They told me I was one of them, a terrorist myself. But I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I love this country. You’re free here to do and think what you want, to be whatever you can be. I’d never do anything to hurt America.
I guess the Homelanders must’ve figured that out because they tried to kill me. I escaped and called the police. Which you’d think was a good idea, right? As it turned out: no. As it turned out, the police were after me too. Somehow, during this year—this year I couldn’t remember—I had become a wanted man. I’d been put on trial and convicted of murdering Alex Hauser, my former best friend.
So now, not only were the Homelanders trying to kill me, but the police, led by this very angry detective named Rose, were trying to catch me and throw me into prison.
There was no one I could turn to. My parents had moved away and I didn’t know where to find them. Nobody believed me about the Homelanders—or if they did, they thought I was one of them. And how could I prove I wasn’t, when I didn’t remember anything?
Sometimes, to be honest, I wasn’t even sure myself.
And that’s where things stood. The situation was bad—crazy bad. Some days, it almost seemed impossible. But I’d promised God and I’d promised myself that, no matter what, I would never give in.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Killer in Question
But now here I was, trapped in the library, both exits blocked. I felt fear closing around my throat like cold fingers. I figured there were probably more of these Homelander thugs downstairs, even more of them outside watching the doors. If I tried to leave, they would wait till I got outside and kill me. If I screamed for help, they would kill me right here. There was no way out.
Now the two men saw me. Mustache-Man cast a glance over at Blockhead, and Blockhead glanced back. Obviously, they’d been waiting here, waiting for the blond killer to finish me off in the bathroom. I guess they weren’t very happy to see me come out alive. Well, too bad for them.
I had to think of something. I had to figure out a way to get past them. They were staying cool, staying at their posts by the stairs. They didn’t want any open violence. They didn’t want to cause any trouble in public if they could help it. They preferred waiting for me to go outside.
I thought maybe I could use that to my advantage somehow . . .
I started moving. I walked to the information desk. I walked casually, as if everything was fine.
The librarian was a sweet-faced older lady. As I approached her, she looked up, blinking at me vaguely through the lenses of her enormous glasses.
The block-headed man sitting at the desk kept his eye on me. He was tense. His hand hovered inside his jacket. I was pretty sure he had a gun in there. I was pretty sure if I asked the librarian for help, he would pull the gun out and start shooting.
So I didn’t ask her for help. Instead, I spoke in a clear, calm voice, friendly and relaxed, as if I didn’t even know Blockhead and Mustache-Man were watching.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said pleasantly.
She was a small woman, barely five feet tall. She looked sort of bulky and shapeless in a dark flowery blouse. Her hair was short and dyed a kind of silvery blonde. Her wrinkled features were kindly but distant, abstracted, as if she were far away inside her own mind.
“Yes?” she said, in a quiet, librarian sort of voice. “Can I help you?”
I reached into the inner pocket of my fleece. I brought out the papers I had there. I chose one quickly from the pile. I handed it to her.
“Could you tell me if you have any books about this case?” I said. “I couldn’t find any in the computer.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blockhead cast a quick look across the room at Mustache-Man. He wasn’t sure what to do, whether to make a move or not, pull his gun or not.
That’s exactly what I was counting on.
The librarian took the paper from me. She peered down at it through her glasses. It was a printout of a front-page news story from the Whitney County Register. “Escaped Killer Thought to Have Joined Terrorist Gang,” the headline read.
There was a big picture of my face in the center of the story. I was the killer in question.
The librarian blinked down at the page for a moment. Then she lifted her eyes to me.
“Let me see if I can . . .” she began to say.
Then she stopped. She saw me. She recognized my face. How could she miss it, looking at my picture like that, then looking up at me? I saw the blood drain out of her cheeks. Her parted lips began to quiver. Her eyes shifted frantically as she tried to figure out what to do.
“Would you . . . ?” she stammered. “Would you excuse me for just one moment please? I’ll—I’ll check on this for you. I think we may have something at one of our other branches. I’ll have to give them a call and ask them. All right?”
“Sure,” I said as easily as I could. “I’ll just wait here.”
Quickly, the librarian turned away and went through a door behind her. It led to a small office behind a large pane of glass. I could see her through the window as she moved to the office desk. She picked up the phone there. She pressed the buttons. As she waited, she glanced at the page in her hand again and then looked up at me through the glass. She forced a smile at me. I forced a smile back.
I didn’t think she was really calling another branch of the library. I was pretty sure she was calling the police. She was telling them to come and arrest me, the dangerous fugitive in her library.
At least, I hoped that’s what she was doing. It was the only chance I had.
Now—as Blockhead and Mustache-Man watched me tensely—I started moving again. I walked away from the desk. Casually, I strolled across the room to the windows. I looked out through the glass at the street below, trying to see how bad the situation was.
It was worse than I thought.
