Free Four Live Rounds by Blake Crouch Page A

when she was only a sophomore. Very
devoted, disciplined runner. It was just a thing of beauty to watch
her run. She made the state championship her freshman year.”
    Roger noticed Donald’s hands trembling.
    His were, too.
    “Morning of October third, I was on my way to
work when I came to a roadblock about a mile from our house. There
were police cars, a fire truck, ambulances. I’d heard the sirens
while I was getting dressed but didn’t think anything of it.
    “I was swearing up a storm ‘cause I was late
for a meeting and getting ready to do a u-turn, find an alternate
route, when one of the EMTs stepped out of the way. Even from fifty
yards back, I recognized Tabitha’s blue shorts, orange running
shoes, her legs.
    “Next thing I remember was throwing up on the
side of the road. They say I broke through the barrier, that it
took two firemen and four cops to drag me away from her body. I
don’t remember seeing her broken skull. Or the blood. Just her
legs, orange shoes, and blue running shorts, from fifty yards back
in my car.”
    Sue leaned across the blanket and draped her
arms around Donald’s neck.
    Roger heard her whisper, “I’m so sorry,” but
Donald didn’t return the embrace, just stared at him instead.
    Sue pulled back, said, “Someone had hit
her.”
    “Yeah. But whoever did was gone by the time
the police arrived.”
    “No.”
    “This occurred in a residential area, and in
one of the nearby houses, someone had happened to look out a
window, see a man standing in the street over my daughter. But he
was gone when the police showed up.”
    “A hit-and-run.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Oh my God. What about your wife? What—”
    “We separated four years ago.”
    Roger couldn’t look at him, turned instead to
the summer moon, nearly full, and as large and white as he would
ever see it, the Ocean of Storms clearly visible as a gray blemish
two hundred thousand miles away.
    Donald said, “Sometimes, I can talk about it
without ripping the stitches, but not tonight, I guess. I better
go.” He got to his feet, leaving the scotch and cards on the
blanket, and walked off into the dark.
     
    They were lying in their sleeping bags in the
tent when Roger leaned over and whispered in Sue’s ear, “We have to
leave right now.”
    “I was almost asleep, Roge, what are
you—”
    “Just listen.” The whites of her eyes
appeared in the dark. “I want you to quietly get dressed, put your
boots on. We’ll leave everything here, just take our wallets and
keys.”
    “Why?”
    “Donald’s planning to kill us tonight.”
    Sue sat up in her sleeping bag and pushed her
brown hair out of her face. “This isn’t funny, Roger. Not even a
little—”
    “Do I sound like I’m joking?”
    “Why are you saying this? ‘Cause he walks
around with a machete and was in Vietnam and…” Sue covered her
mouth. “Oh, Roger, no. Oh God, please tell me…” Sue turned away
from him and buried her face in her sleeping bag.
    Roger lay beside her, whispering in her
ear.
    “I was late for a meeting downtown. I turned
a corner on Oak Street and the coffee spilled between my legs,
burned me. I swerved, and when I looked up…
    “At first, I just sat stunned behind the
wheel, like I could will the moment away, press undo on the
keyboard. I got out and saw her on the pavement, half under the
front bumper. I looked around. No other cars coming. No one else in
the vicinity. Just a quiet Thursday morning, the trees turning, wet
red leaves on the street. I thought about you, about Jennifer and
Michelle, all the things that could be taken from me ‘cause of one
stupid fucking lapse in concentration, and the next thing I knew I
was on I-94.”
    Sue was crying. “That’s why you sold the
Lexus. Why you moved us to Eden Prairie. How’d you keep this from
me, Roger? How did you—”
    “Live with myself? I don’t know. I still
don’t know.”
    “Are you sure it’s him? That Donald’s the
father of the girl you