Time to Run (7 page)

Come to think of it, the decision wasn't that hard at all. She brought the portable radio to her lips and keyed the mike.

Chapter Seven

C
arter Janssen had just passed the Maryland House rest stop on I-95, heading south at eighty miles an hour, when his cell phone chirped. He flipped it open and brought it to his ear. “Janssen.”

“Hey, Carter, it's Chris Tu.”

“You've got news for me?”

“I do, but you might want to pull over before I give it to you.”

“From the tone in your voice, it sounds like I'll want to drive faster.”

The detective sighed deeply on the other end of the phone. “Okay, here it is. We had a tough time tracking down the right Bradley Ward, but I think we've got him.”

“But you're not sure?”

Detective Tu hesitated. “Well, I guess we are sure. This is the Bradley Ward about whom you reached an agreement with his foster parents to have him removed from the household in return for dropped charges on some burglary thing.”

Carter felt himself blushing. He'd forgotten that there was a letter in the file. Had he remembered, he would not have fudged his knowledge of how the boy came to disappear. “Okay, go ahead.”

“After he left the Bensons' house, he pretty much fell off of the radar screen, mostly showing up in the occasional brawl at a homeless shelter here and there. It was enough to get him a record and get me a set of fingerprints to work with. Here's the part you're not going to want to know: two and a half years ago, he was sent up for murdering a bystander in the robbery of a little bodega in Lansing, Michigan. I don't know how he got to Michigan, but the way he got out was via the back door of his prison. In fact, he's a ‘person of interest' in a couple of prison murders, too. He's been a fugitive for almost six months now.”

Carter lifted the turn signal lever and moved into the right-hand lane, slowing down to the speed limit. Chris Tu was right; this was the sort of news for which one should stop the car. “So, that means that the FBI is after him, too. Interstate flight.” He worked hard to keep the panic out of his voice.

The detective didn't bother to stifle his chuckle. “Yeah, and we know what kind of priority those cases are getting these days, right?”

Carter let a sigh escape. The FBI had been focused so exclusively on the fight against terror that sometimes it seemed as if those were the only laws on the books anymore. “I'm surprised that he's an escapee,” Carter said, thinking out loud. “I get those bulletins every month, and would have thought for sure that the name would jump out at me.”

“Ah, well, that's the point I neglected to tell you,” Tu said. “He doesn't go by Bradley Ward anymore. He goes by Bradley Dougherty. I'm not sure what the origin of the name was, but it's strictly an alias. My guess is, he's got a whole new one by now.”

Carter ran it all through his head, trying to decide on the best course from here. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty. “Have you put the announcement out on the wire yet?”

“I put it out on Dougherty, yes, but I wanted to wait to talk to you before I mentioned Nicki. What do you want me to do?”

It was a tougher decision than it might appear at first glance. “Clearly, we've got the best chance if we put pictures out there for both of them, but can you make it clear in the announcement that Nicki is not wanted for any crimes? Say that they're traveling together, but make it clear that they're not
actually
together. Can you do that?”

“Sure I can. And since you think that they're most likely to be headed toward the DC suburbs, we'll be sure to get their pictures to the media outlets in time for the eleven o'clock news, and then again for their morning broadcasts.”

Carter nodded. “That's good. And if you can, make sure that all the police agencies east of the Mississippi get an alert in their morning updates.”

“I can do that,” said Detective Tu.

“I'm still heading to Brookfield,” Carter said. “See what I can put together at the bus station.”

“You holding up all right?”

Carter allowed himself a bitter laugh. “Chris, the way these past few years have gone, this just feels like any other day to me.”

* * *

“I love your car,” Nicki said. It was a Mustang GT convertible. Red. Most cool. He'd even held the door for her as she climbed inside.

“It's a pavement-eater all right,” he agreed. He stuck a little too close to the line as he swung a turn, showing off the vehicle's suspension.

“How long have you had it?”

“It's new,” he said. “Well, new to me. I got it for the trip.”

“This trip?”

Brad bounced his eyebrows and smiled. “I promised you style, didn't I?”

Nicki giggled and sort of hugged herself, conscious of just how long it had been since she'd heard the sound of genuine delight coming from her own throat.

Brad laughed at the sound. “Now I understand why your screen name is Giggler.”

She blushed. “When are you going to tell me where we're going?”

“Not very far,” he said. “I figured you'd be tired. Besides, this is where your fantasy is set.”

Nicki laughed again. “My
fantasy
? What do you know about my fantasies?”

“You said you wanted to go to a prom.”

“Yeah, but you didn't know that.”

He smirked. “I guessed a little. Okay, so tell me what you can't do.”

“Excuse me?”

“This PPH thing you've got. What can't you do, other than climb Mount Everest, which fortunately is not on the agenda.”

He was so
charming.
God, it was even better than she'd remembered. “I can do about anything,” she said. “I just get tired doing it. If I push too hard, then I get short of breath, but then if I relax and take my rat poison, then everything turns out fine.”

“Your rat poison?”

“Coumadin,” she explained. “Blood thinner. It's the same stuff they put in mouse traps. The mice eat the Coumadin, and they bleed to death on the inside.”

Brad was concentrating on the road as he wormed into traffic, but he shot her a quick look anyway. “Those are the humane traps, right?” He settled for the center lane. “Is bleeding to death a worry for you?” he asked. “Not that you look like a mouse, or anything.”

Nicki laughed again. “Actually, I do have to wear this”—she waved her left hand to display her Medic-Alert bracelet—“in case I'm in an accident or something.”

“So that's it?” Brad asked. “Shortness of breath and fatigue? Doesn't sound all that fatal to me. You look terrific.”