The season was late autumn. The time was early evening. Dusk was falling. The office buildings of Whitney’s downtown were slowly turning to silhouettes against the darkening sky. The grassy triangle of the little park across the street was disappearing into shadow beneath the naked branches of its spreading oak trees. Cars went by— not a lot, but a steady stream of them. Their white headlights flared as they approached. Their red taillights faded into the distance as they drove away.
And I could see them: the Homelanders. Waiting for me. Two hulking shadows in the park under the trees. Two more at the near corner. Two more at the far corner. Who knows how many others? Standing there. Ready. Too many to fight. Too many to get past.
My eyes shifted. I looked down at the street. There were lines of cars parked along both curbs. I moved my gaze over them slowly. I was looking for a motorcycle. I was looking for the Harley-Davidson that fit the key— the blond killer’s key that was now in my pocket. I had only driven a motorcycle once before in my life. The older brother of a friend of mine had let me try it. I had a natural feel for it and by the time I’d driven it a short distance, I was maneuvering the big machine pretty well. I thought if I could somehow get past all those thugs in the shadows, if I could get to the Harley fast, get on it fast— well, maybe then I could use it to escape.
My eyes continued moving over the line of cars. My breath caught. I felt a small spark of excitement and hope. I had spotted the motorcycle.
Then, the very next moment, the spark of hope died. I felt my stomach go sour.
There were two of them. Two motorcycles. One was parked at the near curb, down by the corner to my left. One was parked on the other curb, almost directly across the street from the library entrance and in front of the park. In the gathering darkness, I couldn’t tell whether one or both of them were Harleys that might match my key.
I might—might just—be able to make a mad dash and reach one of the bikes. But how could I tell which bike to choose, which one the key fit?
“Don’t even think about it. You’ll never make it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
No Way Out
It was as if my own thought had been spoken out loud— spoken in a low, mocking, foreign voice.
I turned and felt a shock as I saw that the olive-skinned Mustache-Man had sidled up beside me. He was so close that, when he spoke again, I felt his hot breath on my face.
“Every way is blocked. Every avenue is covered. If you come with us quietly, perhaps we may be able to work something out.”
Right, I thought. Work something out. Like what? A bullet to the brain and a shallow grave?
I was scared—really scared. But I managed to give him a hard stare. “Thanks anyway,” I said.
The man’s lip curled in what was half a smile, half a sneer. “You were the one who chose to betray us, West. You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you draw things out.”
He lifted his chin. I followed the gesture and turned. The other guy, the blockhead, was standing at my other shoulder. He held his jacket open a little and gave me a peek at the deadly-looking automatic pistol hidden in a shoulder holster underneath.
“Here’s your choice, my friend,” said Mustache-Man. “You can leave with us now or we’re going to shoot you right here. We’re going to shoot you and anyone else who tries to get in our way. It could be a very bloody business.”
What could I say? I was sure they would do it. Who knew how many innocent people they would kill if I didn’t go with them? For a moment, I hesitated, silent, desperately listening. Desperately hoping to hear sirens approaching. The cops might catch me, might take me to prison, but at least they wouldn’t kill me. Where were they? Where were the sirens?
There was nothing. Not a sound. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the librarian hadn’t called the police after all.
“You will please turn around now,” said Mustache-Man quietly.
I turned around—and there, standing right in front of me, was the blond killer from the bathroom. He’d wiped his face, but I could still see blood on his upper lip. I could see the rage in his eyes too. He couldn’t wait to get me outside and get his revenge.
He reached out and lifted my fleece, exposing the knife in my belt—his knife. Quickly, he yanked the knife free and slipped it into his windbreaker.
“You will please to move to the stairs,” said Mustache-Man.
“Don’t try anything, West,” said the blond killer with fiery eyes.
I hesitated one more second. Listening for those police sirens. Nothing.
“To the stairs,” said Mustache-Man. “Now.”
What could I do?
They surrounded me, Blockhead on one side, Mustache-Man on the other, Blond Killer at my back. They marched me across the room.
A sense of helplessness rose in me. Helplessness and growing panic. I couldn’t fight them or innocent people would get shot. But once they got me out of the library, once they got me out on the street in the gathering darkness, it would be over. All those shadows—all those thugs out there—they’d have me bundled into a car in a second. They would take me away and that would be the end of it, the end of me. No one would even know what had happened.
The three thugs herded me steadily across the room, keeping me hemmed in. They crossed in front of the information desk, heading for the staircase on the right.
I turned to glance at the desk. The sweet-faced librarian was just now coming out of her office. She stopped in her tracks and stared at me as I went walking past with the three men. Had she called the police to tell them she had spotted a fugitive? Were they coming? There was no way I could know for sure.
The men hustled me past her quickly. She watched us go by. She didn’t try to stop me. She didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
Then we were at the stairs. The thugs escorted me down. It was all happening very fast. There was no time to resist, no time even to think. Another moment and we were on the ground floor. There was the checkout desk right ahead of us, a small line of people with books moving slowly past two more librarians. Beyond that, there was a set of glass doors, the front doors leading to the street.
Beyond those, the Homelanders were waiting.
Mustache-Man’s hand tightened on my arm. He knew this was the time, this was my last chance to make a break for it. He wasn’t going to let it happen.
