The last thing I remember h-1

by Andrew Klavan

  Now, when I looked up ahead, I could see one building standing out from the others. The building looked new and shiny, a bright box of metal and glass in the midst of all that dull, dirty brick and cement.

  “Is that it?” I said. “Is that the jail?”

  No one answered, but I knew it was. We were only a block away. I was running out of time.

  I scanned the distance, trying to see what was waiting for me up ahead. I wondered if it would be the same as it was outside the jail in Centerville. Would there be reporters? Crowds? Dozens of policemen? As far as I could see, the street looked quiet. The only person I saw was another homeless man shuffling by a deserted lot.

  Detective Rose took out his cell phone. He muttered into it. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I figured he was telling the jail we were coming in.

  Now the shiny metal-and-glass building was rising up over us on the left as we came near. There was a broad flight of stairs leading up to the line of glass doors at the entrance. I still couldn’t see any crowds or reporters anywhere. There were a lot of police cars parked out front, but most of them seemed to be empty. A patrolman did get out of one cruiser, but he trotted up the stairs and went inside without even glancing our way.

  “There don’t seem to be as many people here as there were back in Centerville,” I said. I was trying to find out what to expect.

  “Too bad,” said Detective Rose. “I guess your fifteen minutes of fame are over. You were just a little break between some pop star going into rehab and some movie actor committing suicide. The news cycle cycles on and you’re forgotten.”

  He sounded like he was taunting me, like he thought I’d be sorry that I wasn’t in the news anymore. But I wasn’t sorry at all. The fewer people there were around, the more chance I’d have of making a break for it. Even as it was, the odds were heavily against me. I figured when the time came, I’d have only seconds to make my move before I was taken inside that building, seconds before they discovered my loose handcuffs and put me in another cell.

  I could feel the fear of that moment rising in me now, an agony of suspense that flowed through me like a low and growing current of electricity. The cruiser was passing the jail on the left, moving along the base of the steps, past the row of police cars parked out front. Now the driver put on his turn signal. I saw there was an alley right next to the jail, a narrow corridor between the jail’s shiny metal wall and the blackened concrete of the parking garage next door.

  The cruiser turned and went into the alley shadows. I struggled to slide forward on the seat, to lean toward the grate and look through it, through the windshield at what was waiting up ahead. The alley was empty and, at first, the side wall of the jail seemed solid, an unbroken band of metal at the lower two stories, with grated windows on the six or seven stories above. But as the cruiser continued on, I saw a break in the metal wall, and a heavy door began swinging open. A guard stepped out. He stood in the alley, waiting for us. That’s all there was. One guard. Just one.

  Inside me now, the current of electric suspense grew stronger and stronger until my nerves were all snap and spark and motion. This was it. My one chance. No time to make a plan. I was just going to have to look for an opportunity and seize it. Seconds to decide, seconds to move.

  The cruiser pulled up outside the open door. The driver turned to look at Detective Rose.

  “You gonna need a hand?” he asked.

  Detective Rose wagged his head as if he was trying to decide. Then he said, “Yeah, just help me get him inside, then you can head back.”

  “Sure thing,” said the driver.

  The cruiser’s front doors cracked open on both sides and both men got out of the car at once. Detective Rose walked around the cruiser’s trunk to come around to my door. The driver-a short, solid-looking man with a rough face and graying hair-simply stood up out of the driver’s seat and waited there, leaning on the open door with one hand.

  Now Detective Rose was outside my window. Now he was opening my door. I told myself to relax, get ready, take deep breaths. But I was so tense, so anxious, so electric, I could barely breathe at all.

  Detective Rose reached into the cruiser and took my elbow. I had to keep my fingers wrapped around my handcuffs to make sure they didn’t slip off my wrists and give me away.

  “Watch your head,” said Detective Rose.

  I bowed my head down to clear the door and stood up out of the cruiser.

