Authors: Shawn Grady
Not since being chased by a pit bull as a kid do I remember running with the adrenaline-charged speed I managed then.
I flew through the university grounds – weaving between channels of foot traffic, hurtling hedges, and darting around corners. At Virginia Street near Eleventh I slowed to an inconspicuous walk, doing my best to blend in with other pedestrians.
My flight response waned, like lava into the sea. I rubbed sweat from my brow. A streak of blood stained my hand. Sirens echoed in the distance.
Reno wasn’t an overly violent town. Shootings brought a gaggle of cops in short order. Eli’s car sat on the south side of the campus, so I planned to head to Ninth, go east for a block, and then enter the parking lot there.
A horse-mounted RPD officer galloped up Virginia. I ran a hand through my hair and avoided eye contact. Radio traffic blared as she passed. Nothing I could make out. Farther south, between the high-rises downtown, emerged the red-and-blue flashes of patrol cars hooking turns up Virginia.
It occurred to me that they might shut down access and egress to the school. I quickened my pace – as fast as I could walk without drawing attention to myself. I pocketed my hands and kept my head down. Two RPD cars flew past.
The attention and bustle focused on the center of the university. A motorcycle cop raced by, followed by an Aprisa ambulance.
Ninth Street, in contrast, was deserted. I fought the urge to break into a jog. Going from a harried sprint to that methodical stride was painstaking and trying. It was no small relief to be leaving the sidewalks for the safety of Eli’s Scout.
Base.
I slid the key into the lock.
A small engine slowed to an idle behind me, followed by an authoritative voice. “Hold it right there.”
I stared at the door handle.
So close.
I began lifting my hands and making a slow turn.
An obese parking attendant sat in a covered golf cart, forearm resting on the wheel.
I crossed my arms and cleared my throat. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head with disdain. “You kids think you can park anywhere, don’t you?” He barely looked old enough to grow a beard.
“I was actually just leaving.”
He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. “It don’t matter if you’re leaving or coming, bro. You still can’t park here unless you have the sticker. And you don’t have that, now, do you?”
I played along. “You’re right. You nailed me. I thought I could park here for a few minutes and I – ”
“Thought wrong. Didn’t you?” So satisfied was he with his position of power.
I bowed my head in penitence. “I have no excuse. How much is the fine?”
He squinted, looked to the side, and then labored out of the golf cart. It tilted back to level. He scuffled up to me. “I’ll tell you what. Don’t let the boss find out, but I’m going to let you off. All right? Old Chuck will take care of you.”
I let out a breath. “Thanks, Chuck.”
He sniffed and ran a round hand beneath his nose. “Don’t mention it, bud.” He got back in the cart and waved. “You take care, now. Stay out of trouble.”
If only.
I slid behind the wheel of the Scout. Now that I was on the lam, there were a few things I needed to pick up from home.
Tech savvy my father wasn’t. Predictable, though? Without a doubt.
At this time in the afternoon he made a habit of visiting Tini’s – a martini bar at the edge of downtown. I couldn’t risk showing up at my house, and my dad didn’t own a cell, so after I received no response on the home phone, I banked on the odds of his being there.
Part of me reasoned that I should go straight to pick up Eli from the morgue, but things had changed, and I was pretty sure I was going to be on the run for a while. I called Eli on his cell with no response and opted not to leave a message. In front of a curbside meter by Tini’s, I scanned the surrounding street and businesses and dropped in a few quarters.
The dark bar made a stark contrast to the afternoon sunshine. Long and narrow, it reeked of cigarette smoke and salty nuts. Sure enough, my father sat at the far end, leaning on his forearms, watching the Giants game on an old television, a tall glass of amber beer in front of him.
I slid onto the stool beside him and glanced at the game. “Looks like Lincecum’s on it today.”
My dad nodded. “He’s pitching a good one, all right.” He turned. “Jonner.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Strange to see you here.”
“Yeah. I’ve run into some unusual circumstances.”
“Buy you a drink?”
“No. Thanks.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked him for help. Maybe I didn’t want to.
But I didn’t know when I would see him again. And as inconvenient as it was right then, I knew I needed to try to make my peace.
For the first time since I was a child, I looked at my father without loathing or contempt. It was strange and sudden. “Dad, I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”
He kept his eyes on the tube.
“I don’t want to be bitter, or angry, or anything like that anymore. And I don’t want to heap guilt on you.”
He looked at his beer.
“We all make different choices, Dad. I don’t want it to be that we can’t have any real interaction. Actual conversation. I want to be able to relate with you.”
The bartender strolled over.
I put a hand up. “Nothing right now. Thank you.”
He meandered back down the bar.
My father removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He blinked away moisture. “Thank you for that, Jonner. I hope I can think that way about myself . . . someday.” He grimaced.
I exhaled. “There’s something else too. Another reason I’m here.”
A crowd roared on TV. A high fly ball sailed over the centerfield fence. Pablo Sandoval trotted around first.
“What is it?” he said.
“How are you to drive?”
“Barely touched my first.”
“I need to get some things from the house. But it doesn’t work for me to do it myself.”
He eyed me. “You in trouble?”
“Yeah. Pretty big-time.”
He looked down at the bar, then back at me. “What do you need?”
“Some clothes. My laptop. Cell phone charger.”
