Run With Me (9 page)

Then her auntie and uncle turn
up dead and there are local reports from neighbors that Kitty was
seen staying with them for the night. All of a sudden, the mindset of
the police goes from missing, possibly dead, to full on suspect.
She's alive – they know that now – and three people are dead in
her wake.

I sit and consider why the girl
in her apartment was killed. Did Kitty manage to escape as she did at
her auntie and uncle's house? Was it simply a case of mistaken
identity, where the hired gun mistook the girl for Kitty herself? The
evidence suggests the latter – that this was a botched job and
that's why Michael Carmine brought me in.

The trail, for now, has gone
cold. She hasn't been seen, she hasn't used her credit cards. Until
she pops up somewhere on the grid it'll be impossible to trace her.
If she's smart, she'll have realized by now that her phone is her
enemy. It can be tracked and traced, so I'm guessing she will have
disposed of it.

Why hasn't she gone to the
police? Is it through fear that they'll think she was the culprit?
Has she panicked and run off without considering her actions? Or is
it fear of Michael Carmine? Perhaps she knows that if he wants her
dead, she's dead, and the police can do nothing to stop it.

Where would she have gone after
escaping her aunt and uncle's house? It's the one question that
continues to burn in my mind more fiercely than any other. Not back
to LA, she wouldn't risk going back there. North, most likely, in the
opposite direction. Fight or flight: she'll have chosen flight, and
will be looking to put as much distance as possible between herself
and the mess behind her.

But it's risky, especially in
her car. Has she seen herself on the news? Does she know that every
cop in the state knows what she looks like and will be scanning for
her license plate? As soon as she pops up on the grid she'll be
caught, you can guarantee it. She'll have had no experience at
evading the police, at disappearing and moving around unseen. It
really is only a matter of time, and when the police find her,
Michael Carmine finds her too.

I reach onto the table and
unfold a map of the region. When she escaped the house it will have
been the middle of the night. She'll be tired, she'll be afraid, and
she'll need to rest. It's possible that she managed to find a motel
somewhere for the time being. If she's smart, she'll realize that
using a credit card anywhere is like setting off a beacon for anyone
chasing her. In any case, I've already run some checks, and she
hasn't.

That leaves a simple case of
trial and error. Over the years I've had to trust my judgment
repeatedly, and it rarely leads me astray. It's easy to find someone
when they don't know they're being tracked. When you give them a
head-start, however, and they know you're coming, things become a
whole lot more difficult. But then, I never fail to bring in a job.
It's a point of pride and the main reason why people hire me over
anyone else. When the evidence is thin on the ground, instinct can be
your most potent weapon. And mine is sharp as a butchers knife.

The afternoon is drawing on when
I rise from my booth and step out from the diner. It's still warm,
but the air is beginning to cool as the sun makes its descent down
towards the horizon. I walk to my car and climb inside, start the
engine, and begin cruising up the road northwards away from
Bakersfield. There are few main roads in the area, and anyone heading
north will have gone straight down this one.

It only takes me about 10
minutes before I pull over once more to the right. There's a basic
parking lot and a series of trailers set aside off the road, each
with a numbered door: 1, 2, 3, all the way up to 20. I scan the cars
and see no sign of the red Vauxhall Corsa I'm searching for. I step
from the car and walk towards the reception trailer. Inside is a man
doing a crossword as a fan blows from side to side. It looks hot and
humid inside. His sweat stained vest and beady brow tell me that.

I pull out a picture of Kitty
and ask if he's seen her. After a brief moment of doubt he shakes his
head. I don't trust him. I'm not a trusting person. So, I ask again,
this time tapping my pistol on the glass. His answer comes with more
urgency, but remains the same. He hasn't seen her, and she's not
staying here.

Time to move on.

Over the following hours I comb
the area moving northwards through central California. I only check
motels and cheap hotels – nothing fancy, nothing in populated
areas. This girl hasn't got much money, and she hasn't been using her
cards. She's living only on what cash she has on her, so she'll be
looking for the cheapest places possible.

