3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (6 page)

The constant head turning and the many times
I stop to hide, decimate my time. With a mile left, I have four
minutes. And since I'm not Usain Bolt, I'm screwed.

The hunt begins.

Where can I sleep for twenty-three hours
without being discovered?

There is only one logical answer.

I shine my cell phone into the dumpster behind
the Italian restaurant. It is two-thirds full and I'm hoping this
means the pick-up is still a couple days off. I climb inside, dig
myself down into the slimy refuse, cover myself in as many bags as
I can, and close my eyes.

Every once in a great while, I will wake up
a couple minutes early. 2:59. 2:58. Once, even 2:57.

It’s like Christmas, each minute a
beautifully wrapped gift just waiting to be opened. Should I allow
myself an extra minute in the shower? Could I read three more pages
of my book? Run another quarter mile? Watch a YouTube video? Watch
the swimming pool scene from Wild Things, twice?

Today, I wake up at 2:58 a.m.

Two extra minutes.

It requires one of these minutes to pull
myself from the now three-quarters full dumpster. And it
necessitates another minute to rid my hair and body of the
potpourri of spaghetti, breadcrumbs, day old lasagna, and maggots.
As unpleasant as maggots are, and they are unpleasant — trust me on
this — I try to look on the bright side; I wasn't killed by those
pesky guys trying to kill me, and I wasn't discovered by an
underpaid busser who called 911, and I wasn't at a landfill. All
things considered, I called myself lucky. And quite honestly, I'd
slept well. Day old lasagna is like Memory Foam.

I take the back way to my condo, which adds
two blocks, but I don't want to risk discovery by the goons
patrolling the street in front of my condo, and when I walk through
the door, it is 3:06.

I check the blinds, but don't see any
suspicious cars on the street. As for the goons, I wasn't sure if
it was a hit squad, the Secret Service, or some angry congressman,
but I knew I hadn't seen the last of them. I latch the security
lock on my door, throw my clothes in a garbage bag, and shower.

When I sit down to the computer, it is 3:17
a.m.

There is no breaking news
about the President being arrested and I concede that he's gotten
away with murder. And that I should let him if
I want to remain alive.

I check my stocks, which have been crippled
over the last couple days – I'd lost about 40k – and I decide to
ride out the storm with a couple of them and sell off the
remainder.

I try to watch Game of Thrones, but I
can't remember what has happened in the previous episodes and I
feel lost. What happened to
the Kingslayer's hand? Although it had been nearly
twenty-four hours since my harrowing chase and physically my body
had recovered from the fight or flight-endorphin release, my brain
had not. I feel sluggish, my synapses delayed and unresponsive.

At 3:42, I give up and lie down on my
bed.

For the first time I can ever remember, I
fall asleep on my own.

…

The next few days pass in relative monotony.
I have made a couple small tweaks, as I have decided never to
venture outside again, and I run on my new treadmill that I'd had
overnighted and delivered (the days of leaving my door unlocked are
in the past and I had Isabel meet the delivery people and let them
in.) Anyhow, the treadmill is the latest and greatest and there is
a screen that shows where you are running. You can run the
Appalachian Trail, the streets of Boston, the beaches of San Diego,
or even the nearby Potomac.

I mean, who needs to go outside, am I
right?

It's my fifth day on the treadmill, and I
opt for a little run down the streets of D.C. The White House looms
in the background and I flip it off.

I've run 2.43 miles when I hear a noise.

I jerk my head towards the door, my eyes
scanning to see if the regular security lock, and the Ideal
Security Heavy Duty lock I'd had installed are both latched. They
are.

I continue running.

At 2.51 miles, I hear it again.

I jump off the treadmill and tiptoe to the
door and gaze through the peep-hole. Nothing.

Was I hearing things?

Two steps back towards the treadmill and I
hear it again. I again press my eye to
the peep-hole. Again, nothing.

I unlatch both locks and gently ease the
door open.