Nicki knew that second part was a lie, but she appreciated the effort. “It's the way the disease works,” she explained. “Today's a good day. Tomorrow might be really crappy. I never know. But I get way more crappy days than I used to get six months ago. In another six months, I'll have way more crappy days than good ones, and six months after that, I'll be worm food.”

The worm-food comment drew an uncomfortable look, but Nicki smiled to show that it was okay. Along with pushing up daisies and the big dirt nap, worm food was her favorite for knocking people off balance. The one word she couldn't bring herself to say was
dead
.

“Well, at least we've got a year,” Brad said. “Just you, me, the road, and adventure.”

God, how she loved the sound of that. Adventure.
Real
adventure, free from prodding fingers and meddling know-it-alls. Free to die the way God intended her to.

“How are we going to support ourselves?” Nicki asked.

Her question sparked a guffaw from Brad. “You're too damned practical, Nicolette,” he chided. “Do you worry about the little stuff all the time?”

“Every single moment,” she said. It was the part of her personality that bugged her the most. There were days when she wondered if her mother's illness and then her own had just flat-out made her forget how to have any fun anymore. “Does this mean you're filthy rich or something?”

“Me?” Another guffaw. “Not hardly. I'm lucky to be able to afford McDonald's three times a week.”

Nicki's features twisted into a scowl. This wasn't making any sense. “What about a job?”

Brad had a smirk in his arsenal that seemed designed purely for the dimples it produced in his cheeks. “I'm only twenty-two, Nicki. I've got a whole lifetime to have a job.”

“Well, how do you—”

Brad held up his hand suddenly enough to startle her. “No more questions. Okay? For a little while, no more questions.”

A warning bell sounded in her head. Out of nowhere, she remembered a story from her father about a girl who dared to meet someone from the Internet, only to wind up brutalized and left for dead.

“Uh-oh,” Brad said. “I pissed you off. You're not talking.”

“All I've got are questions,” she said. “My father would tell me that you're probably a criminal and that I should be very careful.”

“Your father's an asshole.”

Nicki's jaw dropped.

Brad sensed her shock and turned his head to look at her. “What, I'm telling you something you don't already know?”

“Well, no, I guess not . . .”

“Oh, it's one of those, ‘I can say it but you can't' things?” Brad laughed. “Do you have any idea how many times you typed the word
asshole
during our chats online? Something like a million.”

That sounded about right, actually. What was it about Brad that allowed him to say things that should have pissed her off, but in fact didn't? “At least I know firsthand.”

Brad made a snorting sound. “Trust me. I have some firsthand knowledge myself.”

“Sounds like a story I haven't heard yet.”

“Nicolette Janssen, there's a thousand of those stories out there.”

“Tell me.”

“All in good time.”

“Oh, come on. You know everything about me, and I don't know a thing about you. That's not fair.” Nicki leaned forward in her seat to look around and see his face. “Come on, just one thing. One story.”

“One's going to lead to ten, and then the mood will be ruined,” Brad said. “I want today to be special.”

“Just one,” Nicki pressed. “I promise.”

Brad let out a long sigh and smiled in spite of himself. “Just one, right?”

“Right.”

“And then you'll stop?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then ask a question.”

Suddenly, just one didn't seem like nearly enough. Ten, maybe, but not just one. “Okay, then, if you don't have a job, how can you afford this car?”

“I stole it,” he said. Then he laughed at her gaping expression. “Sorry you asked?”

“You
stole
a car?”

“Not just
a
car. This one. A fire-engine red Mustang convertible. I've wanted one of these all my life.”

“But you can't just steal somebody's car!”

“Sure I can. It's not as difficult as you think.”

Nicki was appalled, and couldn't understand why she was laughing. “But it's against the law.”

“It must be tough being a lawyer's kid.”

“Brad!”

“What?” He seemed both proud and amused.

“Suppose the police come after you?” She pivoted in her seat and looked behind them at the clutch of traffic.

“They won't,” he said. He explained how things worked out at the airport.

“That's terrible!” she said when he was done.

“Oh, come on, Nicki, lighten up. I'm not hurting it. When I'm done with it, for all I know, somebody will find the car and return it. It's not like I'm running a chop shop here.”

“A what?”

“Chop shop. That's a place where you take cars that have been stolen and you cut 'em up and sell 'em for parts.”

Nicki couldn't believe they were talking about this. “Have you ever
been
part of a chop shop?”

Brad sighed and looked at her for longer than Nicki thought he should have had his eyes away from the road. He signaled right and pulled into a Giant Food shopping center, where he found a parking spot close to the road and pushed the transmission into Park. For a few seconds, Nicki thought that he was waiting for her to get out, to leave him alone, but then she realized that he was just gathering his thoughts.

“Nicolette, look—”

“Please don't call me that. It's Nicki. I won't even answer to that other one.”

“Nicki, then.” Brad turned sideways in his seat, curling one leg atop the center console. “I don't know what you think I am. I don't even know why you agreed to come on this crazy trip I planned. I think it's because you know it's your only shot at having a decent life, and you've got to live the whole damn thing in the next few months. This stupid disease is gonna take everything away from you, and you want to have something worth losing before it's gone. Am I close?”

His words made her feel somehow whole. Maybe he was just regurgitating what she'd written to him a thousand times, but it was wonderful to hear her own thoughts articulated by someone else. She smiled.

“Good. Great. I thought so. Well, I'm not like that, okay? I've seen plenty of this life, and there hasn't been a single day that I haven't wondered why I'm still doing the dance. If it all ended tomorrow, I honestly wouldn't give a damn. All life has handed me is one fistful of shit after another, and when I get a chance, I take it.” While he spoke, Nicki watched his eyes darken as his voice grew thick. He wasn't about to cry—no tears could be found within a hundred miles of Brad Ward—but the hurt and the anger were all there. She could actually
see
those thousand stories flashing in his eyes.