Woman on the Run (new version) by Lisa Marie Rice
“A little less than a month ago.” Twenty-seven days and twelve hours, but who’s counting?
“So you don’t know everyone in the area yet. But ole Coop here, he used to be in the Navy, a SEAL, like I said. Crack warriors. Coop did damned well, too, got hisself a medal, he did. In the ‘Stan. Fought in Eye-raq, too. Then his daddy died and he came back to run the Cooper spread.”
Oh, God. Julia closed her eyes in pain for a moment. This was worse than she thought. It wasn’t bad enough that she’d assaulted one of the good citizens of Simpson. No, she’d clobbered a war hero. She opened her eyes and stole a look at Sam Cooper again.
He still looked hard and dangerous.
Gathering the few tattered shreds of dignity left and pumping up her courage, she held out her hand to Sam Cooper, horse breeder/SEAL.
She stared straight into black, expressionless eyes and shivered. “Please accept my apologies, Mr. Cooper.”
After a moment, Sam Cooper took her hand. His hand was huge and hard and calloused. Julia held his hand and he held her eyes. Julia stared, then slipped her hand from his grasp and turned away, feeling as if she’d just escaped a force field.
She turned to the Sheriff and tried to smile. “I guess I owe you my apologies as well, Sheriff.”
“Chuck.” The sheriff grinned. “We don’t stand much on ceremony around here.”
“Chuck, then. I’m really sorry I caused all this commotion.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Well, I won’t say anytime, because you gave me a fright there, Miss Andersen…”
“Sally,” Julia said, hating the name.
“Sally. As I was saying, I thought I’d caught myself a criminal. Mostly what I do is break up a few drunken fights on Saturday night and arrest speeders. Not many of those, either.”
“No, I imagine not,” Julia murmured. “Simpson seems like such a nice little town.” After all she’d been through that afternoon, what was a little lie? All right, a big lie. “Friendly and quiet.”
The Sheriff beamed. “That it is. Glad you like it here. We’re always happy to welcome newcomers to Simpson. We need new blood. The youngsters keep leaving us right after high school. I keep telling ‘em it’s a nasty world out there, but nobody listens. Can’t imagine what they think they’re gonna find out there.”
Oh, I don’t know, Julia thought. Bookshops, cinema, theater, art galleries. Good food, good conversation, shops. Sidewalks. Humans. Then, because she’d always been told her face was an open book, she smiled and tried to think of something else. “You know what kids are like. I guess they feel they have to go and find out for themselves.”
Out of politeness Julia turned to the man she’d brained. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cooper?”
Cooper started. He’d been thinking how easy this Sally Andersen was finding it to talk to Chuck even after five minutes’ acquaintance. He’d found it enormously difficult to tell Chuck how sorry he’d been when Carly, Chuck’s wife, passed away. And then Chuck had just stood around morosely, patting him awkwardly on the back when Cooper’s own wife, Melissa, dumped him.
Looked like beautiful grade school teachers didn’t have the kind of problems men did. Particularly not beautiful schoolteachers with red, no—he checked again while she wasn’t looking—brown hair.
He could have sworn it was red. She looked like a redhead. He was real partial to redheads. Though truth be told, he’d never seen a redhead outside the movies as gorgeous as this one was.
She was still scared. Her hand had trembled in his. It had been soft and small and icy cold. The temptation to keep holding it just to warm it up had been overwhelming. He’d let her go because she looked frightened to death by him. It was hard to forget the look of sheer terror on her face as she’d held him at bay. The last time he’d seen anyone look like that had been under gunfire.
She was hiding her fear well now, with a polite expression on that lovely face, but he remembered her trembling hand.
There was a sudden silence, and Chuck and the teacher were both looking at him in expectation. The echo of Miss Andersen’s question hovered in the air.
“Er…that’s right.” It must have been an appropriate response, because the teacher gathered her things and slipped out the door, Chuck patted him on the back and followed her and he was left alone in the school, except for Jim out swabbing the corridor.
