Rough Justice

by Andrew Peterson

  “I may have to use up the last of my goodwill,” Emma was saying. “But as long as I’m with the paper, at least, you can count on …”

  And under her voice, like a sort of static, the other voice continued: I worry, Wells. Really. I worry.

  I picked up the receiver. I held it to my ear. I felt the vibration of it as my hand shook violently.

  “Good-bye, Emma,” I said.

  “Wells? Wells?”

  I hung up on her. I headed for the door.

  I figured I didn’t have much time. The buzzer in my apartment hadn’t rung, but that didn’t mean much. Watts could’ve buzzed the super downstairs. Or just slipped a credit card in the latch, for that matter. Sure enough, when I stuck my head out the door, I could already hear his voice coming from the foyer.

  “You take the elevator. I’m going up the stairs.”

  The other cop answered: “Okay, Lieutenant.”

  Then I heard the elevator door rattle back four stories below me. And I heard Watts’s footstep creak on the bottom rise.

  I came out into the hall, closing my door behind me quietly. I hurