Red Run

1

In some ways, Ethan Trent had waited years for the knock at his door.

He used the remote to flick the television off, hoping he'd heard wrong. Kids who stayed out past their curfew didn't knock, they tried to sneak back in.

The knocking came a second time.

Damn it Alison, if you've gotten yourself arrested I'm going to ground you until the Lions win the Super Bowl.

Ethan took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to answer the door.

The man peering in looked more like a CEO than a cop. Instead of the blue uniform Ethan expected, he wore a suit and tie, the tie knotted tightly even at this late hour. The gel in his hair made it look freshly wet.

Ethan cracked open the storm door and caught a whiff of Old Spice. Can I help you?

Mr. Trent?

Yes.

The corners of the man's eyes creased, almost a wince.

Whatever had brought this guy to Ethan's doorstep at nearly midnight, the news couldn't be good. Ethan tried to remember how much he had in the checking account. A teacher's salary didn't allow for a lot of emergency spending. That included bail money. Is it Alison?

The man drew a leather wallet from his jacket pocket and opened it to show Ethan a badge. May I come in?

What have you gotten yourself into? That's a yes, then?

Please, the cop said. I'd prefer we took this inside.

Ethan led him into the kitchen. On the stove, a digital clock blared the numbers 11:55 in red. The smell of grilled onions still hung in the air from dinner—a dinner Alison had missed as usual.

The cop glanced around as if looking for something. Your wife at home?

I'm divorced.

I see. He gestured at the kitchen table. Have a seat?

Look, I know Alison's got a troublesome streak, but whatever she's done can't be that bad.

Please.

Ethan pulled a chair out and sat at the table. You're really starting to worry me.

I'm Detective Anderson, the cop said as he eased into the chair across from Ethan. If you feel comfortable with it, call me Randy. Detective this and Detective that gets old fast, I think.

Fine, Randy. Tell me what's happened with my daughter.

Detective Randy Anderson drew the edge of his hand across the table, raking together a pile of crumbs Ethan must have missed after clearing the dinner dishes.

You were expecting your daughter home earlier?

"I expected her to be late. I told her to come home earlier, but she likes to test me. Did you catch her doing something?"

What sort of thing do you mean?

I don't know. He threw his hands up. What's the deal here? Is she under arrest? What?

I'm sorry, Mr. Trent. I know I'm not very good at this part of the job. He looked away. I'm afraid your daughter has…passed.

Something shuddered inside of Ethan as if he stood on the tracks of an approaching train. Any minute the train would turn him into a red mist and a stain on the tracks. No. He had to have heard wrong. What?

There's a lot yet to be done, Randy continued. Questions need answering. Right now all I can tell you is how she was found.

How she was found? What did that mean? Sounded like she was a misplaced set of keys or something. His lungs constricted. His breath wheezed in his throat. This was a mistake. Plain and simple.

Some boys up to no good, spray-painting their names on an overpass, found her in the Red Run Drain.

The images poured into Ethan's head before he could stop them, those same conjured clips that kept many parents up at night, showing infinite variations on a single theme—the loss of a child. Only this time one of those clips had come true.

Did she drown?

Randy's gaze drifted away.

Detective?

Far as we can tell, she was dead before she ended up in the Red Run.

But how did she get there if… He felt himself explode, the room turning white, the hanging light above the kitchen table a star gone nova. Ethan shook.

Detective Randy said something, but he'd been burned up by the supernova, blasted away to another universe. Ethan barely heard the man's voice over the nova's roar. Only it wasn't a supernova making that sound; it was the blood rushing in his ears. Jesus, he could hear his own heart beat. And that sent him to thoughts of Alison's heart beat. Gone. She was gone.

The hand on Ethan's shoulder brought him out of the supernova's white-hot center. He looked up and saw Randy gazing down at him, a calm, olive-toned and fatherly face.

Do you want some water or something?

No.

Randy took his hand off of Ethan's shoulder, leaving a cold spot in its absence.

Ethan waited until Randy returned to his seat, then asked, Did somebody put her there?

Mr. Trent, we have a lot of time for questions and answers. It's going to be a long night. The hard part's yet to come. I'm afraid we need you to ID the body.

That word: Body. So cold. Please. He looked Randy in the eyes. I have to know what happened. How did she end up in the Red Run?

Randy visibly swallowed. We're not sure. That's what we have to find out.

