The Long Way Home (3 page)
I was scared—really scared. But I managed to give him a hard stare. “Thanks anyway,” I said.
The man’s lip curled in what was half a smile, half a sneer. “You were the one who chose to betray us, West. You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you draw things out.”
He lifted his chin. I followed the gesture and turned. The other guy, the blockhead, was standing at my other shoulder. He held his jacket open a little and gave me a peek at the deadly-looking automatic pistol hidden in a shoulder holster underneath.
“Here’s your choice, my friend,” said Mustache-Man. “You can leave with us now or we’re going to shoot you right here. We’re going to shoot you and anyone else who tries to get in our way. It could be a very bloody business.”
What could I say? I was sure they would do it. Who knew how many innocent people they would kill if I didn’t go with them? For a moment, I hesitated, silent, desperately listening. Desperately hoping to hear sirens approaching. The cops might catch me, might take me to prison, but at least they wouldn’t kill me. Where were they? Where were the sirens?
There was nothing. Not a sound. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the librarian hadn’t called the police after all.
“You will please turn around now,” said Mustache-Man quietly.
I turned around—and there, standing right in front of me, was the blond killer from the bathroom. He’d wiped his face, but I could still see blood on his upper lip. I could see the rage in his eyes too. He couldn’t wait to get me outside and get his revenge.
He reached out and lifted my fleece, exposing the knife in my belt—his knife. Quickly, he yanked the knife free and slipped it into his windbreaker.
“You will please to move to the stairs,” said Mustache-Man.
“Don’t try anything, West,” said the blond killer with fiery eyes.
I hesitated one more second. Listening for those police sirens. Nothing.
“To the stairs,” said Mustache-Man. “Now.”
What could I do?
They surrounded me, Blockhead on one side, Mustache-Man on the other, Blond Killer at my back. They marched me across the room.
A sense of helplessness rose in me. Helplessness and growing panic. I couldn’t fight them or innocent people would get shot. But once they got me out of the library, once they got me out on the street in the gathering darkness, it would be over. All those shadows—all those thugs out there—they’d have me bundled into a car in a second. They would take me away and that would be the end of it, the end of me. No one would even know what had happened.
The three thugs herded me steadily across the room, keeping me hemmed in. They crossed in front of the information desk, heading for the staircase on the right.
I turned to glance at the desk. The sweet-faced librarian was just now coming out of her office. She stopped in her tracks and stared at me as I went walking past with the three men. Had she called the police to tell them she had spotted a fugitive? Were they coming? There was no way I could know for sure.
The men hustled me past her quickly. She watched us go by. She didn’t try to stop me. She didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
Then we were at the stairs. The thugs escorted me down. It was all happening very fast. There was no time to resist, no time even to think. Another moment and we were on the ground floor. There was the checkout desk right ahead of us, a small line of people with books moving slowly past two more librarians. Beyond that, there was a set of glass doors, the front doors leading to the street.
Beyond those, the Homelanders were waiting.
Mustache-Man’s hand tightened on my arm. He knew this was the time, this was my last chance to make a break for it. He wasn’t going to let it happen.
My eyes went this way and that, frantically. Still no sirens, still no sign of the police.
There were only a few steps left before we were outside, lost in the twilight. Mustache-Man kept his grip on me while, with his other hand, he reached out to push the library door open.
I didn’t try to run. I didn’t have the nerve. I didn’t want to get shot and I didn’t want anyone else to get shot either. I had to wait, had to hope the librarian had called the cops, that they were on their way, that they would get here on time.
Mustache-Man opened the door. He went out first, drawing me after him into the cold night air. The blockhead and the blond killer were right behind us.
Now we were outside, standing on the library’s top step with three more steps leading down from the door to the street. I had a sense that the shadows all around me— the Homelanders who had been waiting for us—were even now converging on us, closing in to make sure I didn’t get away.
