When the cops burst open the roof door, I am ready. I have been eyeing the jump since I got up here. I don’t know how many feet it is. I don’t know if I can make it. But I am on the southeast corner of the building. I run with all my strength, my arms pumping. The wind is rushing in my ear, but I still hear the warnings:
“Stop! Police!”
I don’t listen. I don’t think they will shoot, but if they do, they do. I accelerate and time my steps so that I spring off my left foot just inches from the roof’s northwest corner.
I am airborne.
My legs bicycle-run in the air, my arms still pumping. It is dark on the neighboring roof. I can’t see if I will make it and for a moment I flash back to the cartoons of my youth, wondering whether I am going to pause running in midair like Wile E. Coyote before I drop like a stone to the ground beneath me. I feel my propulsion slow as gravity starts dragging me down.
I begin to fall. I close my eyes. When I land hard on the roof across the way, I tuck and roll.
“Stop!”
I don’t. I somersault to a standing position. Then I do the same thing again. I run, I leap, I hit the next roof. Then the next. I’m not scared anymore. I don’t know why. I feel exhilarated. Run, leap, run, leap. I feel as though I can do this all night, like I’m freaking Spider-Man or something.
When I find a roof that’s truly dark, when I think I’ve put enough distance between me and the cops on the roof of Hilde Winslow’s building, I stop and listen. I can still hear the cops and the commotion, but it feels as though they are somewhat distant. The back of the building is dark and really, how much longer can I play Spider-Man?
I find a fire escape and half run, half shimmy down it until I’m about ten feet off the ground. I stop again, look, listen. I’m in the clear. I let myself dangle for a moment from the bottom rung of the ladder and then I let go. I land hard, knees bent, a smile on my face.
When I straighten, I hear a voice say, “Freeze.”
My heart sinks as I turn. It’s a cop. He has his gun trained on me.
“Don’t move.”
Do I have a choice?
“Hands where I can see them. Now.”
The cop is young and alone. He is pointing his gun toward me while he bends his neck to talk into one of those clipped-on microphones. Once he does, this backyard will be flooded with cops.
I have no choice.
There is no hesitation, no fake, no juke. I simply launch myself straight at him.
It has been less than a second since he told me not to move. I am hoping the suddenness of my attack will catch him off guard. It is a dangerous move obviously — he’s the one pointing the gun — but the cop looks hesitant and a little scared. Maybe that will play to my advantage and maybe it won’t.
But what options do I have?
If he shoots me, okay, whatever. I probably won’t die. If I do, well, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. More likely, I’ll be wounded and end up back in prison. If I surrender peacefully, I end up in the same situation. Back in prison.
I can’t allow that.
So I lower my head and bull-rush him. He has time to start to yell “Freeze!” again, but I get there before he can complete the word. It ends up sounding more like “Free!” and because I’m hyped up and desperate, I take that as a good omen. I tackle him around the waist, jangling his utility belt and heavy vest and all the things that weigh modern cops down.
Keeping my momentum going, I follow through like a pile driver as we land hard on the concrete walk behind the townhouse. His back takes the impact hard, and I can hear the woosh sound as the air comes out of him.
He is struggling for breath.
I don’t let up.
I take no joy in this. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I know that he is just doing his job and that the job is just. But it is him or Matthew and so again I have no choice.
I rear my head back and then fire my forehead toward his nose. The head butt hits the cop hard, like a cannonball hurled at a ceramic pitcher.
Something on his face cracks, gives way. I feel something sticky on my face and realize that it’s blood.
His body goes slack.
I hop up. He is moving, groaning, which both scares and relieves me. I’m tempted to hit him again, but I don’t think there’s a need. Not if I move fast.
As I rush toward Sixth Avenue, I take off my blazer and wipe the blood off my face. I toss the blazer and my baseball hat into the shrubbery and keep moving.
When I reach the street, I try to slow my breath.
Keep moving, I tell myself again.
A crowd has formed. Most stop to watch for a few seconds. Some stand to see how it all plays out. I lower my head and let myself blend in with the onlookers. My pulse is back under control now. I start whistling as I walk east, trying so hard to look casual and inconspicuous that I feel like I stick out like a cigarette at a fitness club.
A few blocks later, I risk glancing behind me. No one is following me. No one is chasing me. I start whistling louder now, and a smile, a real live smile, comes to my face.
I’m free.
Chapter 20
When Rachel finally got to her front door, bone-weary exhausted in a way she had never experienced before, her sister Cheryl was pacing on the front stoop.
“What the hell, Rachel?”
“Let me just get inside, okay?”
“You helped David escape?”
Rachel opened her mouth, closed it. “Just come inside.”
“Rachel—”
“Inside.”
She pulled her keys out of her purse. Rachel lived in what was generously dubbed a “garden apartment.” She’d recently applied for a job with a free local paper, a job for which she was immensely overqualified — but hey, beggars can’t be choosy. The editor, Kathy Corbera, one of her favorite journalism professors, had advocated for her, but in the end, the publisher knew about her past and wanted to avoid even the slightest whiff of scandal. Understandable in today’s climate.
Rachel pushed open the door and headed straight for the kitchen. Cheryl was close behind her.
“Rachel?”
She didn’t bother to respond. Every part of her ached and begged for numb. Rachel had never needed a drink so badly. The Woodford Reserve was in the cabinet next to the refrigerator. She grabbed the bottle.
“You want one?”
Cheryl frowned. “Uh, I’m pregnant, remember?”
“One won’t hurt,” she said, pulling down a glass from the cabinet. “I read that somewhere.”
“Are you for real?”
“You’re sure you don’t want some?”
Cheryl just stared daggers. “What the actual fuck, Rachel?”
Rachel filled the glass with ice and poured. “It’s not what you think.”
“You call me all mysterious yesterday. You say you’re visiting David, just like that, out of the blue. You say we need to talk when you get back home and now...?”
Rachel sucked down a sip.
“Was this what you wanted to tell me?” Cheryl continued. “That you were going to help him escape?”
“No, of course not. I had no idea he was going to escape.”
“So, what, your being up at Briggs was just a wild coincidence?”
“No.”
“Talk to me, Rach.”
Her sister. Her beautiful, pregnant sister. Cheryl had been through such hell. Five years ago, Matthew’s murder had knocked her to her knees, and Rachel never thought that her sister would be able to get up again. To the outside world, Cheryl was moving on. New husband, pregnant, new position. But she wasn’t. Not really. She was trying to build something, something new and strong, but Rachel knew that it was still flimsy and flyaway. Life is fragile at the best of times. The foundation is always shifting beneath our feet.