That's not what I meant. How did she… He turned his gaze toward the fridge. A magnet pinned an old photo of Alison and Graham to the freezer door. They stood side-by-side in front of the carousel at a local amusement park. It was their first family trip after they had moved into the new house. Alison was missing both front teeth, but that hadn't kept her from smiling. When she got older, she smiled about as often as a cool breeze blew through hell. Now Ethan would never see her smile again.

Randy placed a hand flat on the table and leaned forward a little. You gotta know, everything is speculation now, based on what the medical examiner could gather from the scene and⁠—

Just tell me.

There's a lot of trauma to the body. She was beaten pretty badly.

Beaten? The skin on his neck and arms prickled and burned.

ME noticed a nasty blow to the head, Randy continued. That seems the most likely cause of death.

Could she have fallen?

Obviously, this early we don't like to rule out anything. But for now we're treating this as a homicide.

Impossible. The whole thing seemed too unreal. Why couldn't you listen to me, Ali? Do you see what's happened? Do you see?

Ethan clenched a fist, bounced it gently on the kitchen table. He couldn't blame her. She was fifteen. And what had Ethan been doing at her age? Becoming a father, for one thing. Rain gave birth to Graham a mere three weeks before Ethan's sixteenth birthday. A fifteen year-old father. And two years later, having learned nothing, they brought another baby into the world.

No. It wasn't Alison's fault. Despite everything Ethan had done in the last five years—leaving Rain, getting his teaching certificate, making a new home for them in the suburbs—he still hadn't been able to take the father out of his daughter. Graham was a lucky break. Ethan couldn't take credit for the kid's inexplicable mild temperament. From the start he'd shown no signs of taking after either of his parents. But Alison. Alison had inherited all of their worst traits.

The truth was Ethan should never have been a father. This was proof. He'd let his baby girl down in the worst possible way.

He clenched up, refusing to cry, not out of any kind of shame, but because the effort gave him something else to focus on besides the grief.

I hate to do this, Randy said, but it's important. I need you to come with me and ID the body.

A rusty hope jangled inside of Ethan. Do you think it might not be Alison?

Randy seemed to recognize the question, the way he lifted his shoulders an inch and shook his head slowly. We found her purse nearby, had her learner's permit along with some other items bearing her name. But this is procedure.

What kind of answer is that?

One meant not to spark any kind of false hope, Mr. Trent.

Ethan put his palms flat on the table to help himself stand. He still shook, but some of the strength had returned to his legs. For now, at least. Let me get my coat. Then he froze. He glanced once more at the photograph on the refrigerator. In the picture, Graham hugged his little sister with one arm as if he meant to hold onto her forever.

Oh, God. I have to tell Graham.

Ethan stood in front of Graham's closed bedroom door. He sensed Randy's presence at the end of the hallway. He didn't want to do this with Randy watching. But that was an excuse. He didn't want to do this at all.

If I'm going to wake up from this nightmare, now would be a good time.

He blinked twice.

The floorboards behind him creaked. Randy shifting his weight. Was he impatient? To hell with him if he was. Ethan would do this on his own time, take as long as he needed.

Not too long, though. If he took too long he might spend the rest of his life frozen in this moment.

Should he knock first? Just open the door? He had left the hall light off so opening the door wouldn't immediately disturb Graham. A knock might startle him.

You're stalling.

He focused on the plastic nameplate on the door. Both Graham's and Alison's bedroom doors bore similar nameplates with cartoon animals dancing around the borders, installed when they had first moved into the house. Ethan remembered almost getting one for his own door. The nameplates had felt like badges, representing their place away from the hell they'd been living, their second chance.

Finally, he cracked open Graham's door. Without any light from the hall, Ethan expected the only illumination to come from the clock radio's green glow on the nightstand. But faint streetlight filtered through the window and cut a pale swatch on the carpet.

Why wouldn't Graham have closed the blinds before going to bed?

He pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside.

A breeze blew in through the window carrying the smell of Fall. The blinds were drawn all the way to the top of the window, the window itself open as wide as it would go.

Ethan's gaze dropped to Graham's bed, still made and empty.

He slapped the light switch, stunning his eyes with the sudden brightness. Squinting, he scanned the bedroom. There weren't many places to look in the small room—the chair at the desk, the floor, the open closet.

What is it? Randy asked from the hall.

Ethan rushed to the open window and peered out. The street stood quiet and empty. He could feel moisture in the air, cool against his burning face. Looking down behind the shrubs, Ethan spotted the window's screen resting neatly against the house's façade.