The blond killer came around from behind me and went down the stairs ahead of us. He moved to a big dark car parked underneath a sidewalk plane tree. He opened the car’s rear door—like a chauffeur waiting for his passenger. Only he was waiting for me and my two escorts. Waiting for them to put me in the dark car so they could drive me away to my place of execution.
A light seemed to go out inside me, the light of hope. I had been wrong. The librarian hadn’t recognized me after all. She hadn’t called the police. There was no help coming, no way I could escape.
Mustache-Man and Blockhead started to hustle me down the stairs toward the open door of the dark car.
And just then, the sirens and lights exploded all around us.
The police had approached the library quietly, trying not to scare me off. But now they saw me making my escape and they charged in to stop me. The blaring sirens and flashing lights went off like bombs. Four patrol cars came swooping in toward the library, two screeching around the corner from the left, two more from the right.
Mustache-Man, Blockhead, and I had just reached the last stair and were about to step down onto the sidewalk. The blond killer was holding the door of the dark car open only a few yards away. Other men, other thugs, were lurking in the shadows at the edges of my vision, lurking all around us in the deepening dusk.
But when the air suddenly filled with the screaming sirens, when the oncoming night suddenly burned red and blue with the cruisers’ lights, everyone froze in place, startled. Mustache-Man. Blockhead. Blond Killer. The shadows all around. Everyone froze.
Everyone but me.
I was the only one who’d been expecting it—hoping for it. I was the only one who was ready to move.
At the first siren’s wail, I yanked my arm free of Mustache-Man’s grip. He tried to react. He started to turn. A stiletto—a long, thin knife—suddenly flashed in his hand in the light of the streetlamp.
But he wasn’t quick enough. I brought my fist down like a hammer on the bridge of his nose. Blood sprayed from his nostrils as his head flew back. In the same movement, with the same arm, I sent my elbow driving back, smashing it into Blockhead’s teeth.
The thugs fell away from me. Blockhead stumbled off the bottom step and spilled to the pavement.
That was all the room I needed. I leapt forward and ran—not toward the dark car, but toward another car parked behind it. I threw myself at the hood, hit the top of it, and rolled. I dropped off the other side, landing on my feet in the middle of the street.
Blinded by the headlights of the onrushing cop cars, I stumbled forward but managed to keep my balance, to keep moving. In less than a second, I was rushing for the far curb, rushing for the motorcycle I’d seen from the window, the one parked just across from the entrance, just in front of the grassy park.
I didn’t know if it was the right motorcycle, the one the key in my pocket would fit. There was still that other one parked farther down the street. But this one was closer. This was the only one I could get to before the police cars reached the front of the library.
I had no choice. I had to take the chance.
What happened next took only an instant, but that instant seemed to go on forever. Everything around me was noise and light and confusion. The discordant screams of the sirens, like cries from a jungle where the animals have all gone insane. The white glare of the headlights stampeding toward me. The whirl of the red and blue flashers bouncing off the trees and the cars and the sidewalks and the dark of evening with a sort of crazy gaiety. Even as I ran through that onrushing chaos, I glanced back over my shoulder. And yes, I saw the hulking shadows of the Homelanders. I saw them hurrying away, slipping off into the deeper shadows, escaping the police. None of them paused to shout after me. None of them drew a gun and took aim. None of them dared. The police were just too close, screaming closer and closer with every moment. There was nothing the Homelanders could do but run for it and hope to find me again another time.
So now—for me—there were just the police. Just, that is, the threat of being arrested again, of being sent back to prison for murder, put in a cell for twenty-five years.
I faced forward and ran with all the speed I had in me.
Two more steps—two, then three—and I was there, at the motorcycle. I saw the orange-and-white logo: it was a Harley at least. But was it the right one? With one hand I was reaching out for the handlebars. My other hand was in my pocket, my fingers on the key I’d taken from the blond killer in the bathroom. I pulled the key from my pocket even as I grabbed the handlebar and threw my leg over the cycle’s seat.
In the same instant, I heard the hoarse screech of tires as the police hit their brakes. The cruisers jolted to a halt right beside me, to the left and right of me, blocking the street off in both directions.