Meow.

“
LASSSSSSSSSSSSSIE!”

He jumps into my arms.

I hold him up high, my cheeks cramping I'm
smiling so hard. “BUDDDY! . . . WHERE DID YOU G—DUDE!
WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?”

Lassie is a bloody mess.  He has a huge
cut on his belly, a bite out of his ear, and one of his eyes is
swollen shut. I swear he is smirking as if to say, “You should see
the other five guys.” 

I set him on the table and go to work on him
with a warm cloth. He winces as I touch him, but altogether he's a
pretty good sport.

I'd been so happy to see him and so
overwhelmed by his many cuts that I'd failed to notice he smelled
something awful.

“
Dude, did you pick a
fight with a skunk?”

Meow.

“
What are these?” I pull
out two spines from his butt. Porcupine spikes.

“
Dude, did you pick a
fight with a skunk and a porcupine.”

Meow.

I am laughing uncontrollably and hug him
tight.

He winces.

“
Sorry, buddy.”

I feed him a can of tuna, then I give him a
bath in the sink. I gently rinse all the dried blood off him. He is
having trouble keeping his eyes open. “I've been there buddy. Trust
me.”

I carry him to bed and rub his little body
until he falls asleep.

…

“
Lassie . . .
Lassie!”

His eyes flutter, but he doesn't move.

It's 3:03 a.m.

I gingerly roll him over. The cut on his
belly is red and swollen. I touch it with my finger and he
yelps.

Shit.

“
Dude? Are you
okay?”

He's not.

My heart starts racing.

“
I'm sorry buddy. We'll
get you fixed.”

Meow.

My eyes are filling with tears and I wipe
them away. He's just a stupid cat, I tell myself. I grab my phone
and am about to search for an emergency vet, when I stop. I've
actually seen the emergency vet before. It's adjacent to the park
about a mile and a half away.

I don't have a driver's license, but I do
have a little Vespa that I use every so often.

I grab Lassie and a
backpack, then bolt out the front door.

It’s the first time I have
left the sanctity of my apartment since
the chase.
I scan the street. It’s
all clear.

I open the backpack and put Lassie
inside. 

“
Ten minutes buddy,” I
tell him.

I make it in seven.

Lassie clings to my shoulder as I walk
through the sliding glass doors of the Alexandria VCA Emergency
Animal Hospital. 

There is no one else there and after filling
out some paperwork, we see the doctor.

It is 3:20. 

“
So, what seems to be the
problem?” the vet asks in an Australian accent. He has reddish
blond hair, glasses, and tells me to call him James, or as he says
it, Jahms.

“
He was gone for about a
week, came back all beat up last night. I think he picked a fight
with a skunk and a porcupine.”

“
Is that right?” He
laughs. “Well let's have a look-see shall we?”

Lassie looks at me over his shoulder as the
doctor begins his examination and I reassure him, “It's okay
buddy.”

The doctor flips him over and looks at the
cut on his belly. “Somebody really got you there didn't they?” He
gazes up at me and says, “Looks like he got pretty lucky actually,
the skin on the belly is pretty soft, a little deeper and he could
have done some real damage.”

He presses on Lassie's belly and I expect
him to wince, but he doesn't. But when the doctor touches a little
higher on his ribs, he lets out a painful wail.

My stomach tightens. I wait for the doctor
to tell me that he is bleeding internally and will surely die. But,
after another minute of prodding, the doctor diagnoses some bruised
ribs—nothing major. He prescribes some pain meds and gives me a
couple ointments to put on his cuts.

I blow a sigh of relief.

“
Hear that buddy. Just
some bruised ribs.”

Meow.

“
He should be back in
action in a couple days.”

“
Thanks, Doc.” I remember
something from a week earlier when I'd been petting Lassie and ask,
“Actually, while we're here . . . did you happen to feel that lump
on his shoulder?”

