Drivers have stopped their cars, stepped out into the rain. A woman calls out in French, asking me if I’m okay.
I don’t answer her. I crawl through the window, over the trunk, and down onto the ground.
Off in the distance I can hear the oncoming rush of sirens.
At first I figure I’ll just wait here for them. Philippe is technically still police, so he’ll be able to bail me out.
Then I wonder what if Philippe is in this, too.
What if he’s just as dirty as these three dead bastards?
The sirens are closer now, maybe two or three blocks away. I start walking in one direction but stop when I remember the car that rammed us and figure yes, that was Philippe, coming to my aid, trying to save the damsel in distress.
Wasn’t it?
I start walking.
That same woman calls out again, asking me to stop. Others pick up the chorus.
My walk picks up into a jog.
The sirens are a block away. Their flashing lights reflect off the buildings ahead.
My jog turns into a sprint.
As it’s a one-way street, I can’t help but pass the first police car coming toward me. Out of the corner of my eye I see the two cops inside turn their heads as they try to track where I’m going.
I reach the end of the block by the time the second car arrives. It screeches to a halt, reverses, darts in my direction.
I sprint down one block, down another. The cruiser stays with me.
I spot an alleyway across the street. I keep sprinting on this side of the sidewalk though, pumping my arms and legs, until I’ve reached the end of the block and then I stop, pivot, start sprinting back the way I came.
The cruiser streaks past me, its siren still blaring. It screeches to a halt, starts to reverse just as I cross the street and run into the alleyway.
Which happens to be a dead end.
A dumpster is set up at the end of the alleyway. A few trashcans are scattered about, all of them overflowing.
A fire escape hangs off one of the buildings. I jump for it but the ladder is too high for me to reach.
I grab one of the trashcans, dump it out, place it upside down directly underneath the ladder. I climb up onto the trashcan as the cruiser pulls into the alleyway, its high beams splashing me.
I grip the first rung and pull myself up. Reach for the second rung, then the third.
The cruiser below me has screeched to a halt again. Both doors open. One of the cops shouts in French for me to stop. The other pulls out his gun, aims, and fires at the top of the ladder.
He doesn’t hit me. What he hits is the steel, enough to send a massive vibration to pass into my hands, through my arms, and into the rest of my body.
I let go of the ladder.
The fall is maybe ten feet. Not too high, but enough to knock the wind out of me when I hit the ground. My body has already been dealing with enough pain, it doesn’t need this, and when I try to sit up, try to move, it’s like my body has gone on strike and refuses to do anything before it’s been given a raise.
The two cops approach me. Both have their weapons held at their sides.
One of the cops says in French, “I can’t believe we found her. Just our luck.”
The other says, “What did Xerxes say he wanted done with her?”
“Taken out.”
“Shit.”
“I know.”
There’s a silence, and then the second cop asks, “So how do you want to do this?”
The first cop shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing was ever said to me about killing.”
“You’re being paid, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. So are you.”
Still lying on the wet ground, showered by rain, trash all around me, I try to move. But my arms, my legs, even my head, don’t want to move.
“All right,” the second cop says. “If you’re too chickenshit to kill her, I’ll do it.”
He steps forward.
I look up, catch only a glimpse of his face.
He grimaces as he raises his gun, aims it at my head.
I don’t close my eyes.
The shots aren’t as deafening as they were in the car, though they echo in the narrow alleyway.
The cop standing over me jerks. His mouth falls open. His fingers relax, dropping the pistol. It clatters to the ground just as he falls to his knees.
The first cop spins around, raising his weapon, but he’s shot, too—bang bang—and then falls to the ground, dead.
The rain keeps falling. It doesn’t let up.
My hair is soaked. My clothes are soaked. My entire being is soaked.
Slowly, so very slowly, I push myself up into a sitting position. It isn’t easy. The pain is intense. Rain drips into my eyes, forcing me to blink them away.
A figure stands behind the police cruiser. The lights keep flashing, playing red and white patterns off his dark overcoat, off his black mask and black fedora.
I can barely see his eyes.
He raises his gun, aims it right in my direction. Even though there are ten yards between us, I know the barrel is centered at my face.
The moment stretches on. The rain continues to fall.
The man keeps the gun aimed for another couple seconds before he lowers it, turns, and hurries away.
I lie back down on the ground. I close my eyes. Raindrops cover my face. Run into my mouth. They taste like tears.
Part Three
What Goes Around, Comes Around
Forty-Two
When I make the turn onto Arbor Drive Monday morning, I notice a black sedan parked across the street from the Haddens’ house. In the car are two men, both sitting in the front. I get only a glimpse, but it’s enough for me to see that one of the men wears a white bandage over his nose.
Inside, Sylvia greets me as she always does, asking if I’d like breakfast. She
