Law of Attraction (24 page)

D’marco lay on his back as men ran all around him. He hoped no one would step on him. He was probably in more danger from the stampeding crowd than the gunshot wound, he thought, although his arm really hurt. He hoped the bullet had taken the best possible route: through flesh, but no bones. In and out.

The guards were screaming at each other and the prisoners, trying to forge order out of the chaos. D’marco draped his injured bicep across his chest. He felt a warm stain of blood spreading over his torso. There seemed to be a lot of blood—soon the stain covered his entire chest—which was perfect. He needed to look as gory as possible. Between the blood and the bullet hole he’d fired through the front of his denim jacket, he hoped it would look like he’d been shot in the chest.

There was still one finishing touch. He lifted his bleeding bicep to his face and let the blood fill his mouth. He held the blood in his mouth, not swallowing, breathing through his nose. The mouthful of his own blood was disgusting—warm, salty, and nauseatingly thick—and D’marco forced himself not to gag. He just needed to keep it in his mouth until the guards came.

Soon, the prisoners were cleared out and the yard was silent. D’marco peeked at the gray November sky. He wondered if they might not notice him for a while, and whether he might be at risk for freezing to death if he had to lie here bleeding for a long time. A moment later, the crunching of guards’ footsteps on the asphalt was a relief. D’marco closed his eyes as the guards gathered around him.

“Jesus,” one said. “Is he dead?”

Someone kneeled next to him and laid his fingers on D’marco’s wrist.

“No, there’s a pulse.”

D’marco used that moment to gargle and choke on the blood in his
mouth. He felt the blood spatter his forehead and drip down both sides of his mouth.

“Oh God!” a younger guard screamed, jumping back.

“Call an ambulance!” another shouted.

A few minutes later, the paramedics trotted into the yard. D’marco heard the snap of rubber gloves being put on, and then an EMT was kneeling over him, checking his vital signs. D’marco kept his eyes closed but let out a soft groan, expelling the remaining blood from his mouth.

He was lifted gently onto a stretcher. He lay completely motionless as the paramedics carried him to the bay where the ambulance was waiting.

By the time the stretcher was being loaded onto the ambulance, the guards were murmuring nervously. The city had recently been sued after a prisoner died in jail. Would they be held responsible for this prisoner getting shot? Would they each have to get their own lawyers if they were sued? As the doors slammed shut, one paramedic was unrolling an IV drip while the other was starting the truck, and a single guard was riding shotgun. No one had handcuffed him.

D’marco had to force himself not to smile. This was going to be easier than he’d expected.

22

A
nna jogged down the trail, her breath coming out in quick, cloudy puffs. The days were getting shorter, and it was already dark outside. Still, Rock Creek Park was full of runners jogging down the asphalt path that followed the creek through the wooded park. Cars swished by on the parkway that paralleled the running path. Their headlights flashed over the bare branches of trees and the water rushing through the creek. The frigid air seared Anna’s throat and drew rosy circles on her cheeks and nose. It felt good after the dusty, forced heat of her office. She felt her head clear and her thoughts sharpen as the cold air circulated in her lungs.

The Taft Bridge came into view, signaling the end of her run. She rallied herself into a sprint, her arms chopping the night air, her legs flying over the pavement as she ran up the hill that took her out of the park and toward the busy street. It was a pleasure to move her body, to feel her feet come in sharp contact with the earth, to make contact with the physical world in a way that she didn’t as a lawyer. She pushed her lungs and legs to the limit, until she felt like she couldn’t possibly go any farther—and then she made herself go a little more.

When she reached Connecticut Avenue, she slowed to an exhausted walk, gulping for air, her heart racing. Hands on her hips, head down, she passed the concrete lions guarding the bridge, which took her back over Rock Creek Park. Anna ignored the whooshing cars and the people passing her on the sidewalk—she was losing her Midwestern instinct to nod hello to everyone she passed—and gazed out at the park beneath her, dark and quiet amid the glowing bustle of the city. Her thoughts drifted to whether she would order Thai food or heat up the remains of a burrito from last night.

