by G. M. Ford
He was sneering at her again, making a little chortling sound in his throat. She had to take a step back to keep from belting him one. She continued, “In a cell, charged with kidnapping and assault and a raft of other charges I haven’t had the time to think of yet.” She pointed at the door. “Now collect your little robots out there and get out.”
He straightened his shoulders inside the Italian suit. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he promised. He shook a finger at her. She wanted to break it off. “This will come back to haunt you,” he said.
“I’ll sleep with a night-light,” she assured him.
He stopped at the door and turned back her way. “I had two men injured in the line of duty today.”
“One’s been treated and released.” She swept a hand through the air. “Surely you’re not holding Ms. Willis and Mr. Suzuki responsible for the neighbor’s dog.”
“I had a man shot today. He’s in critical—”
“His condition’s been upgraded to stable,” she snapped.
“We have a suspect in the shooting.”
“That’s not the story we’re getting from the hospital,” she said. “Your agent claims the gun went off while he was struggling with one of Ms. Willis’s residents. He told officers the gun fired on impact with the ground.” She was talking to his back now. Little SOB walked away while she was still talking. She gnashed her teeth in frustration. The door hissed closed. She took a deep breath and looked over at the black glass panel along the west wall of the interview room. She made a “come here” gesture.
A moment later Sergeant Ramirez pulled open the door and stepped inside.
“Guy’s thick as a brick,” he said.
She held up a hand and turned her head aside, as if to say she was unable to express her feelings about the man. “Can we find a unit to give Ms. Willis and Mr. Suzuki a ride back to Arbor Street?”
Sergeant Ramirez said it wouldn’t be a problem.
“Have them check the street. Napoléon there isn’t going quietly on this thing. I’d be willing to bet he’s got a couple of his minions lurking around in the shrubbery somewhere.”
“And if he does?”
“Send them on their way. If they give the officers a hard time, if they come back after you’ve braced them off the first time, run them in.”
Ramirez smiled for the first time. “It would be my pleasure,” he said.
“Have the neighborhood unit check in on the facility first thing in the morning. I don’t want those people bothered again.”
“Those idiots have got one of the residents on the run,” he said. “What about him? We can’t just leave him out there.”
She checked her watch. “According to Ms. Willis, the guy’s severely disabled. We ought to be able to find somebody like that. He’s probably scared to death.”
“Not to mention freezing his ass off,” Ramirez said. “I got a description. According to Ms. Willis, he’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. It’s getting real raw out there.”
“Check the neighborhood.”
The sergeant nodded. “We’ll keep an eye out for him.”
PAUL WATCHED IT all go down. They’d ditched the trench coats in favor of blue windbreakers and had downsized the Town Car to a more innocuous Subaru Outback, but right away Paul recognized the one who got out and peed on the maple tree. The guy was too big to forget. He and his partner were sitting half a block south of Harmony House with the engine running when the city police cruiser came by for the first time. Paul watched the silhouettes slouch in the seats as the black-and-white slid by, watched as the cruiser continued up Arbor Street and turned right onto Slayter Avenue.
From his outdoor vantage point, Paul heard the cruiser’s engine roar to life, and then a moment later, heard the sound of squealing tires and then the roaring of the engine once again. As the sound faded, he turned his attention back to the parked car. They hadn’t heard a thing and hadn’t moved a muscle. He smiled.
A minute and a half later the cop car slid around the south end of Arbor Street and screamed their way, engine aroar, light bar ablaze, before sliding to a halt just behind the parked Subaru, allowing the cop in the passenger seat to step out and approach the car with minimal exposure.
The inside cop directed a powerful searchlight beam at the driver’s window. On the inside of the window, a flattened palm tried to block the invading white light. The outside cop kept his gloved right hand on the butt of his gun and used his left to knock on the window. The palm disappeared, but the window stayed up. He knocked again.
“Could you roll down your window, please?”
On the third knock, the window slowly slid down. The cop bent at the waist and said something to the driver. The inside cop was outside now, keeping the vehicle between himself and the Subaru. Paul crawled through the dirt on his elbows, all the way to the far end of the porch, where he pressed his ear against the lattice and strained to hear. Still, he couldn’t hear what either of them said for the next couple of minutes. He tried holding his breath but that didn’t work at all. Didn’t matter, though, because, at that point, somebody hit the adrenaline button.
The cop had stepped back from the window and pulled his gun. He assumed the combat position, legs slightly bent, gun held before him with two hands. “Get out of the car,” he boomed. “Keep your hands in sight and exit the vehicle NOW.”
The window went back up. The cop repeated his command, louder and more threatening this time. Nothing happened until the passenger door swung open and the weight lifter stepped out onto the grass divider.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the cop screamed. “Turn your back to me and get down on your knees.”
The big guy proffered an ID case.
“Drop it,” the cop bellowed.
The big guy held both hands high and allowed the case to fall open. “Drop that on the ground,” the cop ordered. “Turn your back to me and get down on your knees.”
