Cut and Run (Phoenix Code 1 & 2) Page 14

  Novak clenched his teeth. “My office, now!” He turned on his heel and marched into his office.

  The moment Phoebe entered behind him he glared back at the other employees, making them scurry away, before slamming the door shut.

  Once they were alone, Phoebe took a breath and opened her mouth, intent on defending herself, but Novak cut her off with one swipe of his hand.

  “Not another word out of your mouth, young lady! First you listen to me.” He sucked in a breath. “For starters, you nearly gave me a heart attack when I heard about the bus having been hit by a train. When you didn’t call in right away, I had to call a contact at a news station to find out if anybody knew anything. Only when Eriksson heard from his son did we know you were all right. So don’t ever do that again!”

  Surprised that he’d actually been concerned about her, she was speechless for a moment. But she wouldn’t be a reporter if words failed her for long. “We were all very lucky. The police are already looking for the bus driver. They’ve promised to give me first dibs on any information on him since I was on the bus.” Maybe she’d even get an exclusive once they’d caught the guy. “This might be just the story I need for Eriksson.”

  Novak frowned. “Eriksson isn’t interested in the story about the driver.” He walked around to his computer and motioned her to follow him. Pointing to the screen, he added, “He wants to know who this is.”

  The computer screen showed a picture of Scott walking through the crowd of kids.

  “Scott.” She looked up at Novak. “He rescued us. He smashed the door in and pulled us out.”

  Her boss nodded. “Scott? Do you have his full name?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “He left right after the police and the ambulances got there.” She pointed to the screen. “How did you get this picture?”

  “Eriksson’s son took it with his cell phone and told his father this is the guy responsible for saving his life. Eriksson wants this to be the lead story—the hero, the mysterious rescuer. Find him! Do whatever you have to do to get his story.”

  Phoebe cast Novak a doubtful look. “It didn’t look like he wanted to be the hero, or he would have stuck around. If he wanted the fame, he had his chance when Debbie Finch from WYAT News arrived. She practically ran after him to get a statement from him.”

  “And did she?”

  “No. He jumped on his motorcycle and sped away.” He’d practically fled the scene, now that Phoebe thought of it. “Maybe he’s shy.” Well, not even she believed that. He’d seemed self-confident in the little interaction they’d had. Strong, self-assured, decisive.

  “Shy?” Novak scoffed. “That’s not it.” He tapped at the screen, pointing at Scott’s face. “Get the story! Find him and I can guarantee you that Eriksson won’t fire you. You’ve bought yourself some time now. Use it well. Prove to me and to Eriksson that you’re the kind of journalist I always thought you were.”

  Her eyes drifted back to the photo on the screen. “Can I get a copy of that?”

  “I’ll email it to you.”

  “Did the other kids take any pictures too? Maybe of his motorcycle?”

  “I’ll have Eriksson’s son talk to his classmates. Knowing those kids, everybody got something. They’ve probably already texted each other their pictures. I’ll forward you what I can get.”

  “Thanks.” She turned to the door.

  “And Phoebe?”

  She stopped.

  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  She smiled to herself and opened the door. Novak wasn’t as much of a hard-ass as he made others believe. When it came down to it, he cared about the people who worked for him. And he was a journalist with integrity and an eye for a good story. Focusing on the hero of this disaster was the positive spin the parents of these kids needed, rather than highlighting the likely mentally sick individual who’d driven the bus onto the railway crossing and rigged it.

  She would introduce the citizens of Chicago to Scott, the hero who’d saved twenty-seven lives today and wasn’t expecting any public recognition for it. And maybe once she found him and got his story, she would be able to thank him in a more personal way than she’d had occasion to this afternoon.

  Full of determination, she marched toward her cubicle when somebody turned up the volume on the TV that hung at one wall of the newsroom.

  Debbie Finch of WYAT News was at the accident scene, talking into a microphone. Behind her the train had moved, but forensic investigators were still sifting through the debris of the bus.

