Dead Running (8 page)

“Family time?” Tate giggled. “Nuh-uh. You’re scared of my daddy.”

I spit out a huffy breath. “Excuse me?”

“When Daddy says your boyfriends are losers, your face gets all red.” He patted my arm. “I think you’re the prettiest girl ever, Auntie. Why do you like losers?”

I ruffled his hair, enduring Raquel’s laughter. “Thank you. I get made fun of without Jared actually being in the house. Walk me to the front door,” I commanded.

Tate gave his mom a thumbs-up, picked up my fallen magazines, and followed me. “Will you bring me more treats next time?” he asked.

“Sure thing. What happened to your sucker?"

"I hid it under my bed. I have to lick it slow ‘cause Momma won't buy me treats."

I gasped. "No treats?”

He sighed, brown eyes filled with anguish. “I know. If my momma didn’t take me to the park and stuff, I’d move to Nana’s with you. Nana’s always got candy.”

I chuckled. “Your mom’s a lot nicer than Nana.”

I swung the front door open and leaped into the air. “Pelican poop,” I yelled, spilling several magazines onto the floor.

A brawny man whose shoulders connected directly to his head stood on the threshold, hand poised to knock. His bushy eyebrows rose.

I placed a hand over my heart. “You scared me.”
Muscle Man
. The creep from the race. He more than scared me. Why was he at Raquel’s house? I shuddered and pushed Tate behind me, setting my books on the entryway table so my hands would be free.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The look in his pale blue eyes said he couldn’t have cared less if I was terrified. “I’m the new Schwann’s man. Wanted to introduce myself and give you some samples of our frozen food.”

His story wasn’t any more sincere than his apology. A twelve-passenger maroon van with darkened windows sat at the curb. “The Schwann man has a yellow refrigerator kind of truck.” I patted my nephew on the shoulder with a trembling palm. “Tater, go get your mom.” I wanted him away from this man.

“What’s going on?” Raquel appeared in the foyer. She picked Tate up. He cuddled into her shoulder. Could he sense I was uncomfortable or was he getting his own bad vibes from the Nasty Muscle Man on our doorstep?

I heard a soft click. My eyes flipped to the van. Muscle Man’s thin partner was snapping pictures of us from the rear fender.

My gaze spun back to the man towering a few feet from my nephew and sister-in-law. He plastered on a smile, but it was only lip-deep. What were these two up to? Trying to take secretive pictures of us, of Tate. My stomach dive-bombed.

I put myself between Muscle Man and my family. “We wouldn’t care for any samples today.”

His fake smile flushed away. Flexing polish sausage fingers, he took a half-step towards me.

I shrunk back, holding my arms out to shield Raquel and Tate. “Don’t you take one more step,” I commanded, fear giving each word its own octave.

The idiot moved. I slammed the door. The handle turned against my fingers. I pushed against the door with all my weight. Raquel joined me. After several attempts, I jammed the deadbolt into place. My heart thundered in my eardrums.
 

“Should I call the police?” Raquel asked.

I stared through the peephole at the body-builder gone wrong. Muscle Man glowered at the door as if he could zap me with his bulging eyeballs. I clung to the deadbolt, certain that lowlifes like him had ways to open locks. The door handle rattled again.

“Yes, call the police,” I yelled loud enough that Muscle Man could hear through the door.

Raquel scurried away with Tate clinging to her.

The guy lingered for a moment, then gestured to his friend and descended the steps.

“Yes, two men,” Raquel said in a rush of breath, returning to the foyer. “Are they still out there?”

“No, they’re leaving.”

“Can you see the license plate?”

I squinted through the peephole and definitely could not read the license plate. The van pulled away. I should run out there and get that plate number. I froze, clinging to the door, too terrified to expose myself to Muscle Man again.

“No,” I squeaked.

“They left,” Raquel said. “Maroon van.” She kept talking. I didn’t move. Finally Raquel said goodbye.
 

“Detective Shine and Fine on their way to save us again?” I asked.

“Probably,” she said. “Who was that guy?”

I kept staring out the peephole, reassuring myself they were gone. “Nasty Muscle Man.”

“From the race? What did he want?”

I swallowed, thinking of our last encounter at Café Sabor. What
did
Muscle Man want? “Me.”

*
         
*
         
*

Al slammed the passenger side door of the van, staring gloomily at the sprawling rock and stucco home. Nathan’s daughter rubbed him the wrong way. She looked just like her mother, long legs, dark hair, and those pouty lips, but was feistier than her father. Al could still picture both her parents with infrared dots on their chests. When would the call come to terminate the daughter? Maybe he could just throw her into this job as a freebie, after he got what he needed from her. The thought made him smile.

Al shook his head. Cassidy Christensen. Acting like she could protect her nephew and sister-in-law from him. Just like her dad trying to protect all those slaves.

Terry started the van, gunning out of the subdivision. “You think they really called the cops?”

“Let’s not wait around to find out,” Al snarled. “Did you get some good ones? Me in them? Something that will show him we mean business?”

“Perfect.” Terry’s head bobbed twice. “Even got the kid in some. If these don’t scare Doc Christensen out of hiding I don’t know what will.”

