by Matt Witten
"Where's your fucking money?" the ghost repeated, coming closer with the knife.
I backed away. "What? What money?"
"Don't play with me, asshole! I know all about it! The kid told me!"
It finally clicked: This must be Dale, Zapper's partner. And that's why his knife looked just like Zapper's—the two of them must have bought their knives together. How sweet.
Dale took a swipe at me with the knife. Not so sweet. I jumped backward, but not before the blade caught a piece of my jacket and ripped it. "You killed Zapper! You shot him!" Dale screamed shrilly. "We were gonna buy a shitload of dope together and go to Schenectady and get rich!"
He came at me again. Calm him down, I thought.
"Listen, Dale, that's a beautiful dream, and I'm sorry it didn't work out, but—"
"But you smoked him! You owe me, motherfucker! Where's your money?"
"Look, I don't have any money—"
Suddenly Dale swooshed down with his knife. This time he caught more than just my jacket. The blade ripped into my right shoulder, maybe an inch deep.
Intense, jagged pain flew through me. I could feel the blood flowing out. I started to scream, then forced my mouth shut. The last thing I needed was for Andrea or the kids to come downstairs and get stabbed by this drug-addled madman.
My strangled scream, or maybe the smell of my blood, got Dale excited. He made a gurgling animal noise in his throat and lunged forward.
I leapt sideways. Dale brought his knife around and attacked again. "I'll give you the money!" I said quickly. Dale's knife stopped just short of me.
My arm was killing me, but the truth was I was lucky he'd brought his knife instead of his gun; otherwise I'd be dead by now. Maybe he was using the knife as a sort of tribute to Zapper. I backed up and walked out of the room, with no particular plan in mind, and he followed close behind. I felt his blade against my back. "Don't try anything, asshole."
"Okay, man, okay." I led him into the kitchen. I didn't turn on the light, because I didn't want to look at my blood. I've never been good at that. My eyes searched around the dark room frantically for a bread knife or some other kind of weapon—but just my luck, when Andrea cleaned up from the cops, she put away everything I might be able to use in the cabinets.
Unless . . .
There was a big metal pot on the front burner of the stove, with the handle sticking out. Once someone had knocked me senseless with a pressure cooker. Maybe now I could do the same thing, if I could somehow just get hold of that handle.
"Where's the goddamn safe? Come on, where? Where?" Dale's voice was fast and high-pitched, like a record album playing at the wrong speed.
"It's down there." I pointed to the cabinet just to the right of the oven. "Back of the bottom shelf."
I was hoping he'd bend down to open it, giving me a chance to grab the pot handle. But he was too smart for that. His knife tickled my ribs. "Get down and open it. Open it!"
Shit, now what? "I need the key. It's under the pot here." I lifted up the pot, but then hesitated. I could feel his blade at my side. By the time I brought the pot back far enough so I could get leverage for a good solid swing at him, he'd figure out what I was doing, and his knife would be through my ribs in half a second. I felt horribly miscast, like Woody Allen trying to play a role meant for Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"Fuck are you doing?"
"Take it easy, will you? The key is inside the stove here, under the burner. See, the burner doesn't work." Keeping one hand on the pot handle, I used my other hand to remove the iron ring from the top of the burner. Moving as slowly as possible, I set it aside.
"Hurry up!" Dale barked, prodding me with the flat of his knife.
"I'm going as fast as I can, man, you busted my arm!" I did some exaggerated wincing to convince him of how pained and helpless I was. Meanwhile I removed the inner metal ring from the burner, moving at a snail's pace. Then I bent down toward the burner and peered around, as if searching for the key.
Whatever drugs Dale had ingested were clamoring for his attention, making him desperate to see that damn safe already. He opened the cabinet and stooped down, looking for it—
And I brought that big pot down as hard as I could on top of his head.