The big guy said something Paul couldn’t hear. The world seemed to stand still. That’s when the second police cruiser arrived. No lights this time, just a screech to a halt and a new pair of cops aiming shotguns at the Subaru over the top of their police car.
After that, things went fast-forward, didn’t take but about five minutes before the pair of them were cuffed and stuffed into separate patrol cars. Another minute and the police cars were gone. All along Arbor Street the status quo returned. Blinds snapped closed. Parted curtains fell back into place.
Paul elbowed himself around in a half circle and crawled back the other way, back to the removable piece of lattice, where he let himself out onto the side lawn and stood up, stifling a groan and shaking his cramped legs back to life.
Before the cops ever showed up, he’d already decided what he was going to do next. He was going to rely on his new look to protect him. Instead of sneaking around to the back door, or tossing pebbles at somebody’s window, he was going to walk right up to the front door and ring the bell. If he got caught sneaking around the bushes, he was toast, no doubt about it, so why not try the old “hide in plain sight” trick. He told himself the same thing he’d told himself when they came into the restaurant: If I don’t recognize my own face in the mirror, there’s no reason they should either.
Half expecting a shout to ring out or the silence to be broken by the slap of running feet, he moved quickly across the street. As he walked beneath the glare of the streetlights, he noticed the thick layer of dust covering his T-shirt and the front of his jeans. He stopped and brushed the dirt from the front of him as best he could and then moved on down the walk to Harmony House, whose windows were blank and silent and whose outside lights were turned down low.
He hesitated for a moment and then mounted the front stairs, tripping the motion detector, sending the unrelenting glare of the porch light down onto the boards. He stood and looked around, listening again for signs of pursuit, but Arbor Street had gone to bed. Even the dogs were sile
nt. Only the rustle of the night breeze in the trees caught his ears.
He rang the bell and waited, knowing that, this time of night, Ms. Willis would answer the bell. He waited and then rang again, trying to stand still, trying not to look guilty of anything, trying to look like he belonged, a thought which forced him to realize that he didn’t belong, not there, not anywhere, that he was adrift on the planet, without roots, without a home. In some odd way, the thought caused him to become aware of how cold he was and sent an uncontrollable shiver rolling down his spine.
He was still trying to control his shaking when the curtains parted. “Yes.”
Her electronic voice came from the little black box mounted above the front door.
“It’s me,” he said.
A frozen moment passed. He shook until his teeth chattered like castanets.
“Come closer,” she said.
He took a step forward and nearly put his face against the glass.
She pulled the curtains back and looked into his eyes. He heard a gasp followed by the snapping of locks and the rattling of chains. The door clanked open. A hand reached out and jerked him inside. He stood and watched as she secured the door. When she looked up, her eyes were wide with fear. She whispered, “Are you crazy coming here. They could be—”
“They were,” he interrupted. Her mouth snapped shut. He told her what had transpired in the street.
“There’re probably others.”
“I need my money,” he said. “And maybe some clothes,” he added.
A hundred questions died in her throat. Instead, she nodded and hustled toward the stairs, beckoning for Paul to follow.
“Hurry,” she said as she mounted the stairs two at a time with Paul hard on her heels. The commotion had not gone unnoticed.
Eunice, Carman, and Dolores stood on the second-floor landing in their nightclothes. All along the hallway doors were open. At the far end, Randall stood on the carpet runner, still fully dressed, rubbing his eyes. Shirley had rolled herself to the far side of the hall for a better view. Even blind old Mrs. Dahlberg had found her way to the corridor.
“Everybody get back to your rooms,” Helen said. Nobody moved. “NOW,” she bellowed, and then covered her mouth with her hand. The only person who moved was Dolores, who, instead of returning to her room, went tripping down the stairs.
She turned to Paul. “Get what you need from your room,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you back here.”
Paul watched as she hurried past a dozen frightened eyes, pulled her keys from the pocket of her robe, and unlocked the fire door. When she disappeared from view, Paul opened the door to his room and stepped inside. She’d left the light on for him. The sight of the meagerly furnished space where he’d spent the past seven years, and which, as he saw it now, he was unlikely to see again, brought him to tears.
He blubbered once, swallowed the lump in his throat, and then wiped the hot tears from his eyes before walking over to the closet, where he pushed his only good shirt and pair of pants aside and grabbed the green Suzuki Landscaping jacket from the hanger.
He was still shaking so bad it took him two tries to get his arm in the sleeves. From beneath the bed, he pulled a black Nike gym bag with a big white swoosh on the side. He filled the bag with socks, underwear, three clean T-shirts, and a pair of leather gloves he’d gotten for Christmas. He turned to leave. Shirley sat in her chair in the doorway. He walked over and put a hand on her bony shoulder.
“I’ll miss you,” she squawked.
“Me, too,” Paul said.
A tear ran down her face. And then another. And then a torrent began. She swiped at the tears with her good hand but missed. The sound of running feet pulled his eyes from her.