I jammed the key into the bike’s ignition.
The sirens stopped. I heard the cruiser doors thumping open. I heard shouts in the night.
“Hold it, West!”
“Hold it right there!”
“Freeze!”
For one second, I looked up, looked around me. I saw the faces of policemen going blood-red and night-black as the flashers played over them. I saw their figures poised and tense, their arms at their holsters—and then lifting, bringing up their guns, bringing them to bear on me.
Did I have the right motorcycle? Did I have the right one?
I turned the key.
The Harley shuddered as the engine roared to life. A prayer of thanks leapt from my heart to heaven. Above the throaty grumble, through the whirl of colored lights, I heard the police still shouting.
“Get off it, West!”
“Stand down!”
“Don’t try it!”
All together, I kicked the bike’s stand away with my heel, twisted the transmission into gear, twisted the throttle, and wrenched the handlebars, turning the front wheel sharply.
“Stop!”
The bike leapt forward. It jumped the curb, jumped up on the sidewalk. I poured on the gas and roared off into the park, over the grass and into the dark shadows beneath the overhanging oaks.
I don’t know if any of the policemen shot at me. I’d have been pretty hard to hit, moving that fast through the darkness of the little square. For what seemed like a long time—a long, mad, terrifying time—I was only aware of the rumble of the bike and the nauseating thrill of the speed and the movement of the air washing over my face as I bounced and sped across the lawn.
Then, in the glow of a streetlamp, I saw pavement. The white pavement of the walkway through the square. I twisted the wheel and headed for it.
The bike was unsteady on the soft ground, but the minute it hit the pavement, it seemed to right itself and gain traction. It leapt forward, dashing over the walkway, racing even faster than it had before.
I looked up, looked ahead. There were dark shadows under another row of oaks at the edge of the square. Then, just beyond that, there was a streetlamp’s glow and the far sidewalk—and the far street, the next street over, where I could see the headlights of cars whisking past in the early evening.
I turned the bike again and headed for the sidewalk. I felt the tires grow unsteady under me as they left the pavement and hit the grass. The lacework shadows of bare branches fell over me. The thick trunks of the oaks loomed in front of me, the light of the sidewalk street-lamps visible in between. I headed for one of the gaps between trees, aiming to break out onto the sidewalk, to leap off into the street and make a getaway.
The gap of light grew larger as the bike raced toward it unsteadily. With the soft earth gripping at the tires, I could feel the machine trying to wrench itself out of my control. I fought hard to aim the bike at the light between the trees.
Then, suddenly, a silhouette blocked the way. It was a woman. A pedestrian walking along the sidewalk. She was just passing by, blocking the space between the tree trunks. She didn’t see me heading straight toward her.
And I was—I was heading straight toward her at high speed, with no room to maneuver. If I tried to get around her—tried to turn the bike to the left or the right—I was sure to smash into one of the tree trunks. If I tried to avoid the trees—tried to swerve out of the way—I would lose control of the bike in the grass and go down—and go down hard.
I had about three more seconds before I hit her, three seconds to decide. There was no way out of it. I had to turn the bike. I wasn’t going to crash into an innocent person. I had to hit the tree or fall.
I gripped the handlebars, ready to try the turn.
And just then she heard me, heard the roar of the approaching engine. She glanced my way. Saw the bike shooting toward her.
I couldn’t hear her scream over the motorcycle noise, but I’m pretty sure she did. I could tell by the way she threw her hands up. By the way her head went back. I could even see her eyes widen in shock and her mouth open in the light of the streetlamp. In her fear, she froze, smack in my path. Then, instinctively, she dodged backward.
That did it. That was all I needed. Her movement opened a little space between her and the tree to the right. The bike’s tires wobbled dangerously as I wrestled them around to point in the direction of that narrow gap.
Then I burst through. Out between the trees. Out of the small park’s shadows. Out onto the sidewalk and into the glow of the streetlamps.