woman’s voice. Dryden turned. She was standing there, twenty feet away, next to the fire he’d started a few minutes before.

Her name was Riley. She worked at an art gallery in town. Dryden had met her there three months ago, a few days after he’d come home and shaved his beard.

He crossed the sand to her, and she sank into him; they stood that way a long time, arms around each other, listening to the firewood popping and the kids laughing and the dog barking. He wasn’t sure how it was shaking out with the two of them, but he liked being with her. She seemed to like being around him, too. For now, that was enough.

They sat on a blanket and watched the twilight melt away. As the first stars showed through, Dryden’s neighbors from two houses down came onto the beach with their nine-year-old son. Dryden waved them over, and the five of them sat talking as the night darkened and cooled beyond the halo of the fire.

*   *   *

It was a quarter to four in the morning. Dryden lay awake, Riley breathing softly against him. He slipped her arm off of his chest, eased out from under the covers, and stood.

In the den off the kitchen he found a notepad. He sat down at the desk with it, opened the tray drawer, and looked for something to write with, but all he could find was a Sharpie. He popped off the cap and began to print in rough-scrawled penmanship. The words bled dark into the paper.

Hi Sam. Don’t say anything out loud. There are laser microphones aimed at your windows most of the time, but there’s nothing hidden inside the house. No bugs. No cameras.

By the time he’d finished writing it, his pulse was slamming in his ears.

You shouldn’t be anywhere near me,
he thought.
You should be halfway around the world.

He put the marker to the page again.

I’ve been that far away, most of these months. I will be again, soon. I had to check on you, though. I had to find out if the people watching you had any other plans in mind. I had to know if you were in danger. But I think you were right—they’re just watching you in case I show up. Sooner or later I think they’ll even give up on that. They seem bored with it.

You can never risk meeting me in person,
Dryden thought.
Even if you think it’s safe. I’d give anything to see you, but you can’t take the chance.

I know, promise.

Are you and Holly safe?

Yes. That’s the other part of why I’m here—to tell you we’re okay. We’re more than okay. It’s warm where we live. Holly works as a doctor for the local people, and we’re both learning the language. There are so many kids my age. My life has never been like this before. Never this happy.

Dryden stared at the words on the pad. They warmed him every bit as much as the fire on the beach had. Their meaning sank deep into his skin.

You seem happier, too, Sam. I haven’t been watching you for long, but I can tell. I’m glad you met someone. Are you going to take my advice? Are you going to be somebody’s father again?

He laughed under his breath.
Slow down,
he thought.
She and I have toothbrushes at each other’s places. That’s all the further along we are.

He drew a smiley face on the page, and next to it he wrote,

I know, I know, none of my business.

For the longest time he found he couldn’t form a thought in reply. His mind was simply full of feelings, a whole storm of them. The reality of the moment suddenly hit him: Rachel was here. She was right here, within a mile of where he was sitting. They could sprint to each other in a matter of minutes—

Except they couldn’t. Ever.

His eyes stung. He blinked and pushed the feeling away; Rachel could probably pick up on it.

He found himself writing again.

I miss you too, Sam. I keep waiting for it to not hurt so much, but part of me doesn’t want the pain to go away, because it’s ours. It’s only ours, yours and mine, and I don’t want to lose it. If that makes any sense.

It makes perfect sense,
Dryden thought.

The Sharpie was still for a few seconds. Then:

There’s something I need to tell you about.

What?

Have you ever heard people say to each other, it wasn’t an accident we met?

Yes.

You and me, it wasn’t an accident.

Dryden waited for more.

All the things I can do, that I didn’t know about when my memory was gone—deep down, I could still do them without knowing it.

The roadblock in Fresno,
Dryden thought.
The cop who let us go.

Yes. But there was another time I did it.

Seconds passed. Dryden imagined Rachel, somewhere out there, working out what she wanted to say.

Then he started writing.

The two months they had me in that little room, here in El Sedero, I had a game I’d play in my head. I did it whenever I got scared or felt too alone. The game was, I’d imagine I could feel other people, far away outside the building. A whole town full of them. I told myself I could feel their emotions—little kids were like puppies, old people were like deep water without any waves. But there was one person in town I liked focusing on more than all the rest. Someone who seemed strong. Someone hard, like the soldiers who watched over me in that place, but not cold like them. Everything about that person seemed good, and at the worst times, that’s who I kept my mind on, to make myself feel less afraid. I never knew if I was making it all up or not.

Another pause.

So many times, I thought about trying to get away from that place. I even knew where I’d run if I did it. I’d seen the boardwalk in the soldiers’ thoughts, all the time. But the idea of it was scary, being alone out in the dark, being chased. So I had this fantasy, almost every night. I imagined myself running away, and I pictured that spot where one boardwalk meets the other. In my fantasy, that person in town, the one who made me feel safe, would be waiting for me when I got there.

Dryden smiled, in spite of the pain.

The night jogs.

Compulsions that came on like fits.

Drawing him out to the boardwalk at all hours of the night. Out to the junction, to stand for minutes on end, for reasons he could never quite place.

All at once he was sure Rachel was smiling, too. Even laughing. Through tears.

Sorry about all that.

“I’m not sorry,” Dryden whispered in the silence.

I know.

ALSO BY PATRICK LEE

The Breach

Ghost Country

Deep Sky

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PATRICK LEE is the author of three previous bestselling novels:
The Breach, Ghost Country,
and
Deep Sky
. He lives in Michigan.

Visit the author on his Web site at
www.patrickleefiction.com
or on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/PatrickLeeFiction
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

RUNNER
Copyright © 2014 by Patrick Lee. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover designed by James Iocabelli

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Lee, Patrick, 1976—

        Runner / Patrick Lee.—First edition.

           p. cm

        ISBN 978-1-250-03073-3 (hardcover)

        ISBN 978-1-250-03075-7 (e-book)

       1.  Retired military personnel—Fiction.   2.  Special forces (Military science)—Fiction.   3.  Girls—Fiction.   4.  Prisoners—Fiction.   5.  Escapes—Fiction.   I.  Title.

        PS3612.E2265R86 2014

        813'.6—dc23

2013032586

e-ISBN 9781250030757

First Edition: February 2014