But his head was moving downward and to the right, so the pot glanced off him without doing much damage. He stood up and roared. I couldn't think what to say to him. "Sorry, just kidding" didn't seem to cut it. Then he charged at me knife-first.
Instinctively, I lifted up the pot to shield myself. The knife hit with a clang and bounced off.
But the collision between knife and pot sent a jolt of pain through my wounded right shoulder, and I dropped the pot. Now Dale had his knife ready again. He was about to attack me.
My left hand closed around the iron ring from the burner. As he rushed at me, I lifted the ring and flung it desperately in the general direction of his head.
Bull's eye!
The guy went down like he'd been karate chopped by Splinter himself. Then he just lay there, breathing peacefully.
I grabbed his knife and a telephone, planning to call the police. But then I stopped.
Would the cops believe me about what had happened? Or would they pin this on me somehow and revoke my bail?
Based on my recent experiences with the cops, maybe I better take care of this situation by myself.
So when Dale came back to life about thirty seconds later, I had his knife and was standing over him. He looked up at me and gave a confused groan. I held the knife where he could see it better. His eyes widened with fear.
"That's right, sucker," I told him. "I got the knife now. So why don't you just go on home and make yourself a nice hot cup of tea."
He nodded nervously and started to get up. But then I kicked him hard in the head and he went back down. I wish I could say I kicked him just to scare him some more, so he wouldn't get any ideas. That wouldn't be totally honest, though. I kicked him because it felt good. Real good. I reared back my foot to do it again.
But then it hit me that with my luck, the bastard would probably up and die on me. So I let him go without committing any further acts of violence. I did, however, give him a parting word as he stumbled out the door.
"Oh, and one more thing," I told him. "Forget Schenectady. It's a beat town."
Then I closed the door, latched it, and turned on the kitchen light. Jesus—the upper arm of my blue denim jacket was soaked with blood. More blood was spattered around on the kitchen floor. Looking at it made me almost faint, and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that a sensitive artist type like me should be doing other things with his life besides getting into car chases and beating up drug dealers.
I didn't call Andrea yet, because I didn't want to get her all upset. So I took off my jacket, trying not to look at the part of my flesh that was flopping around loose. Fighting the angry sparks of pain that were somersaulting up and down my arm, I grabbed some towels from the countertop and rags from under the sink and bound the arm as best I could.
I wanted to call an ambulance, or else attempt to drive to the emergency room myself. But I was still wary of the cops, and I was trying to decide if going to the hospital with this injury might get me into trouble, when the doorbell rang.
Was deranged Dale coming back for more?
I grabbed the knife with my good arm and headed for the door. But then I looked out my front window and saw red lights flashing. The cops. What the hell did they want?
The doorbell rang again. Maybe I should ditch the bloody knife. I quickly hid it behind the TV set, then came back to the front hall. But by the time I got there, my wife and kids were there, too.
"What's going on?" Andrea asked fearfully, as the kids watched me with wide eyes.
"Nothing. Go back upstairs," I replied.
She stared at all the rags and towels covering my arm, and her face went white. "What happened to you?"
"Really, it's nothing," I said inanely, "it's okay
."
She pointed at some redness that had seeped out from under one of the rags. "Is that blood?" she asked, horrified.
The doorbell rang a third time. Andrea looked out the window. "It's the police. They can take you to the hospital."
"No, we're gonna shoot them!" Leonardo called out.
"Shoot them dead!" Raphael agreed.
"Shush!" Andrea said, and opened the door. Manny Cole and Young Crewcut stood on our doorstep with their hands near their guns, poised for action. Their faces looked dead serious, but their eyes were sparkling with excitement. Behind them another cop car pulled up.
Andrea was saying, "My husband's been injured. He needs to be taken to the hospital immediately."
"I'll be glad to help, ma'am," drawled Cole, enjoying himself immensely. "Let's go, Mr. Burns."
"Wait," I said. "What are you doing here? How'd you know I needed help?"