The light begins to fade and I
keep on pulling out Kitty's picture in front of disinterested
reception staff. Some of them have seen her on the news and make
comments like: “are you the police” and “did she really kill
her aunt and uncle”. Clearly some of the press have taken the fact
that the police are looking for Kitty and made it into a manhunt for
a murderer. I doubt that the police are thinking in such black and
white terms.

Yet I enjoy no luck. No one has
seen her, and from what I can gather from listening to police
chatter, the cops haven't had any sightings of her or her car. It's
pushing past 10.30 PM when I find myself back in my car, my map
covered in crosses and marks to indicate where I've been. Over 20
places visited and no sign of her. Thankfully, my expectation had
been kept in check, so I'm not disappointed. I know how long and
arduous some 'hunts' can be. Depending on who you're tracking, they
can go on for weeks or more quite easily. But I know, in this case,
that won't happen. With the cops after her, there's no way a girl
like this can stay hidden for long unless she gets help.

I grab a bottle of water from a
cooler I've had installed in front of the passenger seat and gulp
down half of its contents. As I do, I hear a crackle over my police
scanner, followed by a tinny voice.

“
Dispatch, this is base. We've
had a sighting of Kitty Munroe north of Corcoran on Randall's Farm.
The owner says she parked on their track overnight and has just
driven away now. We don't know if she's headed north or south....”

As I listen to the police call I
quickly grab the map. I'm close, only about 5 miles to the north
east.
She'll be heading north, away from LA
, I think to
myself. I check my clock again: 10.40 PM. A moment later my engine in
roaring and I'm shooting down the road heading west to her location.

It doesn't take me long to reach
the only road heading north from Randall's Farm. It's been less than
5 minutes when I cruise to a stop on the side of the road and wait,
several miles up from where the track to the farm meets the main
road. If she's headed south, there's no way I'll catch her. But I
know she won't be. She's going north, and she won't have passed yet.

The road is quiet and dark, the
night sky now blanketed with a thick layer of cloud. I shut off my
lights and wait, listening for any updates over the radio. Then I
hear the sound of sirens coming from behind. It sounds like two
police cars, at least a mile away. All of a sudden, the road lights
up in a bright burst as a set of headlamps appear from around the
corner behind me. Then the sound of a car rushing by fills the air,
and I hit the gas, flicking on my own lights as I rush forward in
pursuit.

The road straightens out quickly
and my lights illuminate the vehicle ahead. It's a red Vauxhall
Corsa. It's Kitty Munroe.

She's driving fast, driving
wildly. But her car can only go so quick, and for mine it's a stroll.
I know the cops won't have seen her – they're too far back – but
they'll be gaining fast. I follow behind, but try to maintain my
distance. I don't want to spook her or force her into doing something
stupid. If she thinks that I'm the man who killed her aunt and uncle
– the only man she thinks is chasing her – then she's liable to
drive erratically and have an accident.

I reach into a compartment in
front of the passenger seat and pull out a set of glasses. But these
aren't just any glasses: they're night vision glasses, and cost me a
lot of money. I put them on and the world in front of me changes, a
greenish hue appearing where there was once black. I slow down now
and pull back slightly, signaling to Kitty that I'm not in pursuit.
Then I turn off my lights and disappear from her sight, blending into
the dark road.

She can't see me, but I can see
her as clear as day. The outlines of the road, of the bushes lining
it and the fields stretching beyond, come into view. I can see her
car still driving wildly ahead and I slowly pick up speed, closing
the gap so that I don't lose her. When we come to a crossroads, she
turns to the left, and I follow. Behind, the police sirens are less
clear over the hum of my engine, but I can still hear them faintly.
Another turning, and she goes right this time, desperate to shake off
the cops that follow.

