Authors: Gregg Olsen
Run (25 page)
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Am I supposed to think that your playtime photo sessions were the result of some deep-seated anger you hold at the world because your spinal cord was cut? Get real, Marie.”
“You’re not getting out of here alive,” she says. The blade has been dulled by its use as a stair climber, but it could still inflict fatal damage if I give her the chance. Which I won’t.
I take the desk chair and I spin it hard and fast in her direction. I’m losing some of the photos, but I can pick those up. Marie lifts her torso from the floor with those powerful arms—arms that were mighty when she was a swimmer, when she could hold her breath for a long time. She balances herself with her stump and tries to lunge for me.
I throw my body on the chair and it smashes into her, sending her screaming backwards down the stairwell. When she lands, I see the tip of the knife. During her loud tumble, the blade finds its way behind her, entering her neck and protruding through her mouth as she falls back on it.
I can barely breathe. I stand there for a beat, watching as red oozes over Marie Rader’s knife-tongue. Her light pink shirt is now a bloody red tie-dye.
I hear sirens and I know I have to get out of here right now. I gather up the photos and skirt past Marie’s slumped body, her withered legs, her tree-trunk arms and that pie-cutting knife protruding from her gaping mouth.
By the door, I see my mom-style purse. I grab it, stuff the photos inside, run out of the door and through the hedge to the street. I know my fingerprints are all over the house, but I’ve never been arrested and there’s no trace of me in anyone’s system.
At least, not yet.
Cash: $5.
Food: None.
Shelter: None again.
Weapons: Scissors, ice pick, Xanax, screwdriver.
Plan: No idea.
I CATCH MY BREATH. OR I try to. I take half a Xanax only because I have a bottle of them in my purse and I’ve been through a lot. A doctor would probably tell me it’s OK and I almost laugh out loud at the thought. I don’t need anyone’s permission. Not after all I’ve been through. I’ve killed two people and while I’m a basket case, it isn’t because of that. It’s because sickness turns in my stomach when I think about the evil that had visited those families. How they suffered for years and years and had no one to help.
I walk from the Raders’ street to the main road and plan to wave down the first car that I see. I try to make myself look normal by straightening up a little. I brush my hair, put on some lip-gloss, but there’s no disguising that I look a little unhinged. I’m grateful that I’m wearing black jeans because I’m pretty certain that the wetness I feel on my legs is Marie’s blood.
A car finally pulls up.
“Can you help me?” I ask when a woman rolls down her window.
“You want me to call someone for you?”
“Thank you. My phone’s dead, my car just broke down back there and my sister Courtney is in the hospital. I was trying to get there. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says. “I’m going that way. I could drop you.”
“No. No. That’s too much to ask,” I say, knowing that she’s doing the same thing Leanne, Shannon, and Megan did. She’s offering to help.
“No problem. Get in. My name’s Shelly.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m Ginger.”
The woman smiles. She looks to be about forty with a short bob and the kind of light touch with make-up that says she’s a no-nonsense do-gooder. Just what I’m looking for right now.
“I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” she says. “Hop in.”
I almost want to answer back that up until a few days ago, I had never heard that name before, except as an ingredient for holiday cookies.
“Family name,” I offer, shrugging.
We chitchat for a few minutes. Her purse is next to me, a sight that makes me nearly smile. Five dollars isn’t nearly enough for a night at the decidedly not-so-posh Best Western. While she drives I take her cellphone and some cash from her purse on the floor between us, then I crack the window because her car is clean and I know I can’t smell that great. Shelly’s words come at me, but only every other one truly registers. An ambulance races toward us and she pulls over.
Another follows.
I know where they are going, but I also know they will be too late.
She drops me at the hospital by the entrance to the ER. In the bright light there, I notice blood on my left arm and I wipe it on my pants. As the taillights of Shelly the Samaritan disappear I follow the road down the hill to the Denny’s.
WITH HAIR THAT LOOKS LIKE mine, she sits at the counter. My mom. The one who isn’t to blame for any of what happened to her.
But is to blame for all that she did to make it right.
As I approach, she looks down at a coffee cup and moves the spoon through the hot black liquid. I know she’s only doing that because she’s nervous. She doesn’t use cream or sugar. I know everything about her.
Except everything I needed to know.
“I cleaned things up,” I say, in a voice that is soft when it could so easily be sharp.
She spins around and her face is awash with joy. It is Christmas, New Year’s, the Fourth of July, all rolled into one. I see how beautiful she is. I see how tortured she’s been. She wraps her arms around me and I start to tremble in her arms. The waitress, counting her tips at the end of the counter, moves away. Mom hugs me hard. I could strangle her, but I don’t. The reunion we’re sharing means something to me after all. A truce. I don’t cry. At least not in the way that most people do. I let the tears fall inside. She holds me like the warmth of a tropical ocean. I let her believe that I’m all right.
That she is forgiven.
“I got these for you,” she says, indicating a paper bag with a shirt, pants and a jacket inside. I notice that she’s wearing new clothes too. Or if not new, clean. A top and jeans that I’ve never seen before.
“Goodwill box around the corner. I was able to get inside,” she says in a low, conspiratorial tone.
I hand her the purse.
“I got this for you. From the lost and found on the ferry to Seattle. We have a hundred and nine dollars. That’ll get us a room for tonight.”
I don’t tell her how I got the money. She already knows what I am capable of doing when I am called to do it.
I get up and warn her not to look inside the purse.
I leave for the restroom and lock the door. This is the second time that I’ve used this restroom as a refuge. It should be my office. My stinky sanctuary. The mirror holds my image and I throw water on my face. I’m thinking. I’m wondering. I don’t know if I should do it. I don’t know what I could say to him that would make a difference. After all I’ve been through—all I’ve done—I don’t have the guts to call him.
