Dead Running Read online

  Stop it. I came over here to escape thoughts of my parents. I buried my longing for those who loved me the most, and picked through the underbrush down the short slope to the riverbank. My foot struck something soft. I lurched forward. Grabbing a tree branch, I prevented my second nasty spill of the day.

  Pushing some limbs aside to see what I’d tripped over, the oxygen whooshed from my lungs. There was a man lying face down amongst the rotting leaves and dirt.

  My heart pounded faster than during my sprint earlier this morning. “Y-you okay?”

  I knelt down. It was impossible to check his pulse in this position. I climbed above him and pushed. He rolled with the incline, flopping onto his back and exposing the horror of what he’d suffered during his last moments on earth.

  I stared at a man with no face. In a rush all the memories of my dad being attacked with a knife and then two years later the agony of seeing my parents bloody and dead in photos provided by the FBI came back full force. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run. The only part of my body that functioned was my vocal chords. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Strong arms surrounded me. I looked at tattooed flesh and screamed louder still.

  “Shh, shh. It’s me.”

  I glanced up at his face. Dr. Tattoo. My screams quieted as he continued to hold me. After a few minutes, I gained enough control to block the screams that still needed to see daylight. My rescuer pushed my forehead into his chest with one hand and wrapped the other arm underneath my legs. He easily lifted me from the ground. I closed my eyes, but the man's faceless body was imprinted in my mind.

  “You’re okay," Dr. Tattoo said. "I’ve got you now. You’ll be okay.”

  I leaned into his broad chest, clinging to him to stop the trembling. I didn’t scream anymore. I didn’t tell him how wrong he was. Nothing about today or any other part of my life was okay.

  He glanced down at the carnage. “No need to check for a pulse.”

  My stomach churned. I gulped at the acid building in my throat. Dr. Tattoo carried me up the steep embankment and set me on my feet, but kept his arm around me. I was grateful for the support as my legs wobbled. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1. I tried not to listen to his description of the body.

  He finished and studied me. “Are you all right?”

  Swallowing, I whispered. “No, not all right.” At least I could talk without breaking down. “I saw him and thought of my dad.” I shuddered. “I thought I’d put all of that behind me.” I glanced up at him, realizing he had no clue what I was talking about, but he nodded encouragingly so I kept going, “Four years ago my dad was attacked by a man named Panetti.” Crazy how that night elicited as many nightmares as the images of my parent’s dead bodies.

  Dr. Tattoo’s eyes darkened to a dangerous glint, it was almost like he hated Panetti as much as I did.

  “Do you know Panetti? He was a doctor at Logan Regional before he betrayed my dad.”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”

  “I can’t forget him jabbing a knife into my dad. I think he was the one that ordered my parent’s executions also.” I pulled away and shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know you and I’m going on and on.”

  He gave me a quick smile. “When you’ve been through something like this,” he gestured to the body, “You become friends quick.”

  I bit my lip, trying to hold in the tears. Friends. A friend who was there for me when I fell apart. I liked him. “Thanks.”

  Sirens blared through the comforting sound of the river splashing over rocks. Dr. Tattoo offered me a smile and a hand, directing me towards the bridge. I had no desire to tell my story to the police but at least I had a friend by my side.

  Admitting the Truth

  I sifted through an enormous salad with my fork. The metal tines clicked against bright orange stoneware. I’d already devoured everything palatable in the bowl. The only food left was the lettuce and I was sick of green.

  I sat with my best friend, Tasha, at our favorite restaurant. Café Sabor was a converted train stationvibrant colors against beautiful restored wood, boisterous waiters, and the best Mexican food in Cache Valley.

  Of course Tasha and I didn’t allow ourselves to eat the wonderful specialties oozing with cheese. No, we ordered chicken salads, dressing on the side, and tried to contain the drool from the sights and smells of real food so we could justify Cold Stone for dessert.

  I set my fork down. Tasha had consumed enough calories to take the edge off. It was time to reveal my news.

