I started cutting. I was spilling Coke all over, but I didn’t care. When I had a thin strip cut out, about two inches long and maybe a quarter inch wide, I put the can down and started working the end of the strip into the handcuff’s ratchet.
If I can just slip this in over the teeth, I thought, the ratchet will have nothing to grip anymore. The whole loop should slide right out.
The metal was so thin and brittle. It was taking me too long to work it in. Damn it! I could hear sirens in the distance now. They’d be here soon.
Relax. Concentrate. Don’t force it. Let that thing slide right in. Right over those teeth. That’s it. A little more. A little more. One more notch-
Boom! It was open.
Just as I saw the face of the man coming back into the kitchen. His eyes grew wide as I pushed the stool over and went for the back door. I pushed it open and I was outside in the cold air, running toward the trees, the man yelling behind me.
I saw the last dead man to complete the foursome, Heckle or Jeckle, this one lying on his back at the edge of the garden, his lifeless eyes staring right up at me as I jumped over him. The voice still yelling at me to stop. I ran into the woods, the branches whipping at my face. Running as hard as I could, past the point of suffering, until I could not breathe anymore. Not looking back until I was sure I was alone.
I kept going through the woods until the sun went down. Moving as fast as I could, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. I found a stream and washed the blood from my face and hands, the water so cold it made my skin ache. My jacket was still splattered with the inside of Bigmouth’s skull, and I couldn’t get it anywhere near clean. So I had to take it off, even though it was already not warm enough. Not for being outside in the woods for this long.
I stumbled around and hid behind trees as I heard sirens in the distance. I imagined a team of men coming after me, beating their way through the underbrush, led by a pack of baying bloodhounds.
In the end I came upon a train station. There were several taxicabs waiting out front, the drivers standing together in a pack and smoking. I circled around and came up on the station from the track side. There were no trains in sight, but I was hoping that I’d have one more shot to catch one back to New York City.
I tried the door to the waiting room, but it was locked. The sign told me that the lobby hours were over at nine, and that if I didn’t have a ticket already, I could buy one on the train. I looked in at the clock, saw that it was almost ten. I didn’t know when the next train would be coming. A cold wind hit me and I started to shake.
I looked over at the cabdrivers. There was no way I could approach them. A seventeen-year-old kid with no coat, his hair still wet. The police no doubt looking for me, with a decent description from my brief custody. Even the train would be a risk, but what choice did I have?
I sat down with my back against the cold brick wall, waiting to hear the rumble of the train. I sat there and shivered, feeling hungry now on top of everything else. I must have dozed off somehow, because the next thing I remember was being jarred awake by the train releasing its air brakes. The train was right there in front of me, huge and humming. I got up slowly, feeling as stiff as a ninety-year-old man. The doors opened and people started getting off. Well-dressed men mostly, a few women, all of them making the late trip back home from the city. Now they were ready for a good meal with their families. I stayed on the edge of the scene like a stray dog.
Then I realized that this train had come east from the city and would keep going east, deeper into Connecticut. Maybe I should get on anyway, I thought. Get the hell out of here.
No, I thought. I don’t want to do that. I want to go back home, even if home is nothing more than a single room above a Chinese restaurant. It was all I had in the world just then, and I would have given everything I had to be back there.
Most of the passengers were getting into their cars now. Starting them, turning on the lights, driving away. A few passengers were taking taxis. I had two choices now. Either wait for a westbound train, or pretend I just got off this one. Try to blend in with the crowd here, get into a cab, and pay him to take me all the way to back the city.
I knew it was less than forty miles. Not that outrageous, especially if I showed the driver some money up front. I had a couple hundred dollars with me, some of the money Bigmouth had given me the night before. I took out five twenties and walked up behind the last man waiting for his taxi. When it was my turn, there was only one cab left. A good omen, I thought. He’d be glad to have me as a customer now.
“Where you heading to, sir?” The driver was black, and he had a soft Caribbean accent. Jamaican, maybe.
I made a writing motion. He looked at me with confusion until he finally got the message. He took out a pen and tore a sheet out of a notebook he had lying on his front seat. He watched me as I wrote on the paper. That slightly entertained look, what an interesting twist this is, a man who must write me a message, what will happen next? The whole scene I usually hated so much, but on this night I just wanted the man to understand me as quickly as possible.
I need to go to the city, I wrote. I know it will be expensive.
I handed him back the pen and paper, and then I showed him the twenties in my hand.
“You want me to take you all that way?” That singsong lilt in his voice. “I’d have to charge you for the round-trip.”
I nodded my head. Good enough, kind sir. Let’s get rolling.
He didn’t move yet. He looked me up and down.
“Are you okay, young man? You don’t seem good to me.”
I put my hands up. I’m perfectly good, no problem here. Thanks for your concern.
“You’re wet and cold. Please, get in the cab.”
Glad to, I thought. I got in and counted the seconds until he finally put the cab in gear and left the station. My ears were still ringing from the blast of the shotgun. I could still smell the blood. I wasn’t sure if the driver could smell it, or if it was just me. Something I’d be smelling for the rest of my life.
The driver picked up the radio. This is it, I told myself. The dispatcher will know about the search for the fifth man, the one who got away. The driver will turn and look at me, and he’ll know in an instant. If I’m lucky he won’t run the cab right off the road, will simply tell me to sit back and not to try anything funny, because he has to turn around and take me to the police station.
Somehow, though, the dispatcher hadn’t gotten the word. Thank God for bad communication between law enforcement agencies and public transportation. The driver kept driving. I didn’t relax even then, because every time a voice would break through the static on the radio, I’d figure it would be the bulletin finally coming through. Maybe a special code that I wouldn’t recognize but the driver would know. Code 99 or whatever the hell it would be, meaning watch out for a fugitive on the run. Respond with the appropriate code if the fugitive is in your cab. The police will set up the roadblock for you.
The code never came. The driver took me all the way into the city, softly humming a tune the whole way. I took the paper back from him and wrote down an address a few blocks away from the restaurant. Don’t let him know exactly where you’re going. One more precaution, just in case.
The fare ended up being $150, including tip. The man thanked me and told me to get inside because it was too cold to be running around like a fool with no coat. He seemed to want to tell me a few other things, but I tipped an imaginary hat to him and walked away.
When he was gone, I went down the street, turned the corner, and saw the restaurant. The lights were glowing in the dark. Customers were lined up at the counter, even this late at night. I went through the side door, up the stairs, and into my little room.