Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

start. She looked around. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? Disoriented, her brain did not comprehend at first what her eyes were telling her. She was at her kitchen table, there were scribbles on scraps of paper everywhere, her neck ached, and her mouth was dry. She picked up one piece of paper, looked at it, and put it down. Then she picked up another and did the same. Slowly, the dream faded and reality took hold.
    * * *
    Several hours south, in Ipswich, Massachusetts, Lieutenant Malloy was already on his way in to the station. He was sipping on his second cup of coffee, ordered from his favorite donut shop. His first cup, at home, merely got him moving and out the door. Today, though, the second cup was more about habit than need; his mind was already puzzling over that runner found dead in the woods.
    * * *
    Jack had fallen asleep early and quickly, but it wasn’t a restful sleep. He tossed and turned as he relived his fall and the discovery of that man at the bottom of the hill. In the dream, he never went back up the hill; he just kept falling, like an endless film loop, and each time he saw something different. Once it was feet, another time, an arm or the man’s legs, always a part, never the whole. Every time he fell he was a spectator to his fall, except once. That time he felt every stick as it scratched his skin; he felt every rock as it dug into his muscles; he heard the rustling of leaves and the sounds of his body as it slid and rolled down the embankment. That was the time he saw the dead man’s face and he could only stare at it. He wanted to scream, he wanted to get away, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything except stare at that lifeless face.
    There was something about the expression on his face that both fascinated and bothered Jack. He could see the shock, surprise, and pain that must have been felt, but there was something else. As Jack stared into those lifeless eyes, it came to him. Recognition. The dead man had seen something or someone that he knew, and at that moment Jack knew that his fall hadn’t been an accident at all.
    That was the moment he jumped and let out a scream―or what felt like a scream. He fell back down onto his pillow and drifted back to sleep. Now Sylvie was there with him.
    Either the jump or the scream woke Max, who rolled over and pressed close to him. “Good morning, sleepy head,” Max purred into Jack’s ear. Hearing Sylvie’s voice gave him comfort and he drifted back into his dreams.
    * * *
    Alfred woke early, but he didn’t get out of bed immediately. He lay there, thinking about the previous twenty-four hours.
    He had expected that he would be able to explain to Malcom why he took the quilt and letter. He had been certain that this time Malcom would listen, understand, and let him keep them as a gift. That was how it was supposed to be.
    He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. As soon as he did, his ankle began to throb. He looked down and could see that it was swollen. Running a marathon on a not fully recovered ankle was perhaps foolish, but he knew it had been necessary. His eyes drifted to the pile of clothes on the floor, and he saw, still pinned to his singlet, Malcom’s number. He smiled at his brilliance.
    He’d have to get rid of that. His brother would have been proud. People always thought his brother the smart one, but he had fooled them all once and he would fool them all again.
    He replayed every detail in his mind.
    Malcom had been so arrogant. All Alfred had done was wish him good luck. Then Malcom had run ahead. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to hear how grateful Alfred was, how helpful his gift was. He said that as soon as they got back to the start area, he was going to call the police. Alfred couldn’t let that happen. He tried to run away but Alfred followed. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. Considering the darkness and the terrain, a slip and fall were inevitable. Alfred made sure of that.
    Certain that no one had seen him push Malcom down the embankment, Alfred had followed after him. At the bottom of the slope, he found Malcom’s limp body. The headlamp had been ripped off his head and lay on the ground near the body and provided just enough light for Alfred to see that Malcom was unconscious, his face was badly injured, probably from hitting the tree against which he rested, but he was still alive. A short length of broken tree branch finished what the fall hadn’t. When he was