  “You won’t believe this,” I threw out the disclaimer first to ease the shock, “but . . .” Pause several seconds to get Tasha excited and work up my nerve, “I’m running the St. George Marathon. Woo-hoo for me, huh?” I pumped my hands up and down above my shoulders. “Woo-hoo, woo-hoo.”

  Tasha’s fork halted mid-launch.

  I stopped cheering, lowered my hands, and clutched the cloth napkin in my lap. “I won the entry at the 5K this morning,” Hopefully Nana hadn’t told her about the rest of my morning. I swallowed hard, sweat rising on my brow. “I’m so excited,” I rushed on with my story. “I’ve never won anything like this before. Well, you know, I’ve never won anything like anything before.”

  Tasha’s brow squiggled. Her lips flat-lined. I knew what she was thinkinga marathon entry didn’t really count as “winning” something, or maybe that’s what I was trying to convince myself not to think.

  “Seriously?” Her blue eyes filled with doubt. “You actually won The Health Days Race?” She grinned. “And you didn’t throw up on any hot men?”

  I shrunk lower in my seat. “No, I didn’t win the race. I put my name in a drawing and voila.” I splayed my hands. “I’m a win-ner.”

  “I see.” Tasha returned to separating salad with her fork.

  “St. George is a qualifier for the Boston Marathon,” I explained, “and just doing something big like this has inspired me to start a new business . . .”

  My voice trailed off as my best friend stared at me like I’d grown chest hair. Tasha tilted her head to the side, blonde hair a gauzy curtain over her shapely upper arm. She poked at a chunk of chicken in her salad, set her fork down, took a long drink of water and then said, “What new business?”

  “Training women in small groups so I can give personal attention but charge less per person.” Faced with Tasha’s discerning stare, my excitement fizzled a bit. “I read about it in Prevention magazine.”

  Tasha rolled her eyes. “Your Prevention Bible?”

  “Hey,” I picked up a fragment of tortilla chip and sucked on the salty goodness of grease, “I read the real Bible too.”

  “More than Prevention Magazine?” She took a bite of her salad, the actual green part, and waited for an answer I wasn’t going to give. Swallowing, she shook her head. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “this is going to be fabulous. I’ve just got to find the right spot and get the word out.” I’d gotten the idea this afternoon when I was doing anything I could to distract myself from thinking about a man with no face. The excitement of getting back into personal training almost blocked the bad memories. Almost. “I’ll be able to use my degree again.”

  “Which degree are you speaking of?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I know. The exercise science degree that you worked four years for, just had to complete, but after one failed business attempt, never use to make money? That degree?”

  “Yes, that one.” I forced a smile, trying to stay positive and ignore the uppercuts. “It’s going to be brilliant. I’m trying to decide if I should design a website or flyers first.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Tasha held up her hand. “I understand the desire to break free of the receptionist job.”

  “Loan processor.” Why couldn’t she ever get that right?

  Tasha rolled her eyes. “Whatever you want to call yourself. A job that you hate.”

  “I’m great at my job and I make loa
ds of money.”

  “Your boss is a pig and you aren’t happy.” She arched a perfectly plucked and dyed brow, waiting for me to contradict her, which I couldn’t do. “While I hate to admit it . . . this is a great idea. You’re a fabulous exercise scientist, an extremely fit person, and the best personal trainer I’ve ever used for free,” the lovely eyebrow almost reached her hairline, “if you can really convince yourself to charge people this would be the perfect job for you.”

  “Thanks.” Finally, Tasha was giving me a little credit.

  “But what does any of this have to do with running a marathon?”

  “Running the race this morning just inspired me and I know I can do this new business and run a marathon.”

  Tasha rolled her eyes. “You’ve never run over three miles in your life, especially since your high school debacle.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “When?”

  “I ran 3.1 this morning.” I stuck out my tongue. “So ha.”

  “3.1? That is impressive.” She pushed her plate away and threw her napkin on top of it. “I smell a man in all of this. A sweaty man.”

  A smile crept across my face before I could lasso it.

