Running for Her Life. Beverly Long

Jake walked outside and it took only a couple minutes for the two men to nail the covering in place.

      Frank shook his hand when they were finished. “Welcome, Jake. By the way, my daughter Lori Mae is your daytime dispatcher and department secretary. If you want to know anything, she can tell you. And if I can be of assistance, let me know. In fact, if you’ve got the time tomorrow, we could meet for a cup of coffee here at Nel’s, say ten?”

      “I’ll see you then,” Jake said. When he stepped inside the restaurant, Tara was standing near the door.

      “You’ve been busy,” she said, motioning to the floor and the window.

      “Frank helped. Seems like a nice guy.”

      She nodded. “When I opened the restaurant fourteen months ago, he was my first customer, and he’s eaten lunch here every day since then.”

      “Did you grow up in Wyattville?”

      She shook her head. “I moved here from Florida.”

      He’d spent five of the worst weeks of his life in Miami, working undercover, sniffing out drug dealers. “Where at in Florida?”

      It might have been his imagination but he thought she pulled back a little. “We moved around a lot,” she said. “You know, I’m really tired. I should finish up here so that I can get home at a reasonable hour.”

      She didn’t need to hit him over the head with a baseball bat. And it wasn’t as if he really wanted her life story. No matter how cute she was, he was a short-timer, and in six weeks he’d have paid his debt back to his friend. Then he was driving back to Minneapolis and forgetting about this wide spot in the road.

      “I still need to get in contact with Toby Wilson about Veronica. My truck,” he added quickly.

      She didn’t bat an eye that he’d named his truck. Just grabbed the pen that was next to the cash register, tore a napkin out of the two-sided dispenser on the counter and scribbled a number down. “There’s a phone in the kitchen.”

      For a second time, he yanked the directions to Chase Montgomery’s house out of his pocket. “By my calculations, Chase’s house should be just a couple blocks from here. I’ll call from there.”

      “I heard he was out of town, visiting his parents. Something about his mother being ill.”

      “That’s right. He’ll be back in a couple weeks. I’m going to stay at his house while I’m covering for Chief Wilks.” He walked toward the door. “By the way,” he added, “watch out for the deer when you’re driving home.”

      Once again her eyes flicked toward the street. He got the strangest feeling that whatever or whoever it was that Tara Thompson was watching out for, it didn’t have four legs.

      Chapter Three

      It was still dark when Tara woke up. The light was blinking on her alarm clock, telling her that sometime during the night the electricity had come back on. She reached for the switch on the lamp and glanced at her watch. Ten minutes before five. In one smooth movement, she stretched and rolled out of bed. She pulled on a running bra, shorts and a shirt, and sat on the edge of the mattress while she laced up her shoes. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she bounced down the steps, grabbed a bottle of water on her way past the refrigerator and was out the door. The sun had not yet crested the horizon but night had faded, leaving the quiet countryside bathed in a soft blue-gray.

      She jogged for the first quarter of a mile, then picked up the pace. With each step, she felt stronger, sturdier, more confident. She hadn’t been a runner when she’d lived in D.C. She’d rarely exercised, choosing to spend what little free time she had with Michael. But shortly after settling in Wyattville, she’d started jogging and lifting weights. She hadn’t been worried about her jeans zipping. She’d simply been focused on getting strong.

      If Michael ever got lucky enough to find her, she needed to be both physically and mentally ready. The head stuff was harder. But she was making progress. It had been months since she’d had one of the nightmares that had plagued her when she’d first come to Wyattville. She knew she’d turned the corner when she’d dreamed that he’d found her and she—dressed like Catwoman, but hey, it was a dream—had kicked his butt.

      She tried to get in three miles several times a week, generally before work. If she kept her pace steady, she could get to Wyattville, turn around and be home in time to jump in the shower and still make it to work with ten minutes to spare.

      Normally when she ran, her mind emptied out. There was no room to worry about leaky water pipes or a temperamental fryer that had a touchy on-off switch. She was consumed with the cadence of her steps, the harshness of her breath, the pure thrill of pushing herself to the limit. Absolute freedom from thought. It was all good.

      But not today. She was tired and edgy and felt stupid because she’d lost sleep over a broken window. It wasn’t as if she’d been robbed at gunpoint. She was getting soft. There’d been a time when crime was part of her everyday life. She’d talked about it, wondered about it and even joked about it. Most every reporter at the paper had.

      Not that many would have admitted to the last. After all, everyone knew it wasn’t a joke. But in a city where even murder seemed routine, laughter was the coping mechanism of choice.

      That was life B.W. Before Wyattville. Now she talked about the weather, wondered about the price of lettuce and laughed at dumb jokes that her customers told her. It still hardly seemed possible. Nel’s Main Street Café had gone on the market the week before Tara had come through Wyattville on her way to nowhere. She took one look at the cozy little diner and paid cash for it two days later. It had eaten up every bit of her savings. But somehow she’d known it was the right thing to do.

      And every day for the past fourteen months, she’d been thankful. She’d had a reason to get up, to get dressed, to work hard. A reason to forget.

      Although some memories were harder to shake than others. She extended her arms straight from her shoulders, automatically noting the slight difference in the length. Her arms were covered, like always. No matter how sweaty she got running or how steamy the kitchen became, she didn’t dare let people see the damage. There’d be too many questions, too much speculation. She didn’t need the constant reminder, either. Didn’t need to look at the two scars on her right arm that ran seven inches long and a sixteenth of an inch wide, crossing over each other at the bend in her elbow, to remember the pain, the absolute terror. The orthopedic surgeons had told her the pink, slightly puckered skin would continue to fade until it turned completely white some day.

      She supposed that was true. Her arm looked better than it had fourteen months ago, although it was still hideous. And as crazy as it sounded, she was almost grateful for it. The injury had made her realize that ultimately Michael would kill her. It was the push she’d needed to leave her fiancé behind, to leave her life behind.

      Otherwise, she’d have been one of the crime stories they reported in the early edition. Maybe one of the ones they laughed about, or shook their heads about.

      She’d made a life here in Wyattville. It was a different life than the one she’d left behind, but still, a good life. And most important, she’d felt safe here.

      And she still did. She wasn’t going to let a busted window change that.

      The summer air was already thick with humidity, and sweat trickled down her front and back. There was barely a breeze on her bare legs. She sipped on her water bottle and pushed herself harder.

      She was less than a mile from town when she saw a car crest the hill. Without breaking stride, she edged farther to the side of the road, onto the hard-packed gravel that bordered the blacktop. She’d just lifted her hand in a neighborly wave when the car swerved, gunning straight for her.

      * * *

      JAKE DESPERATELY NEEDED COFFEE. On his best days, he didn’t generally participate in any real