I chicken out and text him a message.
C—this is R. I’m staying at the Kent Best Western Motel with my mom. We’re both OK. I will be gone tomorrow. I’d like to see you one last time. This is not my phone and I’m going to get rid of it now. I don’t need a phone-tracking app to find me when the police come looking for me. I’ll be in the lobby at 5 a.m. If u don’t want to come, I understand.
And then I push SEND.
I smash the phone with my heel and toss it in the back of the toilet tank. Some more cool water on my face then I emerge wearing a clean sweater over a shirt and a pair of pants that are too short, but I roll up the hems.
“Thanks for the capris,” I say.
Mom smiles. She’s overdoing it, but I understand. She’s always had a need to try to skew things toward normal.
“Something to eat?” she asks. “Cherry pie looks to die for.”
I shake my head.
“No, thanks.”
I will never even look at a cherry pie again.
Cash: $12.
Food: Vending machine stuff.
Shelter: My favorite motel.
Weapons: Scissors, ice pick, screwdriver.
Plan: Say goodbye.
BEFORE WE GO TO BED, I go downstairs to the front desk, give back the screwdriver I stole, and purchase a large envelope with enough postage to send the photographs, including Marie and Alex’s wedding pic. I address them to Monique Delmont because I don’t trust the police and I know Leanne’s mom will know what to do with it.
Inside, I enclose a handwritten note.
Dear Mrs. Delmont,
I hate to bring you so many terrible images of your daughter, Leanne. I am including them in this envelope, along with photographs of others and some documents, so that you might clear the names of the men who were smeared by the real killers, sheriff’s detective Alex Rader and his wife Marie. Arnold Cantu did not murder Leanne. Kim Mock did not kill Megan Moriarty. Alex Rader’s brother killed Kim. Michael Rader was the guard who supposedly found Kim’s body in his prison cell. Steve Jones did not kill Shannon Blume. He’s innocent and you need to help get him out of prison.
Alex and Marie Rader were sick, but smart. They picked girls from three different police jurisdictions. They planted evidence and faked police reports. You’ll see some of that here.
Finally, more than anything, I want you to know that if not for your daughter’s selfless act, my mother would not be alive today. Leanne was brave and kind.
Yours,
Tracy
I write another note, but I don’t send it to anyone. Instead, I put that one in my pocket. When I return to the room on the second floor, I bring a can of Orange Crush from the vending machine next to the elevator. Mom immediately smiles when she sees the familiar packaging when I enter the room.
“You used to beg for that when you were little,” she says from the bed.
I give her a knowing smile. “You used to tell me it was no good for me, but you let me have it anyway. Want some?”
The ice bucket is filled and waiting next to the sink in the little foyer outside of the bathroom. As Mom makes small talk from around the corner, I crush four Xanax caplets and dissolve them in one of the two drinks I prepare.
Her drink
. I know that the amount of medicine won’t kill her. God knows I love her and want her safe, but I also know that the circumstances of my life and who I am don’t allow for the comforting arms of a mother.
There are two beds in our room, but she calls me over to sleep next to her. We sit upright for a while as the TV plays on mute. She says how much she likes my new haircut. I tell her that she’ll be amazed by what I did with Hayden’s hair.
“I really love him,” I say.
“I know,” she answers, sipping more of the pop. The ice tinkles in her glass. I watch the level of the orange liquid drop lower and lower.
“I’ll always think of Rolland as my real dad,” I tell her.
This makes her sob a little, but I need her to know that. I need her to hear one more thing.
“I forgive you, Mom,” I whisper.
She closes her eyes and I snuggle next to her. I am four. We are in Iowa. The trees that form a canopy over our backyard fill the sky. Fireflies move like micro bolts of electricity. I’m ten. We are in Minneapolis. Hayden is a toddler and I hold him while we watch TV on a snowy afternoon. I am fifteen and we are in Port Orchard in the kitchen she loved, chopping tomatoes and peppers for salsa. I laugh at something stupid she says and I watch her flip it right back at me.
All of those things and a million more flow right by like a speeding jet. I catch all that I can and then move to the next.
At 4:45 a.m., I slide away from Mom. She doesn’t move, but I can feel her warm breath against my cheek when I kiss her.
The soundless television is sending a pale blue moonlight glow over her face. I will never know exactly what it is to be her, but she can never know what’s inside of me either. I put the note on the nightstand next to her, along with the last $12 I have stolen from people who helped me, however unwittingly.
Dear Mom,
This is my turn to leave you a letter. Go to Ginger’s and take care of Hayden. Enroll him in a real school. Give him a normal life. He deserves it too. So do you. I will always love you, but I need to do for others what can’t be done by anyone but someone like me. Someday I might come back. I might not. I’m counting on you and Hayden to be, well, you and Hayden. Don’t look for me. I know how to hide. My mother was a very good teacher.
All my love,
Your daughter
Cash: None.
Food: None.
Shelter: None.
Weapons: None.
Plan: Tell him the truth.
THE AIR OUTSIDE OF THE Best Western is chilly, but I’ve been cold before. A lot colder. Try Nebraska in February. With every second after 5 a.m., I begin to accept that Caleb Hunter’s not coming. I try hard to believe that he didn’t get the message.
That’s it.
That he would have come if he had. And yet I know if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t. I am used to being alone and slipping away without a goodbye. That’s how I have been raised. I have never been more lonely in my entire life. I used to think that standing in the hallways at South Kitsap that the kids around me were parasites, evil beings that would try to harm me if I got too close. When the isolation came, it turned from a thin force field to an impenetrable barrier.