I stumbled out to the elevator and rode it down to the garage. I should have taken his car keys but I didn’t think of it. There were all his beautiful automobiles filling a whole wall of the garage-his life.
If he was going to die, I should have carried him down so he could die in one of them.
I got out to the side street. The sirens were coming fast. I crossed the street and found the alley behind the row of businesses. They weren’t so antique and picturesque from behind.
Sirens screamed, car doors slammed, lights flared. I heard the locked front glass door shatter and I saw a cruiser cut off the garage entrance. I had only seconds to get moving.
As steadily as I could I walked the length of the alley to the next side street. At the end, I turned toward the blocks behind.
38
A hundred times in the dark I woke. Some of the times were from pain, some from dreams, some were from voices and the tread of feet above me or sirens in the street outside. And some were from the cold.
My body couldn’t sustain consciousness. Each time I’d wake in terror. The nightmare images would all be a jumble: Eric’s face, Katie’s face, screaming, Fred with a gun, men in dark streets. Then I’d remember what they meant just as I slid back under the waves, too wounded and weak to struggle.
Daylight found me under the front porch of an old derelict house. I was lying in dirt, and the floorboards were twelve inches above my head. It was better than a Dumpster.
My jaw was fighting for my attention against all the other aching muscles and bruises. I knew I could move when I had to and I knew how bad it would hurt.
How badly was Eric hurt? It had to be that he was only hurt. Why was he such an idiot? Surely he would be all right. He was still breathing when I left. I had to find out.
It was time to move. The pain clamped down on me, just like I knew it would, and I crawled out of my rathole into the bright light.
The house was close to the street. I was about ten feet from the sidewalk. The neighborhood had once been better, but it looked like it had gotten mugged and thrown in the trash. I fit right in.
I didn’t know which way to go. I got to the first corner. If I went south I’d cross the line into Eric’s affluent quarter. It must be close.
Four blocks was all. I came out within sight of his building. I pulled back into the alley.
I found a trash can behind a restaurant, full of garbage. Right on top was a half-eaten chicken sandwich. I tried to take a bite but my jaw couldn’t do it. Then a man inside yelled at me and waved an empty bottle like a club. I shuffled away.
What was I supposed to do? I wanted to find out about Eric, but I couldn’t think of any way to see the news. Could I really have killed him? How had this happened? Why had it happened? I was only trying to stop him from calling the police. I was trying to get away. I’d always hated that big, heavy table, so out of place in that room.
Now there was only one place to go. I needed to get to Nathan’s house. I hardly remembered why, except that it was the only place left. And I hardly knew what direction to go. I just started walking.
I didn’t care about the police. It would be ten miles, or fifteen or twenty. I walked right down the main roads that I knew. I couldn’t spare the energy to wind through back roads and neighborhoods. I saw plenty of cruisers, but no one stopped. They obviously hadn’t gotten a description out of Eric yet. My torn, polluted clothes and my bruised face were a complete disguise.
I didn’t know how far I’d gone, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it in one day. Every step got slower and harder. I was starting to forget where I was going. I had to keep awake enough to not get lost. Pain had transcended the sense of feel-it had become an element of existence.
Sometime in the afternoon I passed a park with a water fountain, but it didn’t work. I had paused, though. Now I couldn’t get started again. I just sat on the park bench and let the afternoon go by.
What would happen at Nathan’s? Would I kill him, too? What kind of curse was on me?
I stood up on my feet and walked so the pain would drive the thoughts out of my head. I was still not giving up.
At sunset I was away from the city. I couldn’t remember how much farther, but somewhere ahead on this road was a village center, and past that was his street.
But I couldn’t go. It wasn’t a matter of will anymore but of physical impossibility. There was a belt of trees and bushes along the road, and I collapsed into a shadowed ditch.
And there was a miracle there, an old coat, and I slept under it.
The coat had probably been in the ditch for a year or more. In the morning I brushed the dirt and spider webs off of it and put it on. I wasn’t thinking at all now, only moving.
It was still early and cold, and walking didn’t warm me. But the coat helped a lot and I was thankful for it.
I turned off the main road onto a street with driveways. I found a newspaper still lying in one. Back on the main road I came to a fast food place with tables outside. It wasn’t open yet. I sat at a table and opened the paper.
MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN
I just stared at it. I couldn’t even think what it meant; just that it was more terrible than anything else that had happened. But then I saw the smaller type.
Doctors Upgrade Eric Boyer’s Condition to Guarded.
I wouldn’t have let go of that newspaper for a steak dinner. I devoured it for any clue about him.
He was conscious, as of sometime yesterday. He’d had a concussion. There was no major damage.
That gave me energy enough to want to read the rest of what was happening. Harry Bright had told the reporter that if they wanted to see brain damage, they should look at Commissioner DeAngelo’s department. Nothing else could explain how his entire Division of State Police could let the most wanted man in the world get past them to attempt another murder. DeAngelo had answered that the police protection had been suspended at Eric Boyer’s request after his police escort had given him a speeding ticket.
But most of the news was about the hunt. There were now roadblocks around the whole city, watches on all the bus and train and air terminals, at all the ports and marinas. Hotels were reporting anyone vaguely resembling the fugitive.
There were no police left to look for a tramp sleeping in the bushes. I had to agree with Harry Bright: they weren’t doing a very good job.
I finished reading. It was time to get on. It had warmed up, and I thought about abandoning my coat, but it was my only friend.
Then there was another miracle. In the trash was an almost full twenty ounce bottle of soda. I savored the liquid and calories and caffeine. It was enough for the moment.
It still took me four more hours to get to his house. It was after noon.
I saw no sign of anyone watching. Nathan would have refused police protection. He had nothing to fear from me.
Surely he knew. He didn’t think I was the killer. What if he did? He’d give me a chance to explain. Would he believe that it was Fred? I didn’t know if I believed it anymore.
I went around the block, to the house backing against his. There was a way through to his house that was covered by trees and fence. I made my way slowly into his backyard. Now what? His door would be locked. The house would have alarms on all the doors and windows.
I’d wait in the bushes for him to get home.
I sat for an hour, but it got painful. I shifted to bushes against the house. They were smaller, but there was
