Collector of Secrets by Richard Goodfellow Page A

brief glimpse of a thick-necked man in the kitchen.
    With his pulse drumming in his ears, Max plunged down the dark stairs, racing to reach the door. Footsteps thundered behind him while he fumbled with the front latch before stumbling blindly onto the sidewalk. Charging across the empty street, he chanced a look back. The shorter thief was just steps behind, while the thick-necked guy was now running the opposite way.
    Max tripped on the far curb and his pursuer lunged, grabbing at the daypack, pulling downward. Instinctively Max freed himself by spinning sideways and knocking the grasping hand away. The sudden release sent the thief tumbling to the ground.
    The piercing sound of a whistle ripped the air. Max glanced up, with the sidewalk still flying by, to see a night patrol officer standing just thirty feet ahead. The man was pointing excitedly while fumbling with something on his belt: a gun.
    Max made a sharp left turn into a laneway as he popped the daypack’s second shoulder strap into place and broke into a sprint. Flying past rows of silent shops, he continued down the lane before making another left along a side street. There was no need to look back. He could hear both pursuers close behind.
    An approaching bicyclist zagged wildly. Ringing his bell in complaint, he barely avoided colliding with the pursuing thief. The short-lived delay allowed Max the chance to dart right, squeezing into a passageway between two buildings. It was barely wide enough for his shoulders, and with the daypack on he couldn’t turn sideways. His hands gripped the walls and he slowed, moving cautiously forward. Close behind, the thief hit the mossy clay ground and stumbled to his knees, cursing. A second later, the policeman entered the passageway at full speed, both legs shooting out from under him. His shout of surprise was followed by the thud of his skull as it hammered the ground.
    The next laneway was just a few feet away, and Max charged to the right after his feet touched the pavement. Ahead, blinking lights outlined a nighttime road crew at work. A flagman was waving a glowing yellow baton as Max approached. Just before they collided, he dashed around the shocked man before leaping over a construction crew standing in a narrow hole in the road’s center. Seconds later, he heard the flagman shouting again. Looking back, he saw several other workers now standing together, blocking the road.
    What the hell was I thinking?
    From Max’s last ominous glimpse of the thief, he appeared to be texting with his both hands.
    Turning left, working his way deeper into the maze of narrow streets, Max slowed his run as light from the next major roadway grew brighter. In the distance, he could hear, drawing closer, the rising whine of a high-pitched engine. A lime-green motorcycle flew past. The thick-necked man had overshot the entrance to the road. With sickening certainty, Max realized that he’d been herded into a trap. The noise of the engine became guttural as the sports bike geared down to turn around.
    The barren fronts of the surrounding single-story shops closed in like a collapsing vice. Max knew he had mere seconds. Desperately, he spun around, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to hide, but there was little choice. He raced forward, vaulting upward off a bike rack, slamming hard into the front edge of a flat concrete roof. Hanging precariously from his torso, his feet kicked wildly, searching for a spot on which to gain purchase.
    Dual headlights tore open the darkness, searching, seeking. Again and again, the piercing engine shrieked as the bike crept forward. The undulating sound reverberated off the surrounding buildings like a baying pack of hounds. Rubber ground against asphalt as the driver twisted the handlebars back and forth, using the light to sweep the vacant edges of the laneway.
    Gravel bit into Max’s back. Lying prone on the flat rooftop hiding spot, he lifted his head slightly as the noise moved past. From his