His first thought was that someone had taken him. But he’d seen this same scenario enough times with Alison to figure out the more likely explanation.

Graham had snuck out.

2

H e do that often? Randy asked from behind the wheel of his sedan.

Ethan stared out the passenger window as they coasted by the high school. The lighted marquee on the school's front lawn announced Classes Canceled Until Further Notice. The whole district had languished in a teachers' strike since the beginning of the school year. The fight for contract negotiations had felt like the most important thing in the world yesterday. Now he didn't care if classes ever resumed.

No. Never.

Randy answered with a noncommittal hum.

Ethan turned to him. Graham's a good kid.

The detective nodded, more like he was chewing on the thought than agreeing.

Above the reach of the streetlamps and the fluorescent glaze cast from twenty-four-hour supermarkets, the sky loomed perfectly dark. An invisible overcast shrouded the city from any star- or moonlight—a gaping void Ethan felt might suck him away at any minute. Only that would be too easy. Nothing would take him away from this horrible night.

And you still have a son who's going to need you more than ever. You have to stay strong for Graham.

Where do you suppose he's off to? Girlfriend?

If you don't mind, I'd rather not discuss it.

Aren't you worried?

Of course I'm worried. What kind of question is that?

Just want to make sure you're all right.

Ethan had started out liking Randy well enough, but every word, grunt, and shrug scuffed away another bit of that first impression.

Just get me to my daughter.

At the hospital, Randy parked under an orange light close to the door. When he cut the engine, he didn't get out right away. He sighed heavily while staring at the center of the steering wheel.

What if your son comes back?

The thought of Graham returning home before Ethan got back burrowed a hollow pit in his stomach. But it couldn't be helped. Sadie was there. She would take good care of him. I called a friend before we left. She's waiting at the house.

Randy nodded and got out of the car without another word.

Ethan hurried after him. Couldn't you hold off on the interrogation until after I've seen my daughter?

Randy stopped and turned. Mr. Trent, if I'm interrogating you, you'll know it.

Though Ethan had never stepped into a morgue in his life, he felt like he'd been there before. The way the hairs on his arms stood on end, how the cold air seeped through his skin, the antiseptic lighting reflected in the grid of steel doors along the wall.

Randy remained at the room's entrance while the medical examiner, Dr. August, strode to one of the steel doors with an air of hurried boredom. Though named after a summer month, there was nothing warm about Dr. August. He had yet to look Ethan in the eyes.

The sound the door handle made when pulled reminded Ethan of the old freezer in his grandfather's basement where he had kept leftover slabs of venison from the previous hunting season. The memory brought back the smell of cold deer flesh. Ethan shivered.

Dr. August did not hesitate. Once he had the door open, the medical examiner pulled the metal table out like a drawer, revealing the sheet-covered figure resting on top.

That was Ethan’s daughter under there. Little Alison.

Ethan wanted to tell the doctor to stop, give him a minute to compose himself for Christ's sake, but his throat had turned as cold as the memory of his grandfather's freezer.

Dr. August reached up and folded the sheet down off of her face.

Alison drew Ethan's gaze like a magnet. Wasn't death supposed to leave a person looking peaceful? Yet Alison's expression had frozen into a mask of distress.

He staggered to her and rested a hand on her cold forehead. My baby. My little girl.

On one side of her face a massive bruise stretched from temple to jaw. On the same side, toward the back of her skull, Ethan glimpsed an edge of the damage from the blow Randy had mentioned. He imagined if he turned her head he would see much of the back of it caved in.

His face cramped in an effort to keep from sobbing, but it was no use. Finally he cried. The tears blurred his vision. He stepped back and turned before wiping his eyes.

He could feel Randy's presence grow nearer and wanted to move away. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to go home, crawl into bed and sleep until everything went away, the whole damned world.

Who did this? he whispered.

He hadn't meant the question for Randy, but the detective said, We'll find them. I promise.

I don't want a promise. I want answers.

You'll get them.

Ethan stared Randy in the eyes, searching for some sign of weakness, some hint of a lack in commitment.

Randy's gaze met Ethan's as if he knew what the exchange meant. Whatever it takes, he said, I'll do it. Whoever did this to your daughter will pay for it. Nothing and no one will stand in my way.

