Andrew Klavan - The last thing I remember

The cruiser turned and went into the alley shadows. I struggled to slide forward on the seat, to lean toward the grate and look through it, through the windshield at what was waiting up ahead. The alley was empty and, at first, the side wall of the jail seemed solid, an unbroken band of metal at the lower two stories, with grated windows on the six or seven stories above. But as the cruiser continued on, I saw a break in the metal wall, and a heavy door began swinging open. A guard stepped out. He stood in the alley, waiting for us. That’s all there was. One guard. Just one.

Inside me now, the current of electric suspense grew stronger and stronger until my nerves were all snap and spark and motion. This was it. My one chance. No time to make a plan. I was just going to have to look for an opportunity and seize it. Seconds to decide, seconds to move.

The cruiser pulled up outside the open door. The driver turned to look at Detective Rose.

“You gonna need a hand?” he asked.

Detective Rose wagged his head as if he was trying to decide. Then he said, “Yeah, just help me get him inside, then you can head back.”

“Sure thing,” said the driver.

The cruiser’s front doors cracked open on both sides and both men got out of the car at once. Detective Rose walked around the cruiser’s trunk to come around to my door. The driver-a short, solid-looking man with a rough face and graying hair-simply stood up out of the driver’s seat and waited there, leaning on the open door with one hand.

Now Detective Rose was outside my window. Now he was opening my door. I told myself to relax, get ready, take deep breaths. But I was so tense, so anxious, so electric, I could barely breathe at all.

Detective Rose reached into the cruiser and took my elbow. I had to keep my fingers wrapped around my handcuffs to make sure they didn’t slip off my wrists and give me away.

“Watch your head,” said Detective Rose.

I bowed my head down to clear the door and stood up out of the cruiser.

We were only about three steps away from the jail door. In seconds, I would be inside, my one chance would be over. Seconds…

But the seconds seemed long-weirdly long, as if they were passing in slow motion. I guess I was so scared now, so wired up, that my brain was working at a quicker speed. I seemed to have time to look around, to notice everything that was happening. Everything seemed to be sharp and bright, to stand out from the world like the pictures in those pop-up books I used to have when I was little. There was the guard waiting for me at the door. Detective Rose with his face set forward. The driver reaching for my other elbow while his other hand moved to close the driver’s door. I caught a glimpse of the cruiser’s dashboard: the keys in the ignition.

I moved. Like a magician performing a trick, I ripped my hands free of the cuffs. As the driver reached for my elbow, my hand shot up and eluded his grasp. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He was thickset, but I had so much adrenaline pumping through me that I think I could’ve lifted him over my head and hurled him to the end of the alley. Instead, I just yanked him across my body and shoved him into Detective Rose.

The two men collided. Caught completely by surprise, Detective Rose was knocked off balance. He lost his hold on my elbow and grabbed hold of the driver to keep from falling over. The two men were carried several steps away from me, clutching each other for balance. At the same moment, I grabbed the cruiser’s still-open door and jumped inside behind the wheel.

It happened fast, really fast. The guard standing by the jailhouse door didn’t even have time to react. I caught a glimpse of his face as I pulled the cruiser’s door shut. It was blank-there was no expression on it-as if he hadn’t even realized what he’d just seen.

I grabbed the car key and twisted it, jamming my foot down on the gas. As the engine roared to life, I grabbed the transmission stick, threw it into reverse.

Someone shouted: “Hey!” I saw Detective Rose scrambling to his feet. I saw the driver pushing away from him, reaching for the gun in his hip holster.

But then I was looking away, looking back over my shoulder as, with a screech of rubber on road, the cruiser ripped away from them, shot backward up the alley toward the street.

As I busted out of the alley shadows into the light, I had a horrible shock. The face of a homeless man frozen in a gasp of surprise was inches away from my window. He was just about to cross the alley. If he’d taken one more step, I would have run him right over. But he pulled up short. He shouted a curse. I rocketed past him, took my foot off the pedal, and twisted the wheel, hard.

The cruiser gave another rubber scream and swung around in the street, throwing up a cloud of dust. A horn blasted loudly as a delivery truck nearly crashed into me, swerving away from me in the nick of time.

Even as the cruiser was turning, I grabbed the transmission and knocked it into drive. I caught a glimpse of the alley. Detective Rose was on his feet now, reaching to his belt for his gun. The driver had his gun out already. He was pointing it right at me. He might have had a shot at me, but he didn’t take it. Of course he didn’t. He was a policeman-one of the good guys. They don’t just open fire on someone who isn’t going to shoot back.

In the next moment, anyway, his chance was gone. I jammed my foot down on the gas pedal. The cruiser bucked like a bronco and then shot past the alley, heading down the street at high speed.

Shelter There was a TV hanging on the cafeteria wall. A pretty blonde newswoman was on the screen, sitting at a desk, telling the news. She was talking about the arrival of Secretary Yarrow on Saturday. Yarrow had personal ties to the governor, she said, and was stopping off in Centerville to meet him. From there, it was easier for him to travel to the president’s vacation home along the highway rather than by helicopter. And because of that, the security precautions were going to tie up traffic in the area. There was a map behind her showing the secretary’s route from Centerville to the president’s vacation home.

Saturday. Tomorrow. And no one knew the secretary was going to be assassinated. No one but me.

I was in a homeless shelter. It was dark now. Night had fallen. I had been on the run all day-a long, long day…

I had ditched the stolen police cruiser as soon as I put some distance between me and the jail. The car was just too easy to spot. The police would have found me in minutes. Instead, after driving a few zigzagging blocks, I jumped out and made my way on foot. I crossed empty lots and ducked down dirty side streets, hoping to hide my trail before the police could get moving and come after me. Finally, I spotted an abandoned brownstone and went inside to hide. On the third floor, there was an open space where there had once been walls and rooms. All that was there now was broken glass and stone and dirt, cold air drifting through broken windows-oh yeah, and rats, big fat ones, nosing around the walls, looking for scraps of food.

I stayed there and listened. Soon the sirens started, one and then more and then more as the police turned out in force to search for me. After a while, there was a helicopter too. I heard its blades chopping the air as the pilot scanned the area below. I sat in the abandoned building and waited. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought they would turn out with dogs soon, and then they’d be sure to find me. But the hours went on and I heard more sirens but no dogs. And no one came to the building.

So there I stayed, hour after hour. Waiting, listening, afraid. I slept sometimes, but mostly I just sat-sat and thought about things, trying to figure out what I should do next.