He lifted a trembling cigarette to his lips and lit it. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. “Okay.”
“I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by saying more.”
He stood and patted me on the arm. “There’s no need to.”
The bar made an adequate interim hideout. I nursed a Sprite and watched the game. Eli called at the top of the ninth.
“Hey, Doc.”
“How’d it go with Kurtz?”
“You mean before or after he fired his gun?”
“What happened?”
I gave him the details, covering my mouth as I spoke.
After a long quiet spell, he said, “This is getting worse by the minute.”
“Yeah.”
“Now you’ve got the bad guys
and
the good guys looking for you.”
“Hard to tell who is who.” I watched the bartender fill a glass at the tap.
“We need to change plans.”
“Why?”
“RPD knows I’m here.”
“How?”
“There was a murder-suicide domestic case on the north end of town last night. Two detectives met me at the morgue after you dropped me off.”
“You think it’s related?”
“Doesn’t look that way.”
I spread my forefinger and thumb across my brow. “Are you still coming up to – ”
“Don’t say it.”
“You think we’re being listened to?”
“Just in case. Hard to know anymore. But yes, I will. Later. I’ll ride up with the other.”
Naomi.
She wouldn’t get off until eight that evening. “All right. You want me to wait?”
He exhaled. “I don’t know. It’s probably best to stagger arrivals.”
“Sure.” Things were too hot for me in town anyway. “I should probably get going.”
“Okay. That sounds best.”
“See you later, then.”
“God willing, son. Be safe.”
“You too.”
I pocketed my phone. The game ended and a teaser for the five o’clock news flashed on the screen. “Shots fired at UNR. A prominent staff member rushed to the hospital. Suspect at large.” My Aprisa employee photo flashed on the screen. It was followed by a cutaway of armed officers staking out the grounds and clips of an ambulance leaving the scene. “Full story tonight at five.”
The bar door opened. My father walked in, silhouetted by the outside light. I strode over and hugged him. He pulled away, a bit surprised.
I squeezed his shoulders. “You’re just in time.”
The drive to Tahoe felt long and eerie, the night before like a distant dream.
But Naomi and Eli were only a matter of hours behind me.
Soon I’d be in the company of friends.
The lake stretched out beyond Tahoe City, sparkling and choppy with the late afternoon winds. The fuel gauge lingered at a quarter tank. I had fifty dollars cash. The only other money I had was squirreled away in traceable bank accounts. I hoped Eli kept another rainy day ammo box buried around the cabin somewhere.
My phone vibrated. A profile of Bones driving in the ambulance flashed on the screen.
“Hey.”
“Jonathan. What is going on? Where are you at?”
“Not so free to say right now, bud.”
“Did you have something to do with what went down at UNR today?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Jon-boy, come on.”
“Are you working today?”
“I did a shift trade for somebody.”
“Are you in the ambulance?”
“I’m at County.” His voice lowered. “There are cops everywhere. I’ve already been taken aside for questioning. They want to know if I’ve ever seen you take narcs from the drug cabinet. Or if you ever came to work under the influence. Then they started asking other questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like if I’ve ever seen you lie to a patient. Or if you’ve falsified facts on a chart. If you’ve seemed unhappy in your job.”
“What’d you do?”
“I told them you were a tweeker with a propensity for fabrication.” “Great. Thanks, Bones.”
“No problem.”
Someone spoke in the background, and Bones said, “On my way. Hey, bro?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re level zero again.”
No ambulances available. “Imagine that.”
“Wherever you are, be safe. And if you need anything – –
any
thing – just call. All right?”
“Thanks, Bones.”
I spotted the turnoff and wound onto the sheltered dirt road that descended to the cabin. A short way in, a sky-blue Prius sat parked in a shallow turnout. Perhaps the least threatening car imaginable, yet my heart beat harder and my breathing quickened.
Could be some hikers or cyclists. I reached under the seat and found Eli’s holstered revolver. I unbuttoned the strap and wrapped my hand around the wood-laminate handle. The words SMITH AND WESSON were stamped into the short barrel. I ran a finger along the cylinder. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d touched a gun. I dislodged the cylinder to the left. All six chambers were still loaded. I clicked it back in place and set the weapon between the gearshifts.
Nothing more now but to go on.
I dropped the transmission in four low. The pistol rattled with the rocky descent. Shadows twitched at the roadsides. I picked up the gun and held it at the wheel.
Tire tracks in the dirt caught my eye. A set with the same tread.
From our trip this morning, I reasoned. Until I saw another pair with a differing pattern.
I skidded to a stop.
The new tracks split off from the others for a brief section. It looked as if someone had been trying to follow the previous tire tread and veered off.
I ran my thumbs along the steering wheel. I didn’t want to push on if there was a better option. Go back to Reno and meet up with Eli? Drive back up the road and intercept Eli and Naomi before they got to the turnoff?
I dropped the Scout back in gear and pressed on, my palm sweating around the revolver handle.
Several turns later I came upon two hikers in the middle of the road. One was a grimacing heavyset man, about thirty, sitting with his leg in a two-foot-deep hole. The second was a woman of similar age with a water backpack and hat and a worried expression.
I set the emergency brake and left the engine running.
I opened the door and stood sideways behind it, the way I’d seen cops do, keeping the firearm hidden by my leg. “Who are you?”