“No,” I said. “Can’t say I have. Did Pepper run off?”
He shook his head. “No. Another dog got into our yard and killed her.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What did it look like?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t see it. It must have been big, though, judging from what it did to Pepper.”
I winced and repeated that I was sorry.
“Well,” he said. “I’m going to be keeping a close eye out around here, and I’ve been asking everyone else to do the same.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
He nodded and went on his way, looking pathetically determined.
I got to Susan’s house, and, once more, checked to see if she was alone. This time I heard soft voices in the bedroom, and I assumed one of them was Jennifer’s.
For just a second I wanted to break the window and descend on them in a storm of blood and anger, then I thought to escape entirely; to go far away where I’d be out of the reach of such thoughts. My next idea was to enter and pay Jill a visit, but I did not trust myself sufficiently; it would be inconvenient if she were to die.
In the end, I sat there, a cold wind blowing across my body, and I studied the stars through the passing wisps of clouds, undimmed by any moon. I do not know how long I waited there, or what I thought I was waiting for, but I suddenly became aware that the door had opened, and Jennifer had left the house.
I remember thinking that her step was very distinct; she leaned forward a bit as she walked, so the scuffling sound came after the step, almost as if she were skating. To my eyes, as I followed her, she was a dark blur against a dark street, but I could follow the pinpoints of the occasional porch or living-room light that she blotted out as she passed before them.
It would have been so easy to fall on her then, as she walked, and have done with it, and I do not know why I didn’t do so. But in the end she came to a very small house, all dark inside with a heavily textured roof and a squat chimney to which a TV antenna was attached. The house did not seem to have many windows. As I watched, a half-moon rose and made the stars fade just a little.
I thought, then, about knocking on the door and seeing if she wanted to invite me in for a chat, but it didn’t seem to be such a good idea because I wasn’t certain what to say to her, or how I’d feel if she did, in fact, did not wish to talk to me. I had to assume she knew about me; did it bother her? Did I care if it did?
If it means so much, why am I so confused and ashamed at my own feelings? If it means so little, why do I feel betrayed whenever I know they are together?
I’ve written a letter to an old friend who could solve this problem for me, but now I’m not certain if I want to send it. I guess I’ll just leave it sitting here for a while and decide later.
Exhaustion, weakness, and trembling are, I think, a small price to pay for life and freedom. We can call that tonight’s lesson and be done with it, but where’s the fun in that? This evening I have had a brush with death or captivity, and learned something important. At this moment, the effects of the escape are so strong that I cannot determine what I have learned, but the exhaustion, I know, will pass.
I remember that, when I rose, the thought was with me that I had not seen Jill for some days, and it wouldn’t do for the poor dear to feel neglected, so, after showering and brushing my teeth, I put on my coat and went out to find her. I could just as easily have brought her to me, but it was a clear, if cold, night, with the stars showing as much of themselves as they dared to in the city; the Big Dipper wheeled over my head and Orion smiled down on me.
Or so I thought at the time. Now, I wonder if he was not laughing at me; but that is as much nonsense as the other; the stars are merely stars, and I put no more weight on their attitudes than I do on dreams.
Numerology, on the other hand, is a proven fact.
That was a joke, Jim.
To continue, then, it was still early in the evening, well before moonrise, and Fullerton was still busy with rush-hour traffic. I was just turning onto Twenty-sixth when I felt a light hit my face-one of those lights that you instantly realize has been directed at you.
The heart is like the stomach-one doesn’t notice its existence until it misbehaves. Now in my case-but never mind. I stopped, turned, and looked directly into the light, which was painful, but I didn’t know what else to do. I waited, feeling as if all of my nerve endings were on top of my skin.
I heard two car doors open at once, and the unmistakable voice of officialdom said, “Hey, buddy, can I talk to you for a minute?” I had to decide what to do right then; there was no time for thought. Had I considered it, I might have allowed them to arrest me, because there were things to learn at the police station. But as I said, there was no time. I could, I think, have killed them, but I have been given to understand that killing policemen is not something to be undertaken lightly; so I turned and ran.
One of them yelled “Stop, asshole!” which gave rise to some scatological thoughts that would have been funny under other circumstances. I tried to think as I ran. There are things I can do that could keep me hidden, but they take time. I could certainly outrun them to get the time, but I can’t outrun bullets.
I found an alley, ducked into it, and saw that it did not dead-end. This wasn’t entirely luck; I have noticed that Lakota tends toward alleys that run from street to street. I heard their footsteps behind me, and one of them was threatening to shoot. Did he mean it? What did they want me for? Under what circumstances, if any, were they allowed to shoot fleeing suspects? I suspected they would stay within their rules (I was, after all, white, and at the worst wanted for a simple, if violent, crime), but I didn’t know what those rules were.
I took a gamble and just ran. I heard one of them cursing, very faintly. They were a good distance behind me; perhaps fifty yards. What would they do now? Call for assistance? Did they have hand units, or would they need to return to their car?
Fifty yards ought to take a man in good condition but weighed down with gun, nightstick, etc., at least five seconds to run. More like ten or even fifteen, but call it five. Enough? Maybe.
I tried to order my mind while running, and after a few steps realized that all I was accomplishing was to run more slowly and lose some of the lead I had built up.
I turned a corner, took five steps, and stopped. I was on a residential street running parallel to and a block from the Ave. It was a busy street: three lanes of one-way traffic, but no businesses were at hand to lend too much light to the proceedings. The nearest street lamp bathed me in its cone of luminance. It’s funny, the sort of details one notices.
Some factors that I considered: The weather in Lakota comes off Lake Erie, and is unpredictable at the best of times, winter not being the best of times. There were mounds of dirty, plowed snow built up off the sidewalk and spilling over onto the street. Furthermore, it was a rather humid day for midwinter.
I heard footfalls, and started off again, at a good pace, but only walking. There was a weakness in my legs that I liked not at all. I heard mutterings behind me, as if one of my pursuers were speaking, followed by a hum of white noise; yes, they could call for help without returning to their car. They were doing so.
It occurred to me, then, that the car was unattended.
There were curses behind me, and “Where the Hell did this come from?”
Was it worth taking the chance?
I kept walking, hurrying as much as I could but remaining silent; I began to head back the way I’d come. I’d have to move quickly, if at all. A brief moment of dizziness hit me, leaving behind it a sense of weakness in all my limbs; but this was to be expected.
In the midst of a fog (if I may) I came to the car, which was not locked. There were sirens coming toward us and the radio was squawking angrily; someone was reciting numbers with great conviction. I stuck my head into the car and glanced in at the mass of electronic gear, artillery, and Hostess cupcake wrappers.