  “…earlier this afternoon. From the children we interviewed, we heard reports of a man dressed in motorcycle clothing, who saved all twenty-six children and the one adult riding in the bus. Unfortunately, the person left the scene of the accident before he could be identified.” She touched her earpiece and listened intently for a few seconds, before speaking again. “I’m being informed as we speak that about two years ago a similar disaster involving a mentally ill taxi driver who’d locked his passenger in the back of his cab was prevented when a motorcyclist rescued the passenger before the cab was hit by an oil truck.”

  Phoebe froze and sucked in a breath. Was the reporter suggesting the two incidents were connected?

  “The station is encouraging anybody who was near the accident site today to send in any photos they might have taken with their cell phones so we can assist the police in finding the hero of today’s disaster. Please email the photos to…”

  Phoebe didn’t listen any further. To assist the police? Right! She knew Debbie well enough to guess she wasn’t interested in assisting the police. She wanted the scoop on Scott. Clearly Debbie’s editor had the same idea as Novak, namely that Scott was the story, not the deranged bus driver.

  “Fuck!” she cursed. With Debbie encouraging everybody to send pictures from the accident to her, she might find Scott before Phoebe did. “Pedal to the metal,” she encouraged herself. “You can do this, Phoebe.” Arriving at her desk, she leaned over to Kathleen. “I need your help. Do you still have contact with that guy at the DMV?”

  “The one who st-st-st-stutters?” She chuckled and blushed.

  “Yes.”

  Kathleen bent closer. “Saw him last night. And guess what—he doesn’t stutter when he’s getting down to it. If you know what I mean.”

  Phoebe couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re terrible!” But thanks to Kathleen’s active love life, Phoebe would have a leg up on her competition, because she’d memorized the license plate of Scott’s motorcycle before he’d sped away.

  7

  Scott opened the refrigerator and took another beer from the bottom shelf, popped the cap off with his thumb and took a long gulp. It was sweltering hot in his apartment, and his landlord still hadn’t fixed the air conditioning. But that wasn’t the only reason he was feeling uncomfortable.

  For the hundredth time since returning from the accident site, he went through his actions again step-by-step. Had he made any mistakes along the way? His biggest mistake had of course been to follow his premonition in the first place to prevent the disaster from happening. But apart from that action, had there been anything that he could have done differently? Every time he went through the event, he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t have done anything differently in light of the circumstances.

  After returning home, he’d changed the plates on his Ducati and disposed of the old ones. Tomorrow he would repaint the motorcycle at the shop to make it harder to identify, should anybody be looking for a black Multistrada Touring bike. And should there be any fallout from his actions today, he was fully prepared to leave the area.

  He sighed and pulled his shirt off, standing in front of the open refrigerator door in only his shorts, his bare feet planted firmly on the cool tile floor.

  He’d never truly had a choice about what actions to take today. Just like he’d never had a choice when he’d first started to have premonitions. He’d been an orphan and had lived in an orphanage for most of his yo
ung life.

  ~ ~ ~

  Richmond, Virginia

  25 years earlier

  Thirteen-year-old Gary used both his hands to slam Scott’s face into the dirty puddle. This wasn’t the first time the two-year-older bully was having his fun with Scott, using his superior physical strength against him.

  Scott jerked his elbow back and jammed it into Gary’s chest, managing to lift his head enough to gasp for air. The voices belonging to the children watching their fight became louder, their excitement rising as the prime bully of the orphanage once again showed off his physical superiority over one of the younger boys. Withdrawn and quiet, Scott was Gary’s favorite target for such demonstrations.

  Again, Gary pressed Scott’s face into the puddle, making Scott swallow dirty water. Panic rose, kicking his heartbeat up, his pulse racing now, his chest heaving for a breath he couldn’t take. He saw it then—a scene playing out in front of his eyes, though his eyes were closed to protect them from the dirty water. Nevertheless he watched something happening as if it were reality.