This goes on for about 10
minutes as she takes any and every turning she can. Eventually, the
sound of sirens fades and she starts to slow down. I do the same,
maintaining my distance, even though I know I'm a ghost, a shadow who
follows her unseen.

I keep tracing her movements as
she continues up a long country road. Every time we come close to a
town or settlement, she turns away, keeping herself away from
populated areas.

Smart
, I think to myself
as I quietly cruise behind her.

Soon she comes to an area of
woodland and slows further. I can almost sense her fear, feel her
heart pounding in her chest, as she begins to slow under the canvas
of leaves and swaying branches overhead. I drive slowly and quietly,
cruising along like a mouse so I remain unheard. Then she turns
gently up through a break in the woods and drives into the
undergrowth. I hear a loud crack as she rolls over a branch on the
ground before disappearing from view. I move up towards the opening
and stop. Now I listen intently for movement and can still hear her
tires cracking over fallen twigs and leaves as she carefully
navigates her way deeper into the wood. Then, suddenly, I hear the
light whir of her engine fall silent and the lights in the darkness
go out. She's stopped.

I immediately shut off my engine
too and very gently open the door of my car. I step forward towards
the opening and peer into the night, my night vision glasses
illuminating the world ahead of me. Roughly 100 feet away I can see
Kitty's car under a low hanging oak. It looks so out of place in the
undergrowth; so lonely and desperate.

I creep forward now, carefully
watching the ground underfoot to avoid twigs and other crackling
foliage. As I do I briefly remove my glasses and the world is plunged
into total darkness. As I put them back on I realize that there's no
way she can see me, not here. I keep moving, watching my step and
inching closer to the car.

Suddenly, a light comes on
inside the car. I stop in my tracks, only about 20 feet from the
vehicle, and see Kitty's face appear. She looks drained and
exhausted, her eyes downcast and red.

I stand still for a few moments
as I watch her. But all she does is stare forward, lightly shaking
her head and occasionally rubbing her eyes. I can see her cheeks
glisten as tears gently roll down them, quickly brushed away by her
fingers. But all she does is keep staring forward, staring into the
blackness ahead of her.

A deep feeling of pity builds in
me at the sight of her. She looks so lost, so alone. Like there's
nothing left in her life, nothing to cling onto. I can't help but
feel sorry for her, sorry that her world has come crumbling down like
this. I know the feeling of loss, of waking up one day to find that
my world had been turned upside down; that nothing would ever be the
same again.

It seems like I stay standing
there for hours, just watching her. I've never had this with a mark
before. I've kept my own feelings at bay, made sure that I knew scant
details of the person in order to remain unemotional. I've always
acted like a robot. Track and deliver. Nothing more. But now, I can't
help but hate myself and hate my life. Through my endless search to
find my family's killer, to bring them to justice, I've become truly
lost.

Eventually I watch as Kitty's
eyes flicker and begin to close. She looks like she's battling sleep,
but is unable to keep it at bay. I still stand, motionless, as she
drifts off into a dream. I find myself hoping that it's a pleasant
one, but doubt that it will be.

After her eyes have been closed
for 10 minutes, I start creeping forward once more. I can see her
head set back against her seat, her brown hair falling down over her
forehead. Her face looks strangely peaceful and calm as I peer in
through the window, and it brings a strange smile to my face.
At
least in sleep she's free of this
, I think.

I reach forward now and, as
gently as I can, pull on the door handle. It clicks quietly and the
door falls open, creaking lightly on its hinges as I widen the gap.
Kitty stirs but doesn't wake, her face now contorting as her dream
grows into a nightmare. A moan squeezes from her lips as she turns
her head away and twists her body position to get more comfortable.

Now I reach into my jacket
pocket and pull out a small syringe. It's a sleep agent that I use
often on my targets and one that I administer through various means.
A drop of it in a glass of water or mug of coffee. Drenched into a
cloth and placed under the nose. Shot via a dart. There are various
ways to skin a cat, and trust me, I've tried them all.