  We were only about three steps away from the jail door. In seconds, I would be inside, my one chance would be over. Seconds…

  But the seconds seemed long-weirdly long, as if they were passing in slow motion. I guess I was so scared now, so wired up, that my brain was working at a quicker speed. I seemed to have time to look around, to notice everything that was happening. Everything seemed to be sharp and bright, to stand out from the world like the pictures in those pop-up books I used to have when I was little. There was the guard waiting for me at the door. Detective Rose with his face set forward. The driver reaching for my other elbow while his other hand moved to close the driver’s door. I caught a glimpse of the cruiser’s dashboard: the keys in the ignition.

  I moved. Like a magician performing a trick, I ripped my hands free of the cuffs. As the driver reached for my elbow, my hand shot up and eluded his grasp. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He was thickset, but I had so much adrenaline pumping through me that I think I could’ve lifted him over my head and hurled him to the end of the alley. Instead, I just yanked him across my body and shoved him into Detective Rose.

  The two men collided. Caught completely by surprise, Detective Rose was knocked off balance. He lost his hold on my elbow and grabbed hold of the driver to keep from falling over. The two men were carried several steps away from me, clutching each other for balance. At the same moment, I grabbed the cruiser’s still-open door and jumped inside behind the wheel.

  It happened fast, really fast. The guard standing by the jailhouse door didn’t even have time to react. I caught a glimpse of his face as I pulled the cruiser’s door shut. It was blank-there was no expression on it-as if he hadn’t even realized what he’d just seen.

  I grabbed the car key and twisted it, jamming my foot down on the gas. As the engine roared to life, I grabbed the transmission stick, threw it into reverse.

  Someone shouted: “Hey!” I saw Detective Rose scrambling to his feet. I saw the driver pushing away from him, reaching for the gun in his hip holster.

  But then I was looking away, looking back over my shoulder as, with a screech of rubber on road, the cruiser ripped away from them, shot backward up the alley toward the street.

  As I busted out of the alley shadows into the light, I had a horrible shock. The face of a homeless man frozen in a gasp of surprise was inches away from my window. He was just about to cross the alley. If he’d taken one more step, I would have run him right over. But he pulled up short. He shouted a curse. I rocketed past him, took my foot off the pedal, and twisted the wheel, hard.

  The cruiser gave another rubber scream and swung around in the street, throwing up a cloud of dust. A horn blasted loudly as a delivery truck nearly crashed into me, swerving away from me in the nick of time.

  Even as the cruiser was turning, I grabbed the transmission and knocked it into drive. I caught a glimpse of the alley. Detective Rose was on his feet now, reaching to his belt for his gun. The driver had his gun out already. He was pointing it right at me. He might have had a shot at me, but he didn’t take it. Of course he didn’t. He was a policeman-one of the good guys. They don’t just open fire on someone who isn’t going to shoot back.

  In the next moment, anyway, his chance was gone. I jammed my foot down on the gas pedal. The cruiser bucked like a bronco and then shot past the alley, heading down the street at high speed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Shelter There was a TV hanging on the cafeteria wall. A pretty blonde newswoman was on the screen, sitting at a desk, telling the news. Sh
e was talking about the arrival of Secretary Yarrow on Saturday. Yarrow had personal ties to the governor, she said, and was stopping off in Centerville to meet him. From there, it was easier for him to travel to the president’s vacation home along the highway rather than by helicopter. And because of that, the security precautions were going to tie up traffic in the area. There was a map behind her showing the secretary’s route from Centerville to the president’s vacation home.

  Saturday. Tomorrow. And no one knew the secretary was going to be assassinated. No one but me.