  A moment later, the voice of a teacher sliced through his head and somebody pulled him up. Scott coughed, expelling the water from his lungs. But his rage was at a boiling point now. He whirled around and glared at Gary.

  “You’ll break both your legs when you fall down those stairs and then I’ll be the one taunting you!” Scott yelled at the bully, teeth clenched.

  “Enough!” the teacher demanded. “Both of you! You’ll get detention. Now! Move it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A week later Gary fell down the main stairs of the orphanage and broke both his legs. Despite his protests that he had nothing to do with the accident, Scott was commanded to appear in the office of the orphanage’s director, Mr. Peabody. Trembling with fury about the injustice of being accused of something he hadn’t done, Scott clenched his fists by his sides and defiantly glared at the older man.

  “What have you got to say in your defense, Thompson?”

  “I didn’t do it! I wasn’t even in the house! I was out back on the playground.”

  Peabody slapped his fist onto the desk. “Stop lying, Thompson! I know it was you! Several people heard you say last week that you were going to push him down the stairs so he’d break his legs. Next time when you plan something nefarious like that don’t be so stupid as to announce it to everybody,” the director thundered.

  Scott didn’t know what nefarious meant, but it was probably nothing good. But he did know what stupid meant. And he wouldn’t be called stupid by anybody. “I didn’t say I was going to push him! I saw him fall!”

  Peabody leaned over the desk. “You just said you were on the playground. You can’t see the stairs from there. So you were in the house, just like I suspected!”

  “I wasn’t in the house. I saw it. Before,” Scott corrected, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “If you keep lying, your punishment is going to be even more severe!” Peabody claimed. “Do you know what could have happened? You could have killed him. He’s lucky he only broke his legs. He could have broken his neck. So tell me the truth. Admit what you did!”

  Scott expelled an angry breath, tears welling up in his eyes. But he pushed them back, swallowed them, because boys didn’t cry. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t push him. I saw him fall. I saw it last week. In my head. I saw it in my head. Like all the other things too.”

  Peabody froze and pulled back a little. “What? What are you seeing?”

  Scott sniffed. “All the other things. Things that haven’t happened yet. And then they happen.” He dropped his head. He’d never told anybody, because he didn’t want to be different. It was hard enough in the orphanage, hard enough to stand up to boys like Gary. It wouldn’t help him one iota if they found out he was different, that he was a freak.

  “Tell me what you see,” Peabody now demanded, though his voice wasn’t as harsh as before.

  Scott looked up and met his gaze. But he’d already said too much. It was better to take the punishment than be labeled a freak of nature. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  ~ ~ ~

  His next summons to the director’s office came three days later. This time the director wasn’t alone. A man sat in the chair in front of the desk and rose when Scott entered after a hesitant knock at the door. When the stranger turned his head, Scott pulled in a breath. He recognized the man.

  “Thompson, this is Mr. Sheppard. He’s come to talk to you,” Peabody said.

  Mr. Sheppard smiled, a kind, gentle gesture. “So this is the boy.” He extended his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Scott. I’m Henry.”

  Scott shook his hand and let go of it again quickly, eyeing Peabody, who had remained seated behind his desk.

  “You’re not a mute, Thompson. Greet your visitor.”

  Scott ran his eyes over the stranger. He looked younger than Peabody, who Scott knew had recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday. But older than his English teacher, Mr. Langenfeld, who was a little over thirty. Mr. Sheppard’s hair was dark brown, as were his eyes. He wore a business suit, but no tie. This man reeked of authority though he didn’t inspire the kind of fear Peabody conjured up in Scott.

  “Thompson,” Peabody repeated, but Mr. Sheppard stopped him by lifting his hand.

  “Give the boy a minute.”

  A feeling of gratitude swept through Scott. Everything would be all right soon. “I saw you in a house surrounded by a brown fence and a wooden swing in the back, covered in snow.”

  “When was I there?” the stranger asked softly.