  “Oh-ho. I’m right.” Tasha’s answering smile wiped the mirth right out of my soul. “That’s why you’re doing this. There’s a man involved. Don’t you love the smell of workout sweat? Fresh and salty. Yum.”

  I swirled the orange straw through my ice water, though I hadn’t committed to the marathon for any man, Damon offering to train with me had helped influence the decision. “Well, there was this one sweaty guy at the race this morning.” I pushed away the vision of Dr. Tattoo. I couldn’t think about him. If I focused on Damon I could discount my attraction to Dr. Tattoo. I really wanted to see him again but thinking of him reminded me of what he saved me from and it was all I could do to not start screaming again.

  Tasha moved her chair closer to mine. “I love it. Spill details.”

  I twisted my lips closed.

  “Now,” she commanded.

  I opened up to defend Damon. “It really was a good kind of sweat.”

  Tasha grinned, grabbing my hand. “What did he look like? Tell me now before I wrinkle from the wait.”

  I obeyed, more out of excitement over Damon, than a desire to comply. “He was perfect. Tall, fit, strawberry-blond hair.”

  She laughed, loud. “Did you really just describe a man with strawberry-blond hair? What kind of a man has strawberry-blond hair?” She shook her head. “You always loved the redheads.”

  “It wasn’t red. It was dark-blond with reddish highlights.”

  Tasha leaned away as if I had the flu. “Great, now you’ve found some kind of wuss who highlights his hair.”

  “Natural highlights, you punk. He’s leap-years from wussy.” I smiled. “He said he’d call me so we could train together.”

  Tasha grinned. “It all makes sense now. All that crap about qualifying for Boston.” She glanced around the restaurant, scoping out the men seated at the table next to us. They both gaped at her blonde beautifulness. Big surprise there.

  “I should’ve known better,” Tasha said. “You’re running this marathon for a man.”

  I tossed my head, Tasha claiming I couldn’t run just made me want to prove I could. “Am not. I’m running this marathon to change my life. I’ve finally found my calling, my destiny.” I’d lost her to her cell phone. I threw my hands in the air. “Can you at least look at me?”

  My phone beeped. I glanced down and rolled my eyes. Tasha thought it was funny to annoy me by texting when we were sitting right next to each other. “Nasty men staring at you.” Her head nudged toward the south.

  I snuck a quick peek over my shoulder. I shouldn’t have. The disgusting men looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen them.

  I wrapped my arms around my abdomen. My fear from this morning was pushing my imagination into hyper-drive. They probably weren’t even interested in me. “Gross,” I whispered to Tasha. “Why do you point out men like that?”

  “You always say I’m shallow and only care about looks.” She dashed me a chemically-whitened grin. “I’m proving you wrong.”

  “You’re a weirdo. What was I saying?”

  Tasha opened and closed her hand several times, imitating a flapping mouth. “You’ve found your destiny.” Her gaze strayed to the good-looking men again.

  I stabbed my fork into a tomato, thrust it into my mouth, and enjoyed the zing of juices. “If you can’t focus on me, at least you listen well,” I muttered around my bite.

  Tasha laughed and stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes. “This better?”

  “Yes.” I bent across the table, dousing my loose-fitting shirt with a salsa spill. “Dangit, Tash. This isn’t a joke. This marathon is going to be a good thing for me. I’m finally excited to do something with my life and you laugh, degrade me, act like it’s all for a man.” I leaned back in my seat to sulk, grabbed my cloth napkin, and rubbed at the spot on my chest.

  “Okay, you’ve found your destiny and it’s not for a man.” She broke a chip in half and popped it in her mouth. “Give me another good reason why you’d run a marathon?”

  I pushed my salad around with my fork. “I want to do something my parents could be proud of.”

  “Oh.” Tasha took a deep breath and fiddled with her own fork.

  I shifted in the hard wooden seat and looked around for the waitress, speeding my eyes past the spot where those gross men hovered. One of the men Tasha had been ogling at the next table snagged my eye and tried to hold it. I tossed him an embarrassed smile before turning back to my friend.

