Run: A Novel (33 page)

Peever didn’t reply, so I got to my feet.

“Wait. Whose name would you give her?”

“The asshole who tried to kill my wife this morning. He’s already dead, so no one else will get hurt. His body’s at LeBrock’s house. In the basement. I’ll give you the address.”

Peever shuffled his chair aside just far enough for me to squeeze past, but as I drew level his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

“This isn’t over, Bowman. I won’t underestimate you again.”

I pulled free and moved out of his reach. Then I turned to Carolyn. She was still in the booth, showing no sign of following me.

“Sweetheart, this is it. Time’s up. What’s your decision? Are you coming?”

B
EFORE HIS DEATH, MCKENNA HAD OUTLINED THE PATH THAT
would exist for me if
I
survived. It led to prison. And that wasn’t acceptable. Not with Carolyn by my side. And not with 6.4 million dollars in my trunk.

The problem was the evidence against me in the ARGUS database. McKenna said I couldn’t run from it. And he said I couldn’t hide from it. And he was right.

But he didn’t say I couldn’t change it.

CAROLYN DIDN’T SAY A WORD
on the drive to AmeriTel. Her face was an impenetrable mask. It wasn’t until I was about to step out of the car that her expression cracked and she finally broke her silence.

“Whatever you need to do to get away, I’ll help you.” She spoke without looking at me. “But beyond that, I’m not making any promises. OK?”

THE PARKING LOT WAS BUSIER
than it had been at dawn, but only by a half-dozen cars. I took more encouragement from that than Carolyn’s halfhearted assurance. And remembering the friendly conversation I’d had with Pete the security guard, I figured it would be safe to head into the building through the main entrance.

Pete was right there, standing behind the reception counter. He reached down and replaced a telephone handset as we walked toward
him. And I could see from the way he squared his shoulders when he spotted us that something was very wrong.

“Mrs. Bowman, good afternoon. Mr. Bowman, please stay where you are.”

“Pete? What’s up?”

“I know.”

“What do you know?”

“All about you. You shouldn’t be here. You were fired. And you’re wanted by the police.”

“Oh, that. Don’t worry. It’s all a misunderstanding. Roger LeBrock and I have sorted everything out. It’ll be official in the morning, but in the meantime he asked me to take care of a couple of things for him. Urgent things. And listen. I’ve got his home number, right here. Why not call and ask him? Put your mind at rest?”

“I don’t think so.” Pete stepped out from behind the counter. “Because I’ve just called the police. And they didn’t know about any misunderstanding. They were real clear about the situation. Now they’re on their way. And you had better stay right where you are till they get here, Mr. Bowman.”

“The police are on their way? Great initiative, Pete. And you know what? You’ve done me a favor. It’ll save me having to schlep down to the station house later with the papers I need to show them to clear my name. Did they give you an ETA?”

“Five minutes.” He moved closer. “Ten, at the outside.”

“Excellent. Although—”

“Marc!” Carolyn grabbed me, suddenly sagging at the knees. “I’ve decided,” she whispered in my ear. “Do what you need to do, and go to the car.” Then, in a loud, slurring voice: “No time. My pills. Top drawer. In my office …”

Pete took another step forward and Carolyn let go of me, flinging her arms around his neck instead.

“Hang in there, sweetheart.” I started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “I’ll get the pills. I’ll only be a second.”

Carolyn groaned. I glanced down, and almost laughed. It looked for all the world like she and Pete were drunken teenagers, clumsily dancing. He was keeping Carolyn on her feet. Just. And she was forcing
him to turn. By the time I was at the top of the stairs, he’d have his back to me. He’d be facing the exit. And he’d have no idea I was heading in the opposite direction from Carolyn’s office.

IT WAS CAROLYN’S QUICK
thinking that had bought me the time I needed to get upstairs. But when I sneaked back down and raced to meet her at the Aston, she wasn’t there.

Had I heard her wrong?

Had she changed her mind, again?

Or had she been buying more time—to get away herself?

I
COULDN’T DELETE ALL THE EVIDENCE MCKENNA’S PEOPLE HAD
faked against me. There was too much of it, and it would have left too many loose ends. Something would inevitably have come back to bite me. So, given the amount of time available—much less than I’d hoped for, following Pete’s 911 call—I had to just cut and paste.

Cut my details out. And paste someone else’s in.

There’s no easy way to say this, but that someone else is you. I’m sorry.

If it’s any consolation, there was nothing personal about the choice. We’ve never met. I hold no grudge against you. It’s just that yours was the easiest profile to piece together. An email account here. A credit card there. A cell phone number. A street address. A copy of your driver’s license. Your details were all over cyberspace. It took no time to find them. And now, the seventh member of McKenna’s web of terrorist sleepers? It’s you.

Officially, Marc and Carolyn Bowman are dead. A police report shows they died in the fire at Karl Weimann’s house on Friday night. I’m Daniel Abbot, now. And Carolyn is Isobel Draper. We’re back together. Permanently. Offering my Lichtenstein for her life was the turning point, I think. She was only missing from AmeriTel’s parking lot on Sunday afternoon when I came out because the police had arrived early, and—seeing the danger—she was leading them on a wild-goose chase. But she came back. She found me. We have a stack of cash to burn through, thanks to Roger LeBrock. We’re going nowhere near
computers. Or cell phones. And I’m not going to tell you where we are.

OK. That’s enough of my story. You’ve had your warning. Now it’s time to get your things in order. I don’t know how long you have before they come for you. McKenna’s people. Or Homeland Security. It’s hard to tell them apart. But either way, the result won’t be anything pleasant. So, be vigilant. Look out for anything new, or anything that changes. Like your spouse coming home later than usual from work. New neighbors moving in. An unscheduled visit from a utility repair crew. An odd vehicle hanging around your street. An unfamiliar mailman. A new guy at your job. At the grocery store. Or the gas station. You get the picture. And if you feel like something’s out of place at home—if things have moved or disappeared, or doors are left open when they’re normally closed—then someone’s been inside, snooping around.

That means it’s almost time.

But at least you know what’s coming. And you know what you have to do.

RUN!

I would like to offer my deepest thanks to the following for their help, support, and encouragement during the writing of this book. Without them, it would not have been possible.

Kate Miciak, my incredible editor, and the whole team at Random House.

Janet Reid, the Queen of the Reef.

My friends, who’ve stood by me through the years: Carlos Camacho, Jamie Freveletti, Keir Graff, Tana Hall, Nick Hawkins, Dermot Hollingsworth, Amanda Hurford, Richard Hurford, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Kristy Claiborne Kiernan, Martyn James Lewis, Carrie Medders, Philippa Morgan, Denise Pascoe, Wray Pascoe, Javier Ramirez, David Reith, Sharon Reith, Beth Renaldi, Marc Rightley, Melissa Rightley, Renee Rosen, Kelli Stanley, and Brian Wilson.

Everyone at The Globe Pub, Chicago.

Audrey and John Grant.

Jane Grant.

Ruth Grant.

Katharine Grant, Jess Grant, and Alexander Tyska.

Gary and Stacie Gutting.

Not last, but always—Tasha.

I’d also like to extend extra special thanks to the real Daniel Peever of Ontario, Canada, for generously bidding on a character name in support of the wonderful Acorns Children’s Hospice in Birmingham, England.

A
NDREW
G
RANT
was born in Birmingham, England. He attended the University of Sheffield, where he studied English Literature and Drama. He has run a small, independent theater company and worked in the telecommunications industry for fifteen years. Andrew is married to novelist Tasha Alexander, and the couple divides their time between Chicago and the UK.