  “Next winter.”

  “Why do you think it’ll be next winter?”

  “Because I was staring out the window from my bedroom on the second floor while you were shoveling snow. On that path, the one that leads to the back gate, down to where the little creek is. It was frozen. You promised to take me ice skating there.”

  Mr. Sheppard smiled broadly and exchanged a triumphant look with Peabody before addressing Scott again. “Well, then you’d better pack your things so we can leave before we miss the snow.”

  “Are you sure?” Peabody interjected.

  Mr. Sheppard turned back to the director. “He’s got the gift. You didn’t tell him I was coming, did you?”

  Peabody shook his head. “Not a word. Just like you requested.”

  “Then he couldn’t have known about me or my house. Or the creek behind it.” He turned back to Scott. “Scott, tell me when you saw me.”

  “A long time ago. Every fall I was hoping you’d come. And every time the snow melted, I knew I had to wait another year.”

  “I’ve waited for you too. It just took me a long time to find you.” He reached his hand out to Scott, who clasped it instantly.

  He was finally getting a real home. A home with a man who understood him, because he was just like Scott. A man who saw the things Scott saw and wouldn’t consider him a freak. Finally somebody would understand him, and he wouldn’t have to hide anymore. A future was waiting for him.

  But years later that dream had shattered and Scott had lost everything.

  Henry Sheppard, the man who’d become his father, was gone.

  Scott’s future was uncertain.

  He was on the run and would remain so until he took his last breath.

  8

  Phoebe took a deep breath. She’d come this far, she couldn’t back down now. It had been hard enough to track Scott down. Though Kathleen’s DMV contact had gotten her the address to where Scott’s motorcycle was registered, that lead had culminated in a dead end, or rather a UPS Store, not a residential address. Luckily she’d remembered something about Scott’s outfit when he’d rescued her. He’d worn overalls under his leather jacket and when the jacket had fallen open she’d glimpsed an emblem on the breast pocket. Al’s, it had said. She’d searched for all businesses that went by Al’s and had been surprised at how many repair shops were named Al’s something or other. But after two hours she’d found
a motorcycle repair shop in Cicero that employed a man named Scott.

  It had taken her far less time to find the owner of the shop at his home and charm him into telling her where she could find Scott. Any more charm and Al would have handed her the keys to his shop and asked her to help herself to anything she wanted. Sometimes she really hated how she had to lie to people to do her job.

  Nervously, Phoebe glanced back down the stairs again, where Scott’s motorcycle was parked behind a dumpster as if he didn’t want it to be seen from the street. That in itself didn’t surprise her, since many residents in the area didn’t exactly want to advertise that there was something valuable to steal. But when she’d looked at the license plate, she’d had to do a double-take. The numbers she’d memorized were different from the ones on the plate, though this was definitely the bike he’d ridden.

  Was she now standing at the front door of a criminal’s apartment, about to knock? Was it safe? If he’d changed his license plate, not only did this mean he had something to hide, but he also had the means to do so. After all, who kept a spare license plate on hand?

  Her heart thundered in her chest. Was she asking for trouble, coming to Scott’s home when he so clearly didn’t want to be found? Would she be putting herself in danger?

  You need this story, she told herself. Don’t be such a chicken. Maybe he’s just avoiding child support.

  Right. He’d probably gotten some woman pregnant, who was now trying to get him for child support. After all, who wouldn’t sleep with a hunk like him and throw caution to the wind?

  Her heart fluttered at the thought. And this time it wasn’t fear that made her pulse race. She still remembered the moment he’d pulled her from the bus, when she’d stared death in the face. The seconds after it, when she’d been cradled beneath his protective body, she’d felt safe. And when she’d pressed herself to him, hugging him tightly, other sensations had raced through her body, sensations that had nothing to do with being safe. That in a moment like that she could feel desire and arousal awaken her body had seemed impossible, but after having cheated death, she’d felt more alive than ever before.