shiver of PTSD panic and an urge to race out the door, pull the gun and charge down the alley, threatening anybody he saw, screaming for them to stand back.
Impulsively, his mind whirling, he reached for the knob.
No . . .
Be smart.
He sat back, head against the wall, working to slow his breathing.
After a moment he calmed and decided to try something else. In the basement was a window that led into the tiny side yard. Across eight feet of anemic grass a similar window opened into his neighbor’s basement. The Wongs were away for the weekend—he was watering their plants for them—and Williams figured he could sneak inside, then upstairs and through their back door. If he was lucky the police wouldn’t be covering the side yard. Then he’d take the alley up to the main street and jog to the subway.
The plan wasn’t great but it gave him more of a chance than just waiting here. Tears again. And panic.
Stop it, soldier. Come on.
He rose and staggered down the stairs into the basement.
Just get the hell out. The cops’d be at the front door at any minute, kicking it in.
He unlatched the window and climbed up and out. Starting to crawl toward the Wongs’ basement window, he glanced to his right. He froze.
Oh, Jesus Lord . . .
Police, a male and a female detective, holding guns in their right hands, were crouching in the narrow side yard. They weren’t looking his way, but staring out, toward the back door and the alley.
The panic again slammed hard. He’d pull out theColt and threaten them. Make them sit down, cuff themselves and throw away their radios. He hated to do it; that would be a real crime. But he didn’t have any choice. They were obviously convinced he’d done something terrible. Yes, he’d get their guns and flee. Maybe they had an unmarked car nearby. He’d take their keys.
Was somebody covering them, somebody he couldn’t see? A sniper maybe?
Well, he’d just have to take that chance.
He quietly set the bag down and began to reach for the gun.
Which was when the woman detective turned his way. Williams gasped. I’m dead, he thought.
Janeece, I love you. . . .
But the woman glanced at a piece of paper and then squinted as she looked him over. “DeLeon Williams?”
His voice gurgled. “I—” He nodded, shoulders falling. He could only stare at her pretty face, her red hair in a ponytail, her cold eyes.
She held up the badge that was hanging around her neck. “We’re police officers. How’d you get out of your house?” Then she noted the window and nodded. “Mr. Williams, we’re in the middle of an operation here. Could you go back inside? You’ll be safer there.”
“I—” Panic was shattering his voice. “I—”
“Now,” she said insistently. “We’ll be with you as soon as everything’s resolved. Be quiet. Don’t try to leave again. Please.”
“Sure. I . . . Sure.”
He left the bag and started to ease through the window.
She said into her radio, “This’s Sachs. I’d expand the perimeter, Bo. He’s going to be real cautious.”
What the hell was going on? Williams didn’t waste time speculating. He awkwardly climbed back into the basement and walked upstairs. Once there he headed straight into the bathroom. He lifted the lid off the back of the toilet and dropped the gun in. He walked to the window, going to peek out once more. But then paused and ran back to the toilet just in time to be painfully sick.
• • •
A curious thing to say, given this fine day—and given what I’ve been up to with Myra 9834—but I miss being in the office.
First, I enjoy working, always have. And I enjoy the atmosphere, the camaraderie with the sixteens around you, almost like a family.
Then there’s the feeling of being productive. Being involved in fast-paced New York business. (“Cutting edge” one hears, and that ’s something I do hate, the corporate-speak—a phrase that is itself corporate-speak. No, the great
Impulsively, his mind whirling, he reached for the knob.
No . . .
Be smart.
He sat back, head against the wall, working to slow his breathing.
After a moment he calmed and decided to try something else. In the basement was a window that led into the tiny side yard. Across eight feet of anemic grass a similar window opened into his neighbor’s basement. The Wongs were away for the weekend—he was watering their plants for them—and Williams figured he could sneak inside, then upstairs and through their back door. If he was lucky the police wouldn’t be covering the side yard. Then he’d take the alley up to the main street and jog to the subway.
The plan wasn’t great but it gave him more of a chance than just waiting here. Tears again. And panic.
Stop it, soldier. Come on.
He rose and staggered down the stairs into the basement.
Just get the hell out. The cops’d be at the front door at any minute, kicking it in.
He unlatched the window and climbed up and out. Starting to crawl toward the Wongs’ basement window, he glanced to his right. He froze.
Oh, Jesus Lord . . .
Police, a male and a female detective, holding guns in their right hands, were crouching in the narrow side yard. They weren’t looking his way, but staring out, toward the back door and the alley.
The panic again slammed hard. He’d pull out theColt and threaten them. Make them sit down, cuff themselves and throw away their radios. He hated to do it; that would be a real crime. But he didn’t have any choice. They were obviously convinced he’d done something terrible. Yes, he’d get their guns and flee. Maybe they had an unmarked car nearby. He’d take their keys.
Was somebody covering them, somebody he couldn’t see? A sniper maybe?
Well, he’d just have to take that chance.
He quietly set the bag down and began to reach for the gun.
Which was when the woman detective turned his way. Williams gasped. I’m dead, he thought.
Janeece, I love you. . . .
But the woman glanced at a piece of paper and then squinted as she looked him over. “DeLeon Williams?”
His voice gurgled. “I—” He nodded, shoulders falling. He could only stare at her pretty face, her red hair in a ponytail, her cold eyes.
She held up the badge that was hanging around her neck. “We’re police officers. How’d you get out of your house?” Then she noted the window and nodded. “Mr. Williams, we’re in the middle of an operation here. Could you go back inside? You’ll be safer there.”
“I—” Panic was shattering his voice. “I—”
“Now,” she said insistently. “We’ll be with you as soon as everything’s resolved. Be quiet. Don’t try to leave again. Please.”
“Sure. I . . . Sure.”
He left the bag and started to ease through the window.
She said into her radio, “This’s Sachs. I’d expand the perimeter, Bo. He’s going to be real cautious.”
What the hell was going on? Williams didn’t waste time speculating. He awkwardly climbed back into the basement and walked upstairs. Once there he headed straight into the bathroom. He lifted the lid off the back of the toilet and dropped the gun in. He walked to the window, going to peek out once more. But then paused and ran back to the toilet just in time to be painfully sick.
• • •
A curious thing to say, given this fine day—and given what I’ve been up to with Myra 9834—but I miss being in the office.
First, I enjoy working, always have. And I enjoy the atmosphere, the camaraderie with the sixteens around you, almost like a family.
Then there’s the feeling of being productive. Being involved in fast-paced New York business. (“Cutting edge” one hears, and that ’s something I do hate, the corporate-speak—a phrase that is itself corporate-speak. No, the great
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