Ms. Willis stood in the hall; her hair had escaped the pins and was falling into her face. Paul stepped around Shirley without removing his hand from her shoulder. Ms. Willis handed him the big wad of bills, which he stuffed into the pocket of his jeans.
Dolores came running up the stairs, her eyes wide with terror. “There’s people in the yard,” she whispered. “More than one.”
Helen Willis picked up the hall phone and dialed 911. After calmly explaining the situation to the dispatcher, she walked to the electrical panel at the top of the stairs and turned on the outside lights, illuminating the grounds like a shopping mall.
As Helen started back to Paul, something amiss caught her eye. The tall glass door to the fire extinguisher compartment hung open. The extinguisher was in place. The fire ax, however, was missing. Helen looked around. Eunice was backed into the corner of the hall trying to make like she didn’t have a clue as to what was going on.
Helen knew better. She held out her hand. “Give it to me,” she said.
Eunice looked confused. “What?” she said.
“Give.”
“They pushed me,” Eunice said.
“Now.”
Eunice brought the ax out from behind her back.
Helen Willis plucked the bright red ax from Eunice’s thick fingers. “I know,” she soothed. “They weren’t nice, were they?”
Eunice scowled and shook her head.
“You’re going to have to let me take care of this one,” Helen Willis explained.
Helen and the ax were gone down the stairs before Eunice had a chance to protest. A minute passed before Helen returned, breathing heavily and still carrying the ax. “I don’t see anybody,” she announced. She turned to Dolores. “You sure?”
Dolores bobbed her head up and down.
“Go to the basement and wait,” Helen said to Paul. “When it’s safe to go, I’ll turn out the yard lights.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, ax and all. When she stepped back her eyes were filled with tears. “Good luck,” she said.
Paul bent at the waist and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “I don’t know if—” he began. His voice cracked. He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “Go find yourself.”
Paul turned and started down the hall. Pulsing red and blue lights began to dance around the walls. “It’s the cops,” Carman said. The front doorbell rang.
Paul reached the far end of the hall and the door to the service stairs, where Randall stood wide-eyed in the doorway. He was removing his shoes and trying to hand them to Paul as Paul stepped around him. As he moved into the opening and began to close the door, he felt Randall’s hand at the pocket of his jacket and slapped it away. Paul closed the metal fire door, locked it, and headed for the basement, the front doorbell chiming in his ears.
13
Fifteen minutes later, the outside lights faded to black. Paul wasted no time. He let himself out into the backyard; crouching at the top of the stairs, he listened. The distant whoop of a siren and the barking of a neighborhood dog were the only sounds. The cold night air found its way to his neck. He zipped the jacket, picked up his bag, and made his way out to the street, where the acrid tinge of violence still floated on the breeze.
Arbor Street had seen all the excitement it could stand for one night. The houses were dark and cinched up tight as Paul walked straight across the street and cut through a narrow alley between houses. He paused and cast a backward glance at Harmony House, hoping to weld its jagged silhouette to his memory. Only Shirley’s light was on. He could see the top of her head in the window. He waved, knowing she couldn’t raise her arm high enough to wave back, then stepped into the alley and disappeared from the otherworldly glow of the streetlights.
He was headed west toward the interstate, toward the freeway entrance Ken took whenever they had a job in the south part of the city. He was heading for that dirty half a block right before the freeway began, the place where ragged panhandlers and eager hitchhikers stood shivering on the sidewalk with sodden handmade signs. He remembered Ken saying how he wished he could help them out with a ride but how it wasn’t safe to pick up hitchhikers anymore. Too many weirdos out there.
At one point, thin
king he heard a car, he stepped deeper into the shadows of an apartment-house doorway. He waited. Turned out to be a gentle breath of wind stirring the leaves in the trees. He went on, moving faster now, nearly jogging.
Overhead, a full moon sat fat and sassy in the sky. The low clouds had thickened and filled with rain, a fickle reminder that ol’ man winter hadn’t bolted town quite yet, but lay just around the next corner, alert and ready to pounce.
He could hear the distant roar of the highway. The blat blat of a truck’s jake brake tore the air to pieces. Diesel fumes filled his sinuses. He took a deep breath and swallowed. This was where things got hairy, where he finally had to abandon the back alleys and take to the streets like a big boy. The buildings were larger here, storefronts, apartments, and condos, no single-family houses, no back alleys, no cover.
He hurried to the end of the block and peeked around the corner. The buildings and lights of downtown popped into view, shimmering and glimmering in the cold night air, headlights and taillights moving everywhere at once, the bodily fluids of the great beast.
He was a block uphill from the bridge over the highway. A quarter mile of stark, arched concrete whose sides were topped with fences designed to protect unwary drivers from falling objects. From here on it was pure luck. If there were enough of them…if they wanted him bad enough…if they caught him on the bridge…well then, they got him, pure and simple. If he got lucky, in a half hour he’d be in another area code, every bit as lost to them as he was to himself.
