Andrew Klavan - The long way home

So now-for me-there were just the police. Just, that is, the threat of being arrested again, of being sent back to prison for murder, put in a cell for twenty-five years.

I faced forward and ran with all the speed I had in me.

Two more steps-two, then three-and I was there, at the motorcycle. I saw the orange-and-white logo: it was a Harley at least. But was it the right one? With one hand I was reaching out for the handlebars. My other hand was in my pocket, my fingers on the key I'd taken from the blond killer in the bathroom. I pulled the key from my pocket even as I grabbed the handlebar and threw my leg over the cycle's seat.

In the same instant, I heard the hoarse screech of tires as the police hit their brakes. The cruisers jolted to a halt right beside me, to the left and right of me, blocking the street off in both directions.

I jammed the key into the bike's ignition.

The sirens stopped. I heard the cruiser doors thumping open. I heard shouts in the night.

"Hold it, West!"

"Hold it right there!"

"Freeze!"

For one second, I looked up, looked around me. I saw the faces of policemen going blood-red and night-black as the flashers played over them. I saw their figures poised and tense, their arms at their holsters-and then lifting, bringing up their guns, bringing them to bear on me.

Did I have the right motorcycle? Did I have the right one?

I turned the key.

Harley The Harley shuddered as the engine roared to life. A prayer of thanks leapt from my heart to heaven. Above the throaty grumble, through the whirl of colored lights, I heard the police still shouting.

"Get off it, West!"

"Stand down!"

"Don't try it!"

All together, I kicked the bike's stand away with my heel, twisted the transmission into gear, twisted the throttle, and wrenched the handlebars, turning the front wheel sharply.

"Stop!"

The bike leapt forward. It jumped the curb, jumped up on the sidewalk. I poured on the gas and roared off into the park, over the grass and into the dark shadows beneath the overhanging oaks.

I don't know if any of the policemen shot at me. I'd have been pretty hard to hit, moving that fast through the darkness of the little square. For what seemed like a long time-a long, mad, terrifying time-I was only aware of the rumble of the bike and the nauseating thrill of the speed and the movement of the air washing over my face as I bounced and sped across the lawn.

Then, in the glow of a streetlamp, I saw pavement. The white pavement of the walkway through the square. I twisted the wheel and headed for it.

The bike was unsteady on the soft ground, but the minute it hit the pavement, it seemed to right itself and gain traction. It leapt forward, dashing over the walkway, racing even faster than it had before.

I looked up, looked ahead. There were dark shadows under another row of oaks at the edge of the square. Then, just beyond that, there was a streetlamp's glow and the far sidewalk-and the far street, the next street over, where I could see the headlights of cars whisking past in the early evening.

I turned the bike again and headed for the sidewalk. I felt the tires grow unsteady under me as they left the pavement and hit the grass. The lacework shadows of bare branches fell over me. The thick trunks of the oaks loomed in front of me, the light of the sidewalk street-lamps visible in between. I headed for one of the gaps between trees, aiming to break out onto the sidewalk, to leap off into the street and make a getaway.

The gap of light grew larger as the bike raced toward it unsteadily. With the soft earth gripping at the tires, I could feel the machine trying to wrench itself out of my control. I fought hard to aim the bike at the light between the trees.

Then, suddenly, a silhouette blocked the way. It was a woman. A pedestrian walking along the sidewalk. She was just passing by, blocking the space between the tree trunks. She didn't see me heading straight toward her.

And I was-I was heading straight toward her at high speed, with no room to maneuver. If I tried to get around her-tried to turn the bike to the left or the right-I was sure to smash into one of the tree trunks. If I tried to avoid the trees-tried to swerve out of the way-I would lose control of the bike in the grass and go down-and go down hard.

I had about three more seconds before I hit her, three seconds to decide. There was no way out of it. I had to turn the bike. I wasn't going to crash into an innocent person. I had to hit the tree or fall.

I gripped the handlebars, ready to try the turn.

And just then she heard me, heard the roar of the approaching engine. She glanced my way. Saw the bike shooting toward her.

I couldn't hear her scream over the motorcycle noise, but I'm pretty sure she did. I could tell by the way she threw her hands up. By the way her head went back. I could even see her eyes widen in shock and her mouth open in the light of the streetlamp. In her fear, she froze, smack in my path. Then, instinctively, she dodged backward.

That did it. That was all I needed. Her movement opened a little space between her and the tree to the right. The bike's tires wobbled dangerously as I wrestled them around to point in the direction of that narrow gap.

Then I burst through. Out between the trees. Out of the small park's shadows. Out onto the sidewalk and into the glow of the streetlamps.

And a wall of parked cars loomed in front of me.

I hit the brakes. The bike's spinning tires seized. The bike angled sideways under me. It skidded past the startled pedestrian, slid sideways across the sidewalk, carrying me helplessly toward the parked cars.

I thumped against the side of a Toyota, pinching my leg between the car door and the bike. The motorcycle had nearly stopped by that time and though the impact was hard enough to send a shock of pain through me, it wasn't hard enough to do any real damage.

The next second, I had the bike righted. I gave it gas again. I felt it dart forward under me, racing a little way along the sidewalk until I spotted an opening between parked cars.

The bike made the gap. I bounced hard over the curb. I rolled out into the street, already gathering speed again.

There was a wild screaming blare: a car horn. A huge sedan was barreling toward me, its headlights like a pair of eyes jacked wide in fear.

I cried out as I wrenched the bike's handlebars. The tires of the onrushing sedan screeched as the car swerved in the opposite direction. We passed each other by inches, so close I felt the side of the car flick at the cloth of my jeans.

Then the bike turned, shot forward. I was heading down the street, the park to the right of me, a row of shops to my left. Up ahead, I saw a corner, a traffic light. A van was stopped on the cross street, the driver waiting for the light to change. The light was green facing me-then it was yellow. I was going to have to be quick if I wanted to make it through.

I heard the sirens start again. Even with the roar of the motorcycle enveloping me, there was no mistaking that sound. I glanced to the side and saw the red and blue flashers through the trees, saw them moving on the other side of the park as the police cars started up again.

The traffic light turned red. The van started moving. I didn't slow down. I raced into the intersection. The van loomed to my left. I heard its tires screech. Then I was past it. The driver shouted curses behind me.

I looked back over my shoulder. Before the van could even start up again, the police cars were at the corner, coming around it, sirens screaming.

I gave the motorcycle gas and raced on, with the police right behind me.

And somewhere, deep inside me, there was this little voice, saying, Maybe you should stop. Maybe you should give yourself up. Maybe the police are right.