Again, the overwhelming urge to curl up on the floor and cease to function pushed down on him like gravity. He thought back to the picture of Graham and Alison on the fridge. Drew strength from some deep place maybe only a father had. He nodded. Where do we start?

Randy stepped forward, moving close enough for Ethan to smell the detective's sour breath.

We start with you.

3

The cold from the morgue had seeped into Ethan's flesh and made a permanent home. The interview room's chilly air did not help. He tried to rub some warmth into his arms then checked his watch for the tenth time. How long were they going to keep him in here before they started grilling him? It made sense they would consider Ethan a possible suspect by default. He had no illusions about Randy's intentions even after the detective's promise to seek justice. What bothered Ethan wasn't that Randy wanted to question him, but that he had already wasted so much time getting to it.

He glanced at the mirror in the wall. Were they watching him from the other side? Waiting for some clue, some tic in his behavior? Or, more likely, wearing him down, tugging his patience to the limit to make him careless when he started answering questions.

All a waste of time.

Meanwhile, his daughter's murderer was out there cleaning up his tracks.

He could feel a sob caught at the back of his throat. He swallowed it down. Time enough for that later. He covered his face with his hands, took a deep breath.

At last, Randy and another man entered the room.

Ethan jerked in his chair, wiped his eyes.

Randy's companion wore his hair nearly shaved to the skin, a shadow of stubble on either side of his skull betraying the bald spot down the middle. A pair of glasses hung on the front pocket of his sport coat. He took a seat across from Ethan while Randy stepped back into a corner and leaned against the wall with his arms folded.

The new guy offered his hand. Detective Staver.

Ethan stared at the hand a second, thrown by this new arrival. He'd had it in his head he would deal with Randy through all of this.

Staver smiled and rested his hand on the table between them. I understand you're tired and this has been a hard night. We just need to ask a few more questions and we'll get someone to take you home.

I've been waiting a while, Ethan said. What took so long?

Randy piped up from his corner. Had to gather a few facts is all.

Ethan looked from Randy back to Staver. About me?

Please, Staver said. Let's try to stay focused on finding out what happened to your daughter. That's what we're all here for, right?

Something about Staver's tone bothered Ethan, but he couldn't place it. In the swirl of all the other feelings and thoughts cramping his brain, he didn't know if he could trust his instincts. There was a time when Ethan would have snacked on glass before trusting a cop. Residue from those days could sometimes still dirty his judgment.

Okay. Ask your questions.

Staver gave a smart nod and leaned forward on his elbows. Randy tells me you were waiting up for Alison when he arrived. Did she come home late often?

Yes. She's going through one of those phases. Doing the opposite of everything I say.

For example?

Ethan frowned. Like staying out past curfew.

Anything else?

I'm not sure I know what you mean.

Staver cleared his throat. Was she promiscuous? Involved with drugs?

If she was into anything like that, I wouldn't have let her out of the house.

Okay. But looking back. A lot of kids her age start experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Maybe it didn't occur to you at the time, but⁠—

No. Ethan rubbed his face. If she was doing drugs, I would have noticed.

How can you be sure?

Because her mother is a junkie and I lived with her long enough to know the territory.

Does your ex-wife visit your daughter often?

Never. I had a restraining order put on my wife. She can't come anywhere near me or the kids. If you were looking into me then you probably know all this.

Randy unfolded his arms, tucked his hands in his pockets. How did your wife react to the restraining order?

She never much cared what the kids were doing as long as they didn't get in the way of her drug habit.

Harsh.

It's the truth, Ethan replied. I'm no saint. I'm not even an altar boy. But Rain's problem is she never knows when enough is enough. Most people have a limit to how much they can screw up their lives. Not Rain.

Staver leaned back and gave Ethan a long stare, as if sizing him up. Does she feel the same way about you?

I pulled my life together.

Does she see it that way?

You'd have to ask her.

A dull ache twisted through Ethan's lower back from sitting for so long. He tried shifting in his chair, but it clearly hadn't been designed for comfort. Mind if I stand? My back is killing me.

Staver gestured for him to go ahead.

Ethan stood and stretched while Staver continued.

What can you tell me about Alison's daily routine?

What do you want to know? Every morning I go into her room at least a dozen times to rouse her out of bed. Then she spends an hour or more in the bathroom. She misses the bus. I drive her to school. On a good day she avoids mouthing off to a teacher and getting detention. But usually if she avoids detention it's because she skipped school after I dropped her off.

"All part of that phase you