By the time she turned onto her own quiet street, her breathing was mostly back to normal, though her throat was raw from the cold air. She coughed and stretched her arms out in front of her. There were fewer cars and people here than on busy Connecticut Avenue, but there
was enough activity that she didn’t pay any attention to the tall man sitting on a bench on the other side of the street.

As she approached her house, her cell phone rang from within her hip pack. She unzipped the small pouch, rummaged past some tissues and ChapStick, and dug out the phone. She looked at the incoming number. It was Jack’s office.

“Hello?” Her voice was raspy and a little breathless from her run.

“Anna, hi, it’s Jack. Sorry to bother you at home, but you’re never going to believe this.”

“It’s no bother.” She’d left the office earlier than usual today, feeling like she needed a good long run. Now she was unexpectedly pleased to hear Jack’s voice. “What’s up?”

“D’marco Davis escaped from jail this afternoon.”

Anna was so surprised she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple had to walk through a bed of ornamental cabbages to get past her.

Jack continued, “It looks like another prisoner shot him.”

“You’re kidding.” Anna shook her head and started moving again. She reached her house and trotted down the three steps to the door of her basement apartment. Cradling the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she dug through her hip pack for her keys. “Wait, did he get shot or escape?”

“Both. He was so badly injured, they couldn’t treat him at the jail’s infirmary, so they were transporting him to the hospital. The guard didn’t restrain him because, apparently, it looked like he was dying. When one of the paramedics turned his back, D’marco just sat up and walked out of the ambulance.”

“Geez. Should I be doing something? Do you want me to come into the office?”

Frankly, Anna wouldn’t mind going back to the office and spending the evening with Jack. She pulled her keys out and fumbled to insert her house key in the door. Her fingers, numb from the cold, felt large and clumsy.

“No. There’s nothing we can do. There’s a BOLO out on him.”

“BOLO?”

“‘Be On the Lookout’ for him. It’s been distributed to local police. They’ll find him. Eventually.”

“Great.” Anna groaned as she finally got the key in the lock and pushed her door open. She reached her hand inside and flipped on the
lights so she could peer into the mailbox mounted outside her door. She pulled out a couple of bills and flyers, juggling her keys and mail as she kept the phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder. “He’s probably at Gramma Jeanne’s house, playing video games.”

She stopped talking abruptly as she heard footsteps running up behind her. Anna spun around and saw a large man barreling down the walk to her apartment. In a flash of horror, she recognized D’marco Davis as he rushed toward her. With a gasp, she darted into her apartment and tried to slam the door, her keys and mail scattering around her. But D’marco braced himself against the door and shoved it inward; the momentum sent Anna flying back into her house, into a sprawl on the floor. Her phone shot out of her hands and skidded away on the wood floor.

Anna screamed and reached for the phone, hoping that Jack was still on the line. “Oh my God, Jack! He’s here! It’s D’marco—”

D’marco kicked the door shut, scooped up the phone, and snapped it shut. Only then did Anna notice the blackish-brown stain covering D’marco’s denim jacket, the way that his left arm hung limply by his side, bandaged with some sort of makeshift tourniquet, and the intense focus of his eyes. He took two steps over to where she was sprawled on the floor. She tried to scramble away from him, but backed into a wall.

“Help!” she tried to scream, but her throat, already raw from her run, constricted with fear as D’marco loomed over her. Instead of coming out as a scream, it came out as a squeaky rasp. “Help!”

Her eyes locked on D’marco’s as he reached his enormous hands down to her face.

23

J
ack heard Anna’s screams, and was on his feet before the phone went dead. He grabbed his cell phone and ran down the hallway, dialing 911 as he ran. The office was empty; there was no one else to help him. He ran past the elevator bank and flew down the stairwell, descending five stories in a few seconds. The 911 operator answered the phone as he was running out of the stairwell into the lobby.

“Nine-one-one. Police, fire, or ambulance?” she answered in singsong.

“Police!” Jack shouted as he ran to the front doors. “An escaped prisoner is at the home of a federal prosecutor! We need all available units to respond to her house immediately!”

“Please calm down, sir.”

He stopped running and stared at the phone. The operator was treating him with the condescension reserved for hysterical callers. He cursed to himself.

