But so what?
My throat burned. I was sucking in way too much air. My hightops felt like lead boots. I got lazy. My toe dragged, tripping me up. I lost my balance, skidding across the pavement, scraping my palms and my face and my knees.
I managed to get back up, but my legs were trembling.
Closing in now.
Sweat pasted my shirt to my skin. My ears had that surf rush whooshing through them. I’d always hated running. Born-again joggers described how they got addicted to the rapture of running, how they achieved a nirvana known as runner’s high. Right. I’d always firmly believed that—much like the high of auto-asphyxiation—the bliss came more from a lack of oxygen to the brain than any sort of endorphin rush.
Trust me, this was not blissful.
Tired. Too tired. I couldn’t keep running forever. I glanced behind me. No cops. The street was abandoned. I tried a door. No go. I tried another. The radio crackle started up again. I ran. Toward the end of the block I spotted a street cellar door slightly ajar. Also rusted. Everything was rusted in this place.
I bent down and pulled at the metal handle. The door gave with an unhappy creak. I peered down into the blackness.
A cop shouted, “Cut him off the other side!”
I didn’t bother looking back. I stepped down quickly into the hole. I reached the first step. Shaky. I put my foot out for the second step. But there was none.
I stayed suspended for a second, like Wile E. Coyote after running off a cliff, before I plunged helplessly into the dark pit.
The fall was probably no more than ten feet, but I seemed to take a long time to hit ground. I flailed my arms. It didn’t help. My body landed on cement, the impact rattling my teeth.
I was on my back now, looking up. The door slammed closed above me. A good thing, I suppose, but the darkness was now pretty much total. I did a quick survey of my being, the doctor doing an internal exam. Everything hurt.
I heard the cops again. The sirens had not let up, or maybe now the sound was just ringing in my ears. Lots of voices. Lots of radio static.
They were closing in on me.
I rolled onto my side. My right hand pressed down, stinging the cuts in my palms, and my body started to rise. I let the head trail; it screamed in protest when I got to my feet. I almost fell down again.
Now what?
Should I just hide here? No, that wouldn’t work. Eventually, they’d start going house to house. I’d be caught. And even if they didn’t, I hadn’t run with the intention of hiding in a dank basement. I ran so that I could keep my appointment with Elizabeth in Washington Square.
Had to move.
But where?
My eyes started adjusting to the dark, enough to see shadowy shapes anyway. Boxes were stacked haphazardly. There were piles of rags, a few barstools, a broken mirror. I caught my reflection in the glass and almost jumped back at the sight. There was a gash on my forehead. My pants were ripped in both knees. My shirt was tattered like the Incredible Hulk’s. I was smeared with enough soot to work as a chimney sweep.
Where to go?
A staircase. There had to be a staircase down here somewhere. I felt my way forward, moving in a sort of spastic dance, leading with my left leg as though it were a white cane. My foot crunched over some broken glass. I kept moving.
I heard what I thought was a mumbling noise, and a giant rag pile rose in my path. What could have been a hand reached out to me like something from a grave. I bit back a scream.
“Himmler likes tuna steaks!” he shouted at me.
The man—yes, I could see now it was clearly a man—started to stand. He was tall and black and he had a beard so white-gray and woolly it looked as though he might be eating a sheep.
“You hear me?” the man shouted. “You hear what I’m telling you?”
He stepped toward me. I shrunk back.
“Himmler! He likes tuna steaks!”
The bearded man was clearly displeased about something. He made a fist and aimed it at me. I stepped to the side without thought. His fist traveled past me with enough momentum—or maybe enough drink—to make him topple over. He fell on his face. I didn’t bother to wait. I found the staircase and ran up.
The door was locked.
“Himmler!”
He was loud, too loud. I pressed against the door. No go.
“You hear me? You hear what I’m saying?”
I heard a creak. I glanced behind me and saw something that struck fear straight into my heart.
Sunlight.
Someone had pulled open the same storm door I’d come in from.
“Who’s down there?”
A voice of authority. A flashlight started dancing around the floor. It reached the bearded man.
“Himmler likes tuna steaks!”
“That you yelling, old man?”
“You hear me?”
I used my shoulder against the door, putting everything I had behind it. The doorjamb started to crack. Elizabeth’s image popped up—the one I’d seen on the computer—her arm raised, her eyes beckoning. I pushed a little harder.
The door gave way.
I fell out onto the ground floor, not far from the building’s front door.
Now what?
Other cops were close by—I could still hear the radio static—and one of them was still interviewing Himmler’s biographer. I didn’t have much time. I needed help.
But from where?
I couldn’t call Shauna. The police would be all over her. Same with Linda. Hester would insist I surrender.
Someone was opening the front door.
I ran down the corridor. The floor was linoleum and filthy. The doors were all metal and closed. The motif was chipped paint. I banged open a fire door and headed up the stairwell. At the third floor, I got out.
An old woman stood in the corridor.
She was, I was surprised to see, white. My guess was that she’d probably heard the commotion and stepped out to see what was going on. I stopped short. She stood far enough away from her open door that I could get past her.…
Would I? Would I go that length to get away?
I looked at her. She looked at me. Then she took out a gun.
Oh, Christ …
“What do you want?” she asked.
And I found myself answering: “May I please use your phone?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty bucks.”
I reached into my wallet and plucked out the cash. The old lady nodded and let me in. The apartment was tiny and well kept. There was lace on all the upholstery and on the dark wood tables.
“Over there,” she said.
The phone was rotary dial. I jammed my finger into the little holes. Funny thing. I had never called this number before—had never wanted to—but I knew it by heart. Psychiatrists would probably have a field day with that one. I finished dialing and waited.