"We can talk about that on the way to the hospital, Mr. Burns. No need for your wife and kids to know all the details, wouldn't you agree?" He gave me a nasty wink.
"You talked to Dale, didn't you? What did he tell you?"
Young Crewcut chipped in. "Everything, Mr. Burns. How you came to his house, trying to bribe him into lying about the murders. And when he said no, you attacked him with a knife."
Andrea gasped. Raphael gazed up at me and asked, "Did you really attack him with a knife, Daddy?"
He looked impressed. Andrea, however, looked alarmed. She looked like she was wondering if Dale's story was true.
Framed again.
The world was closing in on me. The pain in my arm was searing. It reminded me of the fateful little pinch that had started it all. I was so sick and tired. I wanted to give up. Just lay down and cry. Let them pick me up and carry me off to the hospital or the jail or wherever they felt like taking me. I'd confess. I'd confess to anything, if they'd just leave me alone.
I turned to Cole. "Let me get my jacket."
He nodded. I went to the kitchen, where I slipped and fell on a bloody patch of the floor. Then I got up, picked up my blood-soaked jacket—
And ran like hell out the back door.
21
I had a seven-second head start at best. I was still in my own backyard when Cole and Young Crewcut exploded through the back door shouting, "Freeze! Stop right where you are!"
And I was still vaulting over the back fence when I heard the first gunshot.
What the hell—? Was Cole just shooting in the air?
I landed on the other side of the fence, then kept on running. My arm was throbbing but it didn't slow me down.
The back fence did slow them down, though. I gained about four seconds while they climbed over it.
And every second counted. The next two gunshots came as I ran into Western Alley. After the first shot I felt a sharp pain in my neck and I was sure I'd been hit; then I realized the pain was radiating up from my stab wound.
The second shot hit the alley right behind me. Then it ricocheted and rattled a garbage can just to my left. No, Cole was definitely not shooting at the air.
He was shooting at me.
Maybe he figured if he killed me while escaping arrest, it would put him in the clear for capping Pop and Zapper. With me dead, the chief would go ahead and close those cases, and no one would care enough to investigate any further.
I hit Ash Street and veered right. I could hear the cops racing up Western Alley behind me. What should I do? If I kept running down Ash, they'd have a clear shot at me as soon as they came out of the alley. So at the second house on the right, I did a quick dive behind some juniper bushes.
Lately my whole life seemed to depend on successful dives behind juniper bushes.
I couldn't see the cops through the greenery, but I heard them come to a stop at the top of the alley. "I see you, Burns!" shouted Cole. "Come out now or I'll shoot!"
Then there was silence. At one a.m. on a Wednesday morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Deathly quiet. No one around to witness it if the cops shot me. They were fifty feet away, with just one house between us. I tried to slow my ragged breathing.
"I don't think he got away. He's probably hiding behind some bushes somewhere," said Young Crewcut.
"Yeah. Fucker's dead meat," Cole answered. Then his voice changed; he must be speaking into his radio. "Suspect is hiding out on Ash, near Western. Request immediate assistance."
"Ash near Western, here we come," was the radio reply.
"Remember, he's armed and dangerous," said Cole. "He's got a knife, probably a gun, too."
Great, Cole was laying the groundwork for justifiable homicide. He was about to get away with his third murder; a couple more and he'd qualify as a bona fide serial killer. I wondered if he was carrying an extra gun to plant on me.
From my spot behind the junipers, I saw two flashlight beams coming on. Cole was telling Young Crewcut, "We'll start on this side. I doubt he crossed the street. You go left, I'll go right."
Oh, shit—I was on the right. As soon as Cole finished checking out the exterior of the first house, he'd come to mine. And he'd find me, no sweat. I watched, paralyzed, as Cole's flashlight played over the front porch of the first house. Then his body loomed into view. He stepped onto the porch and looked around the railing to see if I was hiding behind it. His gun was out in front of him, cocked and ready.