He shakes his head and I guide his hand to a
little lump behind Lassie's right shoulder.

I wait for the doctor to tell me it is
obviously cancer.

“
Microchip.”

“
What?”

“
That's his microchip.
Sometimes they put it in behind the shoulder.”

He saw my confusion and asked, “You didn't
have the microchip put in?”

“
No. I found him on the
street about a month ago. No tags.”

“
Well, whoever owned the
cat, had a microchip put in. Costs like fifty bucks, some places do
it for free.”

My mind is racing.

“
Could you find out who he
belongs to?” I ask. “I mean, I should at least try and track them
down, right?”

“
Sure thing.”

He opens a drawer, unwinds a little scanner,
and plugs it into his computer. A moment later, he runs the scanner
over Lassie's shoulder, like he is produce at the grocery store. He
writes the name, phone number, and address on the back of one of
his business cards and hands it to me.

I read the name and try to keep a straight
face.

…

It is 3:46 when we get back.

I put two of the tiny little pain pills
inside a blueberry and feed it to Lassie. Then I spread ointment on
all his cuts and then carry him and my laptop to bed.

I pull out the card the vet gave me.

Jessica Renoix.

A Richmond address.

I Google, “Jessica Renoix and
Connor Sullivan.”

There are several hits. I click on
images.

Bingo.

There is a picture of
Jessica Renoix and the then governor of Virginia, Connor
Sullivan. 

Jessica Renoix is
Callie Freig.

It'd been a double homicide. Twelve nights
ago, Callie Freig had been murdered. But so had
Jessica Renoix.

It is 3:07 a.m.

Lassie and I are back in my bed. I'd given
him another round of pain medicine and he is on his back snoring.
The cut on his belly has improved dramatically and he'd told me in
face licks that he was feeling a little better.

I've been staring at the picture of Connor
Sullivan and Jessica Renoix for the past couple minutes.
Under the picture of the two, a caption reads, “Campaign volunteer
Jessica Renoix gets an arm-full of incumbent candidate,
Governor Connor Sullivan.”

The photo must have been taken six years
earlier during his final reelection campaign as Governor of
Virginia.

In the photo, there are fifteen people clad
in white T-shirts with the slogan, “The Man With the
Plan.” Sullivan had been quoted ad nauseum on
television saying, “I've got a plan . . .” During his bid for
governor it had always been, “I have a plan for this great state,”
which quickly became, “I have a plan for this great nation,” during
his bid for president. To his credit, he'd had a plan, and he was
delivering on all fronts. The economy was the strongest it'd been
in eight years, employment the lowest in a decade, and every troop
had been pulled from the Middle East.

Jessica Renoix and the President
are front and center. Jessica is petite and of medium
height. Though she must have been barely out of high school, her
confident eyes and wry smile speak to a girl who is not naive about
the realities of the world. The President is wearing a crisp blue
shirt under a black blazer. He towers over her, his right arm
draped over her shoulder. There is nothing overtly sexual about the
pose and if anything, the contact appears fatherly. I surmise that
any of the other fifteen volunteers could just have easily been in
Jessica's place.

I spend the rest of my forty-five minutes in
bed, scouring the internet for more information on
Jessica Renoix.

I find very little.

…

It's ten minutes into my day, when I
scroll down to Ray's telephone number and nearly hit the Call
button, then decide against it. I want to know more about
Jessica Renoix before I talk to the detective.

I log onto the Internet and find a company
that does background checks. I fill in all the information I have
on Jessica Renoix; a six-year-old address and a long
out-of-service telephone number, then pay the nearly two hundred
dollars for the rush job.

“
Well, now I guess we just
wait,” I say to Lassie, who is lick-eating his breakfast. In
forty-eight hours, he has made a near full recovery.

Meow.

“
You would think you would
care more. This is your mother we're talking about.”

Meow.

“
Yes, living with me is
awesome, but still.”

Meow.

“
Candy? What kind of
candy?”