My eyes went this way and that, frantically. Still no sirens, still no sign of the police.
There were only a few steps left before we were outside, lost in the twilight. Mustache-Man kept his grip on me while, with his other hand, he reached out to push the library door open.
I didn’t try to run. I didn’t have the nerve. I didn’t want to get shot and I didn’t want anyone else to get shot either. I had to wait, had to hope the librarian had called the cops, that they were on their way, that they would get here on time.
Mustache-Man opened the door. He went out first, drawing me after him into the cold night air. The blockhead and the blond killer were right behind us.
Now we were outside, standing on the library’s top step with three more steps leading down from the door to the street. I had a sense that the shadows all around me— the Homelanders who had been waiting for us—were even now converging on us, closing in to make sure I didn’t get away.
The blond killer came around from behind me and went down the stairs ahead of us. He moved to a big dark car parked underneath a sidewalk plane tree. He opened the car’s rear door—like a chauffeur waiting for his passenger. Only he was waiting for me and my two escorts. Waiting for them to put me in the dark car so they could drive me away to my place of execution.
A light seemed to go out inside me, the light of hope. I had been wrong. The librarian hadn’t recognized me after all. She hadn’t called the police. There was no help coming, no way I could escape.
Mustache-Man and Blockhead started to hustle me down the stairs toward the open door of the dark car.
And just then, the sirens and lights exploded all around us.
CHAPTER SIX
Two Motorcycles
The police had approached the library quietly, trying not to scare me off. But now they saw me making my escape and they charged in to stop me. The blaring sirens and flashing lights went off like bombs. Four patrol cars came swooping in toward the library, two screeching around the corner from the left, two more from the right.
Mustache-Man, Blockhead, and I had just reached the last stair and were about to step down onto the sidewalk. The blond killer was holding the door of the dark car open only a few yards away. Other men, other thugs, were lurking in the shadows at the edges of my vision, lurking all around us in the deepening dusk.
But when the air suddenly filled with the screaming sirens, when the oncoming night suddenly burned red and blue with the cruisers’ lights, everyone froze in place, startled. Mustache-Man. Blockhead. Blond Killer. The shadows all around. Everyone froze.
Everyone but me.
I was the only one who’d been expecting it—hoping for it. I was the only one who was ready to move.
At the first siren’s wail, I yanked my arm free of Mustache-Man’s grip. He tried to react. He started to turn. A stiletto—a long, thin knife—suddenly flashed in his hand in the light of the streetlamp.
But he wasn’t quick enough. I brought my fist down like a hammer on the bridge of his nose. Blood sprayed from his nostrils as his head flew back. In the same movement, with the same arm, I sent my elbow driving back, smashing it into Blockhead’s teeth.
The thugs fell away from me. Blockhead stumbled off the bottom step and spilled to the pavement.
That was all the room I needed. I leapt forward and ran—not toward the dark car, but toward another car parked behind it. I threw myself at the hood, hit the top of it, and rolled. I dropped off the other side, landing on my feet in the middle of the street.
Blinded by the headlights of the onrushing cop cars, I stumbled forward but managed to keep my balance, to keep moving. In less than a second, I was rushing for the far curb, rushing for the motorcycle I’d seen from the window, the one
parked just across from the entrance, just in front of the grassy park.
I didn’t know if it was the right motorcycle, the one the key in my pocket would fit. There was still that other one parked farther down the street. But this one was closer. This was the only one I could get to before the police cars reached the front of the library.
I had no choice. I had to take the chance.
What happened next took only an instant, but that instant seemed to go on forever. Everything around me was noise and light and confusion. The discordant screams of the sirens, like cries from a jungle where the animals have all gone insane. The white glare of the headlights stampeding toward me. The whirl of the red and blue flashers bouncing off the trees and the cars and the sidewalks and the dark of evening with a sort of crazy gaiety. Even as I ran through that onrushing chaos, I glanced back over my shoulder. And yes, I saw the hulking shadows of the Homelanders. I saw them hurrying away, slipping off into the deeper shadows, escaping the police. None of them paused to shout after me. None of them drew a gun and took aim. None of them dared. The police were just too close, screaming closer and closer with every moment. There was nothing the Homelanders could do but run for it and hope to find me again another time.
So now—for me—there were just the police. Just, that is, the threat of being arrested again, of being sent back to prison for murder, put in a cell for twenty-five years.
I faced forward and ran with all the speed I had in me.
Two more steps—two, then three—and I was there, at the motorcycle. I saw the orange-and-white logo: it was a Harley at least. But was it the right one? With one hand I was reaching out for the handlebars. My other hand was in my pocket, my fingers on the key I’d taken from the blond killer in the bathroom. I pulled the key from my pocket even as I grabbed the handlebar and threw my leg over the cycle’s seat.
In the same instant, I heard the hoarse screech of tires as the police hit their brakes. The cruisers jolted to a halt right beside me, to the left and right of me, blocking the street off in both directions.
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