Benny did a sack of potatoes, dropped right down to the floor, boom, clutching his leg and shrieking like a woman in a horror movie. All of which was fine with Shannon, because what a piece of garbage this guy was.
The girl, meanwhile, staggered away from the wall, clutching her throat with one hand and the front of her skirt with the other. She straightened and glanced at Shannon, confused. Then she looked down at Benny. Benny was writhing on the floor. His shriek had sunk away to a series of gibbering sobs. What a piece of garbage.
The girl looked up at Shannon again, hesitating, uncertain. Even in the dark, he could see she was trembling violently.
"My knee!" groaned Benny Torrance.
"Aw, shut up," said Shannon. Then he turned back to the girl. "Go on, sister, get out of here. No one's gonna hurt you now."
He didn't have to tell her twice. She stumbled to the door and out onto the landing. But just as she got there, the long, urgent cry of a siren came to them through the night outside. The police. She really had called them, like she said. By the sound of it, they were turning off the street, coming down the drive to the house. Shannon's heart just about broke when he heard them. He was finished. He was going to grow old in slam. He'd always known this was going to happen if he kept at it and it was his own stupid fault, but that didn't make it any easier now that the time had come.
"You broke my knee!" cried Benny Torrance.
"Shut up, I said," said Shannon sadly.
The girl was still on the landing. She had halted there at the sound of siren. As the siren drew closer, she looked back at Shannon. He could see the whites of her eyes in the shadows. She tilted her head down the hall.
"There's a back way," she told him.
Shannon gaped at her. The sudden rush of hope gave him vertigo. The siren stopped. He could hear the police radio right outside the door.
"Hurry," the girl said.
Dumbfounded, Shannon glanced back at the money in the safe, at his tools on the floor. He glanced down at Benny. Benny writhed and held his leg and went, "Ah God. Ah God."
"Hurry," the girl said again.
Shannon let the crowbar slip from his fingers. He took two long steps and was out on the landing next to her. Instinctively, she recoiled from him, her arm pressed protectively against her breasts. He was close enough to smell her fear and her sex and her perfume and the vomitous smell of Benny on her.
"Thanks, baby," he said.
Still recoiling fearfully, she nodded.
Down the stairs, he saw the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser playing over the beveled glass of the door. He saw the shape of a lawman approaching.
"Don't leave me here!" cried Benny Torrance, clutching his knee.
Shannon took off down the hall. IT WAS A LONG WAY back to his place on foot. Up hills, down empty streets, the night full of sirens. By the time Shannon pushed through the door of his apartment, he was breathless and sweating. He was scared, too. It wasn't hard for him to figure out what was going to happen next.
Benny was done-that was the fi rst point. Benny was diddled, heavily diddled every which way. Once the shock wore off and the girl started talking, she'd get her Mex temper going and give the cops an earful. She was no illegal. You could tell just by looking at her. She had nothing to hide and no reason to hold back. She'd have Benny on agg sex assault and attempted rape and felony B and E, plus God only knew what the law had working on that psycho already. That was it for Benny. Jesus Christ would be back on the street before him.
Which meant Shannon had to hit the wind. He had to grab his bag and go-now, right now. Benny would give him over as soon as he could get the words out of his mouth, before they patched up his knee even. He'd be screaming Shannon's name as they gurneyed him into the ER. Why not, after what Shannon had done to him? It would be sweet revenge and a chance to deal down, all wrapped up in one. It had probably already happened. The cops were probably already on their way. Shannon was just lucky he'd gotten here before they did.
The apartment was empty. Karen must've gone out with her friends like she said she would. Shannon was sorry about that. He would've liked to see her one last time. He would've liked to say goodbye. She was a good girl, easygoing and good-tempered, and always willing to get it on unless she was pissed off about something. They'd had some laughs.
He went to the closet in his bedroom. On his hands and knees, he knocked a panel out of the back wall and pulled his stash from the hole there. He left a couple of fifties for Karen, but he couldn't afford to be too generous. She had her own job and she could sell his car if she needed more cash. He stuffed the money in a gym bag and stuffed some clothes on top of it. He got his traveling kit out of the bathroom and stuffed that in, too.
Before he left, he stood in the center of the living room and looked around, trying to think if he'd forgotten anything. His eyes made natural stops at the wood sculptures decorating the place here and there, sculptures he had made himself: a wall relief of a sailing ship on a stormy sea, a free-standing Indian on the coffee table, a freestanding city skyline on a shelf, a wall clock set in a relief of an eagle gazing at the moon.
He was sorry to go. He was sorry to lose Karen and the life they'd had here. He was sorry he would never see the face of the woman he'd been planning to carve in the block of white ash. He didn't have much hope for the future. He didn't think he had much chance of escaping in the long run. A traffic stop, a D-and-D-anything-and he'd be behind bars until he died. He was sorry about all of it.
As he stepped out of the apartment door, he heard a siren approaching on the street below. He halted in the doorway, his stomach turning sour. But the siren passed by.
Calm down, he told himself. Don't go paranoid on me. It was only a break-in, after all. He didn't even get away with the money. It wasn't like the cops were going to send the dogs and choppers after him.
That's what he thought anyway. He had no idea how bad things really were. But he was going to find out soon enough.
About half an hour later, not four blocks from where he'd done the job, he was outside the Greyhound station. He stood across the street, watching the place. A late wind had risen, a warm wind smelling of dust. The tangled fibers of eucalyptus bark rolled down the pavement like tumbleweed.
The bus station had storefront windows on two sides and was brightly lit so he could see the interior clearly. There were a couple of travelers on the benches in there and a couple of scurvy characters who might be ticket-holders or might not. No cops for now, but Shannon knew they'd be around in the normal course of things. They would drop by to chase the bums and scout out whatever types were hanging around or passing through.
Shannon figured this was as good a time to go in as any. He put on a self-assured demeanor. He crossed the street with swift, businesslike steps and pushed into the station, out of the hot, dark night and into the cold, stinging brightness of the interior. He crossed to the Plexiglas window of the ticket booth without looking to the left or right. He was aware of the voice of a newswoman speaking from the TV hung on the wall behind him.
The woman in the ticket booth was old and bent and shapeless. She moved to him slowly and stiffly, as if her bones hurt her. He asked her for a ticket to Vegas. He'd checked the schedules and it was the next bus out of state. It left in an hour. He figured Vegas was a city he could get lost in, find work in. He'd make some contacts there, score himself a new name and driver's license. Maybe eventually head farther east.
The woman pushed his ticket to him under the slot in the window. It was the first time she'd looked up at him. He thought she hesitated when her eyes reached his face, as if she recognized him and knew he was a fugitive. But that really was paranoid. It was only a break-in. Why would she know?