Run - Blake Crouch [4]
Dee was struggling to fit a sleeping bag into a compression sack as he came down the steps into the garage.
“We don’t have time for that,” he said. “Just cram it in.”
“We’re running out of space.”
He grabbed the sleeping bag from her and shoved it into the back of the Land Rover on top of the small cardboard box filled with canned food.
“Throw the packs in,” he said as he lay the shotgun on the floor against the backseat.
“You find the map?” Dee asked.
“No. Just leave the rest of this shit. Here.” He handed her the plastic gun case and a box of 185 grain semi-jacketed hollow points. “See if you can load the forty-five.”
“I’ve never even shot this gun, Jack.”
“Makes two of us.”
Dee went around to the front passenger door and climbed in while Jack forced the cargo hatch to close. He reached up to the garage door opener, pulled a chain that disengaged the motor. The door lifted easily, cool desert air filling the garage. The spice of wet sage in the breeze reminded him of cheap aftershave—his father. A lone cricket chirped in the yard across the street. No houselights or streetlamps or sprinklers. The surrounding homes almost invisible but for the gentlest starlight.
He caught the scent of cigarette smoke the same instant he heard the sound of footsteps in the grass.
A shadow was moving across his lawn—a darker patch of black coming toward him, and something the shadow carried reflected the interior lights of the Land Rover as a fleeting glimmer of silver.
“Who’s there?” Jack said.
No response.
A cigarette hit the ground, sparks scattering in the grass.
Jack was taking his first step back into the garage toward the open driver side door, realizing everything was happening too fast. He wasn’t going to react in time to stop what was about to—
“Don’t come any closer.” His wife’s voice. He looked over, saw Dee standing at the back of the SUV, pointing the .45 at the man who had stopped six feet away. He wore khaki canvas shorts, thong sandals, and a cream-colored oxford pollocked with bloodspatter. The glimmer was the blade of a butcher knife, and the hands that held it were dark with drying blood.
Dee said, “Kiernan? What are you doing here?”
He smiled. “I was just in the neighborhood. Been driving around, making some stops. I didn’t know you owned a gun. I’ve been looking for one myself.” Kiernan looked at Jack. “You must be Jack. We haven’t met, but I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m the guy who’s been fucking your wife.”
“Listen to me, Kiernan,” Dee said. “You’re sick. You need—”
“No, I’m actually better than I’ve ever been.” He pointed the tip of the butcher knife at the Land Rover. “Where you going?”
Tires screeched, an engine revved, and a few blocks away, headlights passed behind a hedge, light flickering through the crape myrtles like a strobe. A succession of distant pops erupted in the night.
Jack said, “Dee, we need to leave right now.”
“Go back to your car, Kiernan.”
The man didn’t move.
Jack took a step back and eased himself into the driver seat.
“Who is it out there, Daddy?” Cole asked.
Jack fished the keys out of his pocket. Craned his neck, peering into the backseat at his tense children.
“Naomi, Cole, I want you both to lay down in the backseat.”
“Why?”
“Just do what I tell you, Na.”
“Dad, I’m scared.”
“Hold your brother’s hand. You all right, Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Good man.”
He started the engine as Kiernan receded into the darkness of the front yard.
Dee jumped in beside him, slammed her door and locked it.
“You know how to pick ’em, Dee.”
“Do we have everything we need?”
“We have what we have, and now it’s time to leave. Stay down, kids.”
“Where are we going?” Cole asked.
“I don’t know, buddy. No talking, all right? Daddy needs to think.”
The dashboard clock read 9:31 p.m. as Jack shifted into reverse and backed out of the garage and down the driveway, nothing but the reddish glow of taillights to guide him. He turned into the street, put the car in drive. Hesitated, fingers searching for the automatic window control.