Then he started back down the porch. Another three seconds and he'd be coming my way.
I moved my feet, about to make a desperate dash—and the movement made a crunching sound, because I was standing on a bunch of small pebbles. Some kind of fancy landscaping job. The noise terrified me, but then I got an idea. I quickly reached down and grabbed a handful of pebbles. I reared back my left, uninjured arm and threw those pebbles over the bushes, hoping they'd make it across the street.
Two seconds later, they hit. From the sound of it, they hit someone's porch. And Cole heard it, too. "He's across the street!" he yelled.
Then he ran over there, and so did Young Crewcut. Just at that moment the backup cop car raced up, without a siren but with its red light flashing. Two cops jumped out and raced across the street to join the others.
One of the cops was Dave. I thought about yelling to him for help. At least then I'd be guaranteed they would take me to jail instead of killing me.
But with a sudden start, I remembered: Having Dave there was no guarantee. He might be the murderer. Hell, for all I knew, all four of these cops were in on the murders together. And even if they weren't, they didn't exactly strike me as crusading Serpico types who would rat on one of their own for a minor infraction like shooting and killing an unarmed civilian.
The fearsome foursome were charging around the house across the street. In the midst of all their noise and commotion, I left my trusty juniper behind and dashed into the backyard. Then I crossed through another yard and found myself back in Western Alley, running toward home. I'm not sure what I was thinking; maybe I was hoping to get my Camry.
But there was another cop car guarding the front of my house. So I took off through some more yards and found myself on somebody's driveway back on Ash, a block and a half away from Cole, Dave, and the others. They were splitting up, with two of them heading my way.
Meanwhile yet another cop car rounded the corner and came at me from the other direction.
If I was counting right, there were at least six of them and one of me. Somehow that didn't seem sporting.
But I did have one thing going for me: I was on my home turf. This was the West Side, and by God, I was a West Sider.
I quickly scurried off the driveway and stuck to the hedges and backyards until I came to the rear of the Orian Cillarnian Sons of Ireland building. At this hour the place was deserted: a perfect hideout. Unfortunately the cops would realize that, too. They'd probably check it to see if anyone had broken in. So I couldn't just bash a window open, I'd have to pray one of them was unlocked.
I darted around the building, trying the doors and
windows. But my prayers weren't answered; everything was locked. I'd have to resort to Plan B.
Only one problem. I didn't have a Plan B.
Three cops were approaching, going house to house, just one block away now. They all had flashlights. I better haul ass, plan or no plan. I backed away from the Orian Cillarnian and tripped over a tree root. As I scrambled back to my feet, I happened to glance upward.
Right above me on the second floor, there was a window that was open two inches. It was about a yard away from the relatively thick branch of a tree.
If I could just:
a) climb the back fence;
b) hop onto the tree;
c) climb to the end of that branch;
d) while hanging on to the branch with two feet and one arm, reach out with my other arm and open the window; and
e) dive out of the tree and land inside . . .
No, it was impossible. Even if I had two good arms, it would still be impossible.
I started to run away, but then cop car number five or six—I was losing count—raced toward me. It screeched to a halt four houses away on Ash, meaning I now had cops less than a block from me in both directions. Two cops poured out of the car and came toward me. They hadn't seen me yet, but—oh, God, it was Chief Walsh himself, accompanied by Lieutenant Foxwell. Were they coming to help capture me, or help kill me?
Was the chief somehow involved in the murders, too? That would sure explain his eagerness to pin them on me, regardless of any guilt on my part.
Walsh and Foxwell didn't have tiny little flashlights like the other cops. They had powerful search beams they were throwing all over the neighborhood. Meanwhile, lights were turning on in a lot of the Ash Street houses, and I knew that pretty soon the residents would be coming out onto the sidewalks to join in the fun. Already a couple of civilians in pajamas and nightgowns were standing on their front porches, looking all around. I was surrounded. There was no place to go—
But up.
So I went up.