With exaggerated slowness he said, “Okay. I’m calm.”

“What’s the location of the offense?”

Jack froze with his hand on the front door. He didn’t know. He’d been with McGee when they dropped Anna off a couple of times, but he didn’t know the address.

“I’m not sure of the house number,” he said, knowing how weak the answer sounded. “It’s Wyoming Avenue Northwest, under the name of Anna Curtis. See if you can look it up.” He told the operator he was the chief Homicide prosecutor. He couldn’t tell if she believed him or cared. She said she would send the police.

Jack’s mind raced as he ran outside. Hell, he could call his own team to the scene. He dialed McGee’s cell, and to his relief, McGee answered. Quickly, Jack told him what was happening.

“But I don’t know her address!”

“Anna’s address,” McGee said slowly. “Let’s see . . . Nineteen eighty-three Wyoming Avenue Northwest, Apartment B.”

“Thank God for the memory of a Homicide detective,” Jack breathed.

“Not exactly. She’s listed in the phone book. I’ll meet you there.”

Jack ran down the street, fruitlessly searching for a cab on the deserted streets around Judiciary Square. He kept running toward Chinatown, where people would still be out having dinner or drinks and taxis would be more likely. He finally hailed one at the corner of 7th and F. Jack dove in and barked out Anna’s address. The driver turned slowly north on 7th Street.

“Look, this is an emergency situation.” Jack flashed his U.S. Attorney’s Office credentials as if they were a badge, exactly what the credentials were
not
to be used for. “You’ll get a commendation from the mayor if you can get me there in three minutes.”

The cabbie smiled at Jack. “What am I gonna do with a commendation from the mayor?”

Jack opened his wallet and counted the cash he had in there.

“I have a hundred twenty-two dollars on me. It’s yours if you can get me there in three minutes.”

The driver hit the gas, pressing Jack back against the seat as the cab screeched through a yellow light.

•  •  •

“Ssshhh,” D’marco said as he leaned down to cover Anna’s mouth. His hand was enormous; his palm covered the entire lower half of her face. Anna thrashed her head from side to side, but couldn’t get out of his grip. She opened her mouth until his hand slipped in a little, and then bit down as hard as she could. Her teeth sunk into the webbing between his index finger and thumb. She tasted his blood in her mouth and hoped he wasn’t HIV positive.

D’marco howled in pain and jerked his hand away. Anna used the moment to scramble out from under his legs and run to the front door. Her hand was on the doorknob when D’marco grabbed her by the arms and pulled her away from the door.

“Nuh-uh,” he grunted.

She struggled to get out of his grasp, twisting and thrashing, but he held on effortlessly, like she was a leaf turning in the wind. She tried screaming again, and this time her voice was louder.

“Help!” she shouted. “Someone help me!”

He jerked her to him, so her back was pressed against his stomach, and covered her mouth with his hand.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

This time, he kept her chin clenched shut, so she couldn’t bite. He hauled her, kicking and fighting, across her living room. Anna tried to break out of his grasp, but he held her in an unbreakable bear hug. She realized how much bigger he was than her. He was almost a foot taller and probably double her weight. He dragged her to the red couch.

She thrashed in his arms, terrified. Was he going to rape her? The printout of his criminal history flashed through her head: a bunch of domestic assaults, drug distribution while armed, but no sex crimes. Still, there was a first for everything.

She fought with renewed effort. Anna remembered from a women’s self-defense course that the human knee could withstand only ten pounds of pressure. She lifted her foot and brought it back as hard as she could in the direction of his knee. She didn’t hear the sound of a kneecap popping out of place, as she’d hoped, but it was enough to make him yelp in pain and let go of her. Anna bolted in the other direction, toward the back of her apartment, where the door of her kitchen exited to the back alley.

“Goddammit, woman!” he roared.

She glanced over her shoulder as she ran. He was running after her, moving fast, faster than her. She wasn’t going to be able to open the back door, which was locked three different ways, before he caught up. Desperately, she scanned the kitchen for a weapon. The only thing in reach was the wooden dish rack, covered with bowls, coffee mugs, and silverware.