her head up and down.
“Go to the basement and wait,” Helen said to Paul. “When it’s safe to go, I’ll turn out the yard lights.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, ax and all. When she stepped back her eyes were filled with tears. “Good luck,” she said. Paul bent at the waist and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “I don’t know if—” he began. His voice cracked. He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “Go find yourself.”
Paul turned and started down the hall. Pulsing red and blue lights began to dance around the walls. “It’s the cops,” Carman said. The front doorbell rang.
Paul reached the far end of the hall and the door to the service stairs, where Randall stood wide-eyed in the doorway. He was removing his shoes and trying to hand them to Paul as Paul stepped around him. As he moved into the opening and began to close the door, he felt Randall’s hand at the pocket of his jacket and slapped it away. Paul closed the metal fire door, locked it, and headed for the basement, the front doorbell chiming in his ears.
13
Fifteen minutes later, the outside lights faded to black. Paul wasted no time. He let himself out into the backyard; crouching at the top of the stairs, he listened. The distant whoop of a siren and the barking of a neighborhood dog were the only sounds. The cold night air found its way to his neck. He zipped the jacket, picked up his bag, and made his way out to the street, where the acrid tinge of violence still floated on the breeze.
Arbor Street had seen all the excitement it could stand for one night. The houses were dark and cinched up tight as Paul walked straight across the street and cut through a narrow alley between houses. He paused and cast a backward glance at Harmony House, hoping to weld its jagged silhouette to his memory. Only Shirley’s light was on. He could see the top of her head in the window. He waved, knowing she couldn’t raise her arm high enough to wave back, then stepped into the alley and disappeared from the otherworldly glow of the streetlights.
He was headed west toward the interstate, toward the freeway entrance Ken took whenever they had a job in the south part of the city. He was heading for that dirty half a block right before the freeway began, the place where ragged panhandlers and eager hitchhikers stood shivering on the sidewalk with sodden handmade signs. He remembered Ken saying how he wished he could help them out with a ride but how it wasn’t safe to pick up hitchhikers anymore. Too many weirdos out there.
At one point, thinking he heard a car, he stepped deeper into the shadows of an apartment-house doorway. He waited. Turned out to be a gentle breath of wind stirring the leaves in the trees. He went on, moving faster now, nearly jogging.
Overhead, a full moon sat fat and sassy in the sky. The low clouds had thickened and filled with rain, a fickle reminder that ol’ man winter hadn’t bolted town quite yet, but lay just around the next corner, alert and ready to pounce.
He could hear the distant roar of the highway. The blat blat of a truck’s jake brake tore the air to pieces. Diesel fumes filled his sinuses. He took a deep breath and swallowed. This was where things got hairy, where he finally had to abandon the back alleys and take to the streets like a big boy. The buildings were larger here, storefronts, apartments, and condos, no single-family houses, no back alleys, no cover.
He hurried to the end of the block and peeked around the corner. The buildings and lights of downtown popped into view, shimmering and glimmering in the cold night air, headlights and taillights moving everywhere at once, the bodily fluids of the great beast. He was a block uphill from the bridge over the highway. A quarter mile of stark, arched concrete whose sides were topped with fences designed to protect unwary drivers from falling objects. From here on it was pure luck. If there were
“Go to the basement and wait,” Helen said to Paul. “When it’s safe to go, I’ll turn out the yard lights.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, ax and all. When she stepped back her eyes were filled with tears. “Good luck,” she said. Paul bent at the waist and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “I don’t know if—” he began. His voice cracked. He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “Go find yourself.”
Paul turned and started down the hall. Pulsing red and blue lights began to dance around the walls. “It’s the cops,” Carman said. The front doorbell rang.
Paul reached the far end of the hall and the door to the service stairs, where Randall stood wide-eyed in the doorway. He was removing his shoes and trying to hand them to Paul as Paul stepped around him. As he moved into the opening and began to close the door, he felt Randall’s hand at the pocket of his jacket and slapped it away. Paul closed the metal fire door, locked it, and headed for the basement, the front doorbell chiming in his ears.
13
Fifteen minutes later, the outside lights faded to black. Paul wasted no time. He let himself out into the backyard; crouching at the top of the stairs, he listened. The distant whoop of a siren and the barking of a neighborhood dog were the only sounds. The cold night air found its way to his neck. He zipped the jacket, picked up his bag, and made his way out to the street, where the acrid tinge of violence still floated on the breeze.
Arbor Street had seen all the excitement it could stand for one night. The houses were dark and cinched up tight as Paul walked straight across the street and cut through a narrow alley between houses. He paused and cast a backward glance at Harmony House, hoping to weld its jagged silhouette to his memory. Only Shirley’s light was on. He could see the top of her head in the window. He waved, knowing she couldn’t raise her arm high enough to wave back, then stepped into the alley and disappeared from the otherworldly glow of the streetlights.
He was headed west toward the interstate, toward the freeway entrance Ken took whenever they had a job in the south part of the city. He was heading for that dirty half a block right before the freeway began, the place where ragged panhandlers and eager hitchhikers stood shivering on the sidewalk with sodden handmade signs. He remembered Ken saying how he wished he could help them out with a ride but how it wasn’t safe to pick up hitchhikers anymore. Too many weirdos out there.
At one point, thinking he heard a car, he stepped deeper into the shadows of an apartment-house doorway. He waited. Turned out to be a gentle breath of wind stirring the leaves in the trees. He went on, moving faster now, nearly jogging.
Overhead, a full moon sat fat and sassy in the sky. The low clouds had thickened and filled with rain, a fickle reminder that ol’ man winter hadn’t bolted town quite yet, but lay just around the next corner, alert and ready to pounce.
He could hear the distant roar of the highway. The blat blat of a truck’s jake brake tore the air to pieces. Diesel fumes filled his sinuses. He took a deep breath and swallowed. This was where things got hairy, where he finally had to abandon the back alleys and take to the streets like a big boy. The buildings were larger here, storefronts, apartments, and condos, no single-family houses, no back alleys, no cover.
He hurried to the end of the block and peeked around the corner. The buildings and lights of downtown popped into view, shimmering and glimmering in the cold night air, headlights and taillights moving everywhere at once, the bodily fluids of the great beast. He was a block uphill from the bridge over the highway. A quarter mile of stark, arched concrete whose sides were topped with fences designed to protect unwary drivers from falling objects. From here on it was pure luck. If there were
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