enough of them . . . if they wanted him bad enough . . . if they caught him on the bridge . . . well then, they got him, pure and simple. If he got lucky, in a half hour he’d be in another area code, every bit as lost to them as he was to himself.
Go south. That was his whole carefully wrought plan. Go south. If he hadn’t been so afraid, he’d have laughed. It seemed like an eternity since the trench coats had pushed their way into the house this morning. Seemed like he hadn’t had a second to think and all he knew for sure was that the scene in his head, the beach, the tower in the distance, the men in white shirts . . . he had no idea where it was located . . . or, for that matter, whether it existed anywhere outside of his head . . . but . . . but if it did, he knew damn well it was somewhere south of where he was now.
He waited for the light two blocks uphill to change and then stepped out onto Sylvain Street. A steady stream of traffic moved downhill in his direction. He started down the incline. That’s when he spotted the Town Car coming up the hill.
Paul kept walking. There was no turning back now. He let gravity pull him down the hill, his feet slapping on the concrete as he broke into a run. The car’s window slid down. Paul and the driver made eye contact as he flashed by.
The guy behind the wheel tried to move over into the left lane but nobody would let him in. He momentarily hit the brakes, as if to stop and jump out, but the tandem metro bus to his rear wasn’t having it. He had no choice but to continue on up the hill. Paul let fear and the incline propel him forward, running full out now across the narrow frontage road that paralleled the freeway, out onto the bridge, which he felt certain he could cross before the Lincoln could manage to negotiate the narrow maze of one-way streets and get turned around.
As the river of traffic on his left become a trickle, he checked over his shoulder and then bolted across all four lanes to the uphill side of the bridge. He was slower now, his legs leaden and spent, his hips threatening to burst from the sockets as he crested the arch of the bridge and started down the other side . . . down toward the lowrent condos on the corner of Sylvain Street and Barlow Boulevard. His breath was ragged. He sounded like a locomotive as he jellylegged it around the corner . . . exhausted, slowing nearly to a stop and then picking up the pace again as he approached the corner. His nose had begun to run. As he ran, he wiped it with his sleeve. A fast walk was all he could manage now. His body burned. He was ashes as he turned the corner. All he wanted to do was breathe when he heard the sound of tires pulling to a stop on his left. He dropped his bag. Something in his soul told him to fight. Told him that going along with these people would somehow be the end of him. At that moment it didn’t matter who he was or who he wasn’t. All that mattered was the animal will to survive. He balled his hands into fists and turned to face his attackers. A guttural growl began to rise in his throat. His vision began to cloud with fury. A long thin scream reached his ears and then began to fade. He turned toward the approaching sound. The scream was coming from the brakes of a battered blue VW Bug as it ground to a stop along the curb. The passenger door flopped open.
“Hey, big fella.”
The voice sounded familiar. The city lights showed the car packed to the headliner. He bent at the waist and peered into the little car. It was her. The girl who’d cut his hair. What was her name? Brianna? No . . . Brittany. That was it. He was far too spent to talk. She mistook his grimace for a smile.
“Where you headed?” she asked.
All he could manage was a shrug. He checked the street, but they were alone.
“Want a ride?”
Without answering, he plucked his bag from the sidewalk and eased himself into the passenger seat. He pulled the door closed.
“Let’s go,” he wheezed.
14
His
Go south. That was his whole carefully wrought plan. Go south. If he hadn’t been so afraid, he’d have laughed. It seemed like an eternity since the trench coats had pushed their way into the house this morning. Seemed like he hadn’t had a second to think and all he knew for sure was that the scene in his head, the beach, the tower in the distance, the men in white shirts . . . he had no idea where it was located . . . or, for that matter, whether it existed anywhere outside of his head . . . but . . . but if it did, he knew damn well it was somewhere south of where he was now.
He waited for the light two blocks uphill to change and then stepped out onto Sylvain Street. A steady stream of traffic moved downhill in his direction. He started down the incline. That’s when he spotted the Town Car coming up the hill.
Paul kept walking. There was no turning back now. He let gravity pull him down the hill, his feet slapping on the concrete as he broke into a run. The car’s window slid down. Paul and the driver made eye contact as he flashed by.
The guy behind the wheel tried to move over into the left lane but nobody would let him in. He momentarily hit the brakes, as if to stop and jump out, but the tandem metro bus to his rear wasn’t having it. He had no choice but to continue on up the hill. Paul let fear and the incline propel him forward, running full out now across the narrow frontage road that paralleled the freeway, out onto the bridge, which he felt certain he could cross before the Lincoln could manage to negotiate the narrow maze of one-way streets and get turned around.
As the river of traffic on his left become a trickle, he checked over his shoulder and then bolted across all four lanes to the uphill side of the bridge. He was slower now, his legs leaden and spent, his hips threatening to burst from the sockets as he crested the arch of the bridge and started down the other side . . . down toward the lowrent condos on the corner of Sylvain Street and Barlow Boulevard. His breath was ragged. He sounded like a locomotive as he jellylegged it around the corner . . . exhausted, slowing nearly to a stop and then picking up the pace again as he approached the corner. His nose had begun to run. As he ran, he wiped it with his sleeve. A fast walk was all he could manage now. His body burned. He was ashes as he turned the corner. All he wanted to do was breathe when he heard the sound of tires pulling to a stop on his left. He dropped his bag. Something in his soul told him to fight. Told him that going along with these people would somehow be the end of him. At that moment it didn’t matter who he was or who he wasn’t. All that mattered was the animal will to survive. He balled his hands into fists and turned to face his attackers. A guttural growl began to rise in his throat. His vision began to cloud with fury. A long thin scream reached his ears and then began to fade. He turned toward the approaching sound. The scream was coming from the brakes of a battered blue VW Bug as it ground to a stop along the curb. The passenger door flopped open.
“Hey, big fella.”
The voice sounded familiar. The city lights showed the car packed to the headliner. He bent at the waist and peered into the little car. It was her. The girl who’d cut his hair. What was her name? Brianna? No . . . Brittany. That was it. He was far too spent to talk. She mistook his grimace for a smile.
“Where you headed?” she asked.
All he could manage was a shrug. He checked the street, but they were alone.
“Want a ride?”
Without answering, he plucked his bag from the sidewalk and eased himself into the passenger seat. He pulled the door closed.
“Let’s go,” he wheezed.
14
His
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