  I was in a homeless shelter. It was dark now. Night had fallen. I had been on the run all day-a long, long day…

  I had ditched the stolen police cruiser as soon as I put some distance between me and the jail. The car was just too easy to spot. The police would have found me in minutes. Instead, after driving a few zigzagging blocks, I jumped out and made my way on foot. I crossed empty lots and ducked down dirty side streets, hoping to hide my trail before the police could get moving and come after me. Finally, I spotted an abandoned brownstone and went inside to hide. On the third floor, there was an open space where there had once been walls and rooms. All that was there now was broken glass and stone and dirt, cold air drifting through broken windows-oh yeah, and rats, big fat ones, nosing around the walls, looking for scraps of food.

  I stayed there and listened. Soon the sirens started, one and then more and then more as the police turned out in force to search for me. After a while, there was a helicopter too. I heard its blades chopping the air as the pilot scanned the area below. I sat in the abandoned building and waited. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought they would turn out with dogs soon, and then they’d be sure to find me. But the hours went on and I heard more sirens but no dogs. And no one came to the building.

  So there I stayed, hour after hour. Waiting, listening, afraid. I slept sometimes, but mostly I just sat-sat and thought about things, trying to figure out what I should do next.

  It wasn’t an easy thing to figure. I mean, here I was, on the run again just like yesterday-only now it was much, much worse. Yesterday, I thought only the bad guys were after me. I thought all I had to do was find my way back to civilization and call my parents or the police and everything would be fine. Now I realized the police-the good guys-were after me too. My parents had moved away. I was suspected of killing my best friend. Everyone was against me.

  Well, no, wait-not everyone. There was that guy- that guy who’d whispered to me as they lowered me into the police car, who had broken my handcuffs and said I was a better man than I knew. He was on my side, whoever he was. If I could find him, or find this Waterman he was talking about, maybe one of them would help me.

  Meanwhile, though, I had another problem, a new problem, a big one. Richard Yarrow, the secretary of homeland security, the man in charge of protecting the country from terrorism. With me a fugitive and the police figuring me for a murderer and a liar, how was I ever going to convince anyone that his life was in danger?

  So I sat in that empty room and thought about all this, hour after hour, hugging myself and shivering as the afternoon wore on and the autumn air got colder and blew harder from one broken window to another. After a while, the howls of the police sirens began to fade, first one, then the next, until they were all gone. The helicopter moved away, the chop of its propellers growing softer and softer until I couldn’t hear it anymore. By the time the sun went down and the light at the windows faded, it was quiet all around me.

  Darkness came, and I edged over to a broken window. I poked my head around the frame and peeked out at the street three stories below. It seemed empty down there except for the occasional homeless guy shuffling along in the dark.

  I was hungry now, wondering how I was going to find a meal. I had no money. I hated to think of stealing something, but I knew I had to eat if I was going to go on.

  Finally, I left the brownstone. I went down into the street and stepped out into the chilly evening. It was a weird, kind of naked feeling being outside again. I knew my escape must be on the TV news. I knew they must be talking about me and showing my picture and all that. Maybe they were even offering a reward-you know, for information leading to my arrest. I felt as if my face were a neon wanted poster, a big lighted sign saying: If you see this man, call the police.

  Stuffing my hands in my pockets and hunching my shoulders against the cold, I moved down the street. I kept looking around to see if anyone noticed me. Every time a car went by, I pulled up, worried it might be a cop. Once, a police cruiser actually crossed my path, heading down an intersecting street. I edged close to the wall of a building, where the darker shadows hid me until the cruiser had gone past.

  I had an idea now. Back home-back in my real life when I was just a regular kid-my church had worked with a homeless shelter. Once a month, people from our congregation would go over there and bring food and cook dinner for anyone who wanted it. Sometimes I was one of the volunteers. The homeless shelter was connected to another church, and I knew that a lot of churches in bad neighborhoods like this one ran soup kitchens and shelters to help the poor.

  So I looked for a church. Whenever I came to a corner, I lifted my eyes and scanned the area for a steeple or a cross lifted against the night sky. Each time I saw one, I went toward it to see if there might be a soup kitchen, somewhere for the homeless to get something to eat. Somewhere for me to get something to eat.