He listened to the sounds of Jim whistling “Be My Baby” out of tune but in time with the sweep of the mop. Cooper moved toward the door and heard something crackle. The notes. The notes Sally Andersen had written. He’d come here to talk about Rafael.
Fuck. He’d forgotten all about it.
The opening strains of Tosca filled the airy, light-filled room. The room was a treasure trove of beautiful, rare objects. The casual onlooker would never see the state of the art security system and the collection of handguns and rifles hidden in the false bottom of an oak Renaissance chest.
A computer sat on a Hepplewhite console. Next to it, an 18th century Wedgwood canister held pencils and pens.
The professional opened the file and started entering the custom-made decryption program that was a personal triumph. Sold on the software market, the program could easily have fetched over $100,000. If it were for sale—which it was not. A hundred thousand was a long way from five million and the Stanford business degree program had been very clear on the fact that you had to spend money to make it.
The last of the commands to start the program had been entered and the computer beeped. Immediately, letters started scrolling down.
alkdjfpiwe cmòkjèqruepijfkmcx,vnsakjfqpoiurpi
alksdjpoiurekcnòlskjfpieujfnòlkdjfpawieurhmadnf
ncjdnemvkjfjruthdsgsrwvcjfkginbjdmslkcjhfgjkdk
Decryption 60%…70%…80%…90%…
Decryption completed.
The computer beeped softly and the professional sat up.
File: 248
Witness Placed under Witness Security Program: Richard M. Abt
Born: New York City, 03/05/75
Last domicile: 6839 Maple Lane, Watertown, NY.
Case: Accountant for RRT Accountancy Corp. All ten CPAs indicted for laundering money for Organized Crime. Abt only person willing to testify. Testimony to be given 11/14/14.
Placed under Witness Security Program: 09/09/13
Richard Abt relocated as: Robert Littlewood
Area 248, Code 7fn609jz5y
Current domicile: 120 Crescent Drive, Rockville, Idaho
Right church. Wrong pew.
The professional sat for a moment, swallowing the disappointment, then got up and poured some chilled Veuve Clicquot into a Baccarat flute, easing off the kidskin shoes ordered specially from an English cobbler, James & Sons. This would take a while.
The Veuve Clicquot was dry and went down like a dream. The light of the Murano chandelier glanced off the crystal of the flute, making a thousand little rainbows. Sipping, the professional watched the rainbows dance in the light.
It was easy, so easy to get used to the good things in life. Fine clothes, fine furnishings, a penthouse suite.
It was a long, long way up from the trailer park and waiting for the old man to come home, drunk more often than not. That was all over with. Forever. No more swinging belts, no more sympathetic teachers gently enquiring about the black eye, no more collecting food stamps.
No more. Not ever again.
kdsjcnemowjsiwexnjskllspwieuhdksmclsldjkjhfd
kdiejduenbkclsjdjeudowjdiejdocmdksdldkjdjeiel
mpnwjcmsmwkcxosapewkrjhvgebsjckgfnghgdsj
Decryption 60%…70%…80%…90%…
Decryption completed.
The computer beeped again. After a moment in which it seemed to pause to consider, the monitor filled with words.
File: 248
Witness placed in Witness Security Program: Sydney L. Davidson
Born: Frederick, Virginia, 07/27/66
Last domicile: 308 South Hampton Drive, Apt 3B, Frederick,
Case: Chemist for Sunshine Pharmaceuticals. All top company executives indicted for providing designer drugs to friends and other business associates. Davidson turned State’s witness in exchange for reduced or waived sentence. Due to testify against employers on 1/23/14.
Placed in Witness Security Program: 8/25/13
Sydney Davidson relocated as: Grant Patterson
Area 248, Code 7gj668jx4r
Current domicile: 90 Juniper Street, Ellis, Idaho
The professional immediately lost interest.
Nobody said this would be easy.
It was certainly taking enough time. Enough time to make serious inroads on a contraband jar of Iranian caviar and to listen to the second act of Tosca. The Veuve Clicquot was running at half-mast. Tosca noisily plunged her knife into Scarpia’s treacherous chest and the orchestra swelled as the computer made its quiet deliberations.
This was getting boring. Still, on the plus side, it looked like the fools in the Department of Justice had actually organized the file containing Julia Devaux’s data in alphabetical order. If that was the case, then Julia Devaux should be coming up soon. The professional contemplated opening another bottle of champagne, then decided against it. Certain triumphs were to be savored with a clear head. The computer beeped.
The professional sat up, eyes narrowing.
kdsjcnemowjsiwexnjskllspwieuhdksmclsldjkjhfd
kdiejduenbkclsjdjeudowjdiejdocmdksdldkjdjeiel
mpnwjcmsmwkcxosapewkrjhvgebsjckgfnghgdsj
Decryption 60%…70%…80%…90%…
Decryption completed.
File: 248:
Witness placed in Witness Security Program: Julia Devaux
Born: London, England, 03/06/87
Come on, come on. The professional leaned forward, eyes riveted to the screen. I know all that. Tell me something I don’t know.
Last domicile: 4677 Larchmont Street, Boston, MA.
Ah. The thrill of the chase was nothing in comparison to the intellectual thrill of knowing that you were smarter than everyone else.
Now for the rest of it. The professional gently kept time to the music with an Italian breadstick dipped in the last of the caviar. The letters moved across the screen.
Case: Homicide, Joey Capruzzo, 09/30/04. Last known address: Sitwell Hotel, Boston, MA.
Proximate cause of death: massive hemorrhaging from .38 caliber bullet wound in left anterior lobe of brain.
Accused: Dominic Santana.
Current address: Warwick Correctional Facility. Warwick, Massachusetts.
Placed in Witness Security Program: 09/30/13
Julia Devaux relocated as:
Yes, that’s it.
The cursor stopped, blinking on and off, as if patiently waiting for some signal from within its depths. Tosca fought with the police officer and cursed Scarpia’s name while slowly, very slowly, the letters started blanking out, one by one, until the screen was empty.
The professional sat, stunned. It was clear what had happened. The files had a time bomb built in. If a code wasn’t entered at predetermined intervals—the professional checked the gold Rolex Oyster that represented the first down payment on the first job—probably every half hour, the files would self-destruct.
The crystal flute shattered against the far wall, champagne spilling down the wall like bubbly tears. The caviar followed, the eggs leaving a greasy, grey-black trail behind them.
So close. So damned close.
After five minutes of enraged pacing, the professional calmed. A month of work down the drain. The Justice Department would change all the access codes and it could take another month to get back in.
Take a deep breath. Get yourself under control. Control is what took you out of the trailer park. Control.
File: 248. Julia Devaux’s data was in a file called 248. Well, no one else hunting for Julia Devaux’s head had as much to go on. A three digit code should be breakable within two weeks at the most. And with S. T. Akers on the case, it would be well into the new year before Santana went to trial, anyway.
There was still time. File 248…it wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.
There was still hope, the professional reflected as Tosca threw herself off the parapet.
There was still hope.
It was a short walk from the school to Julia’s home.
It was a short walk to anywhere in Simpson. In town, Julia didn’t need the clunky ancient lime green Ford Fairlane Davis had made available. It rattled, devoured gasoline and was old enough to vote.
She missed her classy Fiat.
She missed her classy life.
What was happening back in Boston? Dora had been thinking more and more about going freelance. She’d even hinted that she might welcome Julia on board in an editorial services company. Had Dora made the leap?
Andrew and Paul, her gay neighbors, had been spatting. Julia hoped they’d still be together when—if—she ever got back. Nobody made lasagna like Paul and Andrew could be counted on to accompany her to all the art shows. An insanely cheery Halloween postcard was going to be sent to them from Florida, reminding them of the Halloween ball the three of them had attended the year before.
And Federico Fellini, the world’s most beautiful and most temperamental cat. Would his new owners realize that he liked his meat cooked medium rare and that he caught chills easily?
She wished her life were a movie and she could rewind it to a month ago and decide not to go on her little photographic safari in the wilds of the industrial area along the docks. Anything would have been preferable. Root canal work. Elective surgery. Even finally reading her ancient, unopened copy of War and Peace, cover to cover, including the footnotes.
Anything at all would have been better than what she actually did do—drive down to the docks for her try at gritty photographic realism, since her stab at a romantic nature shoot had simply netted her blurred butterfly wings and out-of-focus dandelions.
Well, she’d certainly gotten her share of gritty reality.
Julia made her way down the empty street, looking into shop windows as she went. Even though it was nearly dark, no one had turned on the lights yet and it was like walking through a ghost town. The street was eerie. The town was eerie. Her life was eerie.
She tried to cast the whole scene in her mind as a movie, an old trick of hers when she was scared or lonely or depressed. Right now she was all three so she dove inside her head and starred in her own film.
A ‘40s movie, she thought. Filmed in black and white. It fit. All color had been leached out by the gray sky edging toward evening. The bad guy…oh, Humphrey Bogart. Or maybe…Jimmy Cagney.
And I’m the beautiful heiress tracking down a clue to the mysterious death of…of my uncle here in this ghost town…and I only have this statue of a falcon to go on…and this private eye I hired is handsome and suspicious…
Julia entertained herself with the fantasy that she spliced together from a number of classics until she reached the weather-beaten door of the small wooden A-frame house Herbert Davis had found her. Then the fantasy dissipated. No ‘40s movie heroine worth the name would have a house that let in freezing gusts of wind, had a heating system that went on the fritz constantly and leaked.
Julia was forced to move back into cold, cold reality.
She walked up the steps of the wooden porch that was badly in need of repair and inserted her key. She stopped when she heard a scrabbling sound and sighed heavily. She’d been beating off a mangy, scrawny stray dog for two days now. He had tipped over her garbage can twice. No matter how loud she yelled, he always came scrounging back.
No wonder she preferred cats. Cats had too much dignity to behave like juvenile delinquents.
She spied a dusty yellow-brown shape at the edge of the porch. “Shoo!” she said angrily. Oddly enough, the dog didn’t run yipping away, as it usually did. Julia turned the key and heard a low moan from the porch as she walked into the house.
A mo
She threw her coat on a chair and rammed her hands into her skirt pockets, trying to blank out the memory of the sound. But the creature had definitely moaned.
Well, it wasn’t any business of hers. Damn it, she didn’t even like dogs. Julia walked into the kitchen to make herself a soothing cup of tea, then stopped, eyes narrowed, tapping her foot.
I’m a fool, she thought, turning around to walk back out the door.
The dog was huddled in the corner of the porch. Julia approached him gingerly. She knew zilch about dogs. For all she knew, the creature had some horrible disease, rabies or something, and would leap with a low growl for her throat. She tried to remember everything she knew about rabies, but it wasn’t much and it wasn’t pleasant. All she remembered was that the treatment was really nasty—shots in the stomach.
“Nice doggy,” she said unconvincingly as she approached the matted, yellowish mass of fur. In the penumbra, she couldn’t even tell which end was head and which end was tail. The dog took care of her uncertainty by lifting a pointed, stained muzzle and thumping the other end on the floorboards.
Julia edged closer, wondering what kind of vocabulary dogs understood. Federico Fellini, her cat, was an intellectual and she could talk about books and films to him, as long as it was after he’d been fed and fed well. She had a vague notion that dogs preferred football and politics.
This is a bad idea, Julia, she told herself. It isn’t enough to be in Simpson, Idaho under a death threat. You have to try to help a possibly rabid dog and get bitten for your pains. She turned back.
The dog emitted a high-pitched whine.
Damn.
Julia walked back and squatted to look the dog over in the dim light from the lamppost on the sidewalk. At least the dog was breathing and she wouldn’t have to give it mouth to muzzle resuscitation. She’d failed her CPR course.