  “I’ve been working that angle for fifteen minutes,” Tasha said, shifting her eyes towards the men. “You and the dark one would make a perfect couple. You know, the kind of couples who look like brother and sister. Why’d you turn away?”

  My eyes flitted to the olive-skinned man. He was several notches above cute, but unlike Tasha, I didn’t need to drool over every man who glanced my direction. Damon and Dr. Tattoo were enough to think about right now. “I’m not picking up a guy at Sabor.”

  “Why not?” She turned and gave the man and his friend each an invitation with a glance.

  The waitress came with our bill, saving me from an answer. I threw some cash on the ticket and grabbed my purse.

  Tasha laid a hand on my arm, restraining me. “Cassie, are you okay, you know, after . . .”

  I stared at her. My rayon shirt felt like it was squeezing me. I pulled at my collar. “After what?” This morning’s grisly discovery was imprinted inside my eyelids. But how did she know? How did she always know?

  “Nana called me.” She carefully folded her napkin. “She wanted me to make sure you were okay,” She cleared her throat, still studying her napkin, “About the body.”

  I swallowed hard to keep my salad where it should be. Sweat rose on my back and neck. Would the image of that deformed corpse ever dim?

  “You should get some counseling,” Tasha said. “There’s this guy I used to date who specializes in trauma. He’s a fabulous psychiatrist.” She grinned. “But unfortunately for him, a lousy kisser.”

  “If you’ve already tried him out, I’d better not sign up for his services,” I managed to say in a semi-light tone. Clutching my purse, I stood and rushed for the door. I burst into the summer night air and ran into a solid wall of flesh.

  Large hands steadied me. “You okay, young lady?”

  I looked up at the Nasty Muscle Man who had been studying me at the restaurant and suddenly it clicked. He was the scary guy who I’d tripped on at the race this morning. My heart thumped faster. I jerked from his grip. “Yes, um, excuse me.”

  Tasha exited the restaurant, gave the hulking man an imperious glare, and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Cassie.” She marched me away. “Let’s get you home.”

  I shuddered and glanced over my shoulder. The large man hadn’t moved. He stared at me. He wasn
’t smiling.

  The Preparation

  I crept down the stairs, cringing at each and every step. There was no way to avoid the groans of this old house. Hopefully I hadn’t awakened Nana. She hated early mornings.

  Hurrying across the chipped linoleum with running shoes in hand, I touched the back door before I smelled her. Banana bread with a heavy shot of vanilla. I wondered how many loaves Nana must’ve baked in her life to actually smell like banana bread. Not that I’d complain. Love banana bread. Love the smell of my Nana.

  “Cassidy Christensen, what on earth are you doing sneaking out of my house at this hour of the morning?”

  Can’t say I love her screeching voice quite as much as her smell.

  After my dad was attacked by Panetti, I hired professional cleaners to get the blood off my living room walls, sold my house, and moved in with my dad’s mother until I could find a new home. Nana, my brother, and my parents were so thrilled with the arrangement I had a hard time moving out. Then my parents died and Nana was diagnosed with adult-onset diabetes. I couldn’t leave her alone.

  With my share of the life insurance money I could have bought us a mansion and enjoyed positive cash flow for a long, long time. I refused to touch the money created by my loss, especially when I still missed my mom and dad so much. I socked it into a safe investment fund and lived with Nana. Someday I’d find a worthwhile cause for the money, right now I was grateful I didn’t have to be alone. Well, sometimes I was grateful.

  Flipping on the light switch, I paused by the back door. Rain pounded outside the window, did I really want to run in that? No, but I had no choice if I wanted to prove to everyone that I could run this marathon. “What are you doing awake?”

  “Answer the question.”

  I sighed. A fight in the pre-dawn hours with Nana was never good, but did she have to treat me like I was sixteen? “I told you, I’m starting my marathon training today.” Yesterday, I’d done a little online research and printed out the most advanced training schedule Runner’s World offered. Then I took a Valium and focused on preparing for my sixteen-week stint of glory. Glory? At least the Valium worked.