  Sure enough, on the third try, I lowered my eyes from a steeple and saw a line of hunched men standing on the sidewalk. I moved toward them. They were waiting outside a small building next to the church. It was a homeless shelter with a cafeteria. There was a cardboard sign in the window, saying dinner was available at seven o’clock on a first-come-first-served basis. I got in line with the others. When the shelter doors opened, we began to shuffle inside.

  I was glad to get in. I was weak with cold by that time. The building was warm, and the warmth slowly sank into me. I followed the others down a little hall that led into the cafeteria. It was a big room, clean and brightly lit, with long tables covered with paper tablecloths. I smiled kind of sadly to myself when I saw it. It reminded me of the cafeteria at school. I never thought I’d miss that place. But I missed it now.

  I got a tray and stood in the food line at the long counter. I was younger than most of the others there, but we all looked pretty much the same: stooped and unshaven, with worn-out clothes and dark circles of exhaustion under our eyes. The people behind the counter scooped mashed potatoes and roast beef onto our plates- big heaps of them. They all smiled brightly and said hello to each of us as we went past. It was funny in a way. They acted just like the people from my church acted when they volunteered at the homeless shelter once a month. They acted just like I acted when I volunteered. I remembered all those tired, heavy, unshaven faces going past me as I put the food on their plates. I remembered their exhausted eyes looking at me as they nodded their thanks and shuffled by. It never in this world occurred to me that I would ever be one of them. I guess it never really occurs to anyone.

  When my plate was full, I carried my tray to a table. I spotted the TV on the wall and sat where I could watch it while I ate. The news was on-I figured I’d find out if they were talking about me. And of course they were. First there was that story I mentioned about Richard Yarrow’s visit, about the security and the traffic and the map of his route and all that. Then, as I sat there watching, a great big picture of me-of my face-appeared behind the newswoman, right where the map had been.

  “A fugitive killer arrested yesterday by police has broken free again. Jack Alexander has the latest.”

  Instinctively, I slouched down in my chair and kind of hunched up my shoulders to keep from being noticed. I glanced around the room to see if anyone had recognized me. It didn’t seem that anyone had.

  Then I looked at the TV again. There it was: the video of me being taken from the Centerville jail to the waiting cruiser. Detective Rose holding my elbow.
The crowd of reporters shouting at me, jostling me. The crowd of onlookers, gawking and staring. The police surrounding me, hurrying me to the cruiser. It was weird to see it like that, from the outside, right there on television. It was weird to see my life transformed into a story on the evening news.

  “After more than three months on the run, Charles West was brought to justice yesterday,” the reporter, Jack Alexander, said over the pictures. “But it didn’t last.”

  Alexander went on to talk about how I’d somehow managed to break free of my handcuffs and run away. There was a picture of Detective Rose, scowling as he walked past reporters without making a comment. Alexander said the police were baffled about how I broke out of the cuffs. He said the police effort to track me down had been hampered by recent budget cuts that had left them short on manpower and had eliminated their K-9 Corps-their tracking dogs.

  Then they want back to the video of me being led out to the cruiser in Centerville. I was wrapped up in the story now. I leaned forward in my chair, staring at the TV. I was trying to see if there was a picture of the man who’d broken my handcuffs. But no, there was just Detective Rose with his hand on my arm and then, just before I reached the car, the state troopers crowded around me, and the picture just became a blur of khaki.

  I sat back. Keeping an eye on the television, I got myself a forkful of potatoes. I started to lift it to my mouth-but what I saw next made my hand freeze in midair.

  There were my mom and dad. Right there on TV. They were standing outside a house in front of a lot of microphones. My dad had his arm around my mom’s shoulders. My mom was holding a tissue to her nose, crying. She was crying so hard that when she tried to speak, she couldn’t. It hurt to see her like that. I always hated it when she cried.