Al nodded, shaking off the odd mixture of desire and anger Cassidy Christensen produced in him. He needed to concentrate on their objectiveone dead body shipped to the finish line first. He couldn’t believe Ramirez was baiting them against other operatives. When they’d gotten the tip about Cassidy being at that race he’d thought it was an exclusive. But now there was someone new in the game, a young guy Ramirez thought was the greatest thing since the AK-47. The only good news was the kid had another assignment. They had some time, but Al couldn’t afford the distraction of a beautiful woman. He thought of Cassidy’s firm body. With or without a financial incentive, he’d be coming back for her.

He looked at Terry. “Let’s go earn our money.”

“Ramirez won’t be the only one paying up,” Terry said. “I heard Panetti will throw in something extra when Doc’s finally dead. He really hates him.”

Al shrugged. “Doc reminds Panetti of what he used to be before he sold out.”

Terry arched an eyebrow. “Have we sold out?”

“Nah. You have to care about something to sell out and you only care about the money.”

Terry grinned. “Two million dollars is a lot to care about.”
 

*
         
*
         
*

“Just keep running, just keep running, run, run, run, run, run.” The words bounced around in my brain, over and over again as I trudged mile after mile or maybe foot after foot was more appropriate. It was the fourth day of my six-mile-a-day plan and I’d yet to make it six miles running. My legs had never hurt like this. Weighted squats? Walking lunges? Box jumps? Child’s play. This running stuff made my leg workouts look like a stroll through the shopping mall.

I heard steady breathing coming from the rear. My heart thumped a bit faster. I did not like being out alone on these dark streets. The police had found no trace of Muscle Man or his partner, but what if they were watching me? What if whoever murdered my faceless nightmare was out there somewhere? I tried to increase my pace, but I had nothing. My poor legs had been pushed to their limit and no amount of adrenaline was going to quicken my stride.

“Would you rather have me raped and left for dead on the side of the road?” I muttered to my feeble muscles.

I straightened my shoulders and slowed my breathing. The runner was going to catch me any minute, I might as well look confident. “I’m tough. No dude is messing with me.” I wrapped my hand around a small bottle of pepper spray I’d hidden in my key pocket.

The footfalls grew louder and louder. I tried for positive thoughts. Maybe it was Damon or Jesse. My heart thumped even more erratically at that possibility. I’d be thrilled to see either one of them. I glanced out of the corner of my eye as the runner pulled level with me. Way too short and definitely female. I released my pepper spray in relief. The woman looked over and smiled.

Oh, no. Hot Redhead. I think I would’ve preferred my concocted rapist.
 

“Hey.” Her face lit up like I was a free download for her iPod. She pulled her left earbud out. “You’re the girl who won the marathon.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, I’m so jealous,” she gushed. Hot Redhead slowed her pace to match mine. “I entered the lottery for St. George and didn’t get in.”

I arched an eyebrow. She must’ve forgotten that I was already privy to her desperation to run with Damon.

She sighed. “I’m going to have to figure out some other way to enter. I wish they would’ve let us transfer the entry at The Health Days Race.”

How did Hot Redhead chat like this while she ran? I gasped for more oxygen and pushed out the word, “Yep.”

“Would you like me to train with you?” she asked.

No, I’d like you to run along, pretty girl, and let me die here by myself. Of course I didn’t have the oxygen to vocalize that. “Nope.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re planning training runs with Damon, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” It was only a partial lie, he
had
promised to call.

Hot Redhead’s face balled up. She was going to cry. “You aren’t running with him yet,” she said.

I stared at her. How did she know that? I shrugged my shoulders. “Soon.”

“Well.” She flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder. “Good luck with your
training
.”

She jogged off and I felt a spasm of conscience. I’d lied to her. I hated liars. And then the poor girl had gotten all upset. She must really want that Damon guy. Not that I blamed her. I watched her backside recede into the coming dawn. I should catch up to her and say she could train with me. I tried to run faster. Nope. That wasn’t happening. Maybe I could call out to her. I opened my mouth and creaked out, “Hey, girl.” It was a pathetic wheeze. I sucked in all my air and yelled, “Hot Redhead.”

She whirled around. Even in the pre-dawn light I could see flashes shooting from her eyes. Hot Redhead flew back towards me. “What did you call me?”

I stopped running. “Um, well, it’s just a silly name I made up. You should take it as a compliment, really. Because you are . . .”

She came within inches of my face. I walked backwards, hit a pothole, and stuttered to remain upright. “What did you call me?”
           
I gulped, I'd pushed the wrong button. “H-hot Redhead.”

Tossing her ponytail over her shoulder, she covered the distance I’d made between us. “
Hot
Redhead?”

I nodded, wondering why I was intimidated by a woman half my size. “You should like it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “We’ll see. But,” she poked me in the chest, “if I decide I don’t like it, you’d better watch your back when you’re out running in the dark.”

Hot Redhead whirled and sped off into the morning.

“See if I give you a compliment again,” I yelled, after she was too far away to hear me.

It turned out the whole preparation idea was over-rated. After a few days of agonizing pain combined with fear of Muscle Man, Hot Redhead, or a psycho murderer confronting me on the pre-dawn lit road, I realized I didn’t need that stress until the actual start of marathon training. I also admitted to myself, after three weeks of carrying my cell phone into the bathroom and to bed with me at night, that Damon wasn’t going to call. I hadn’t heard or seen from Jesse in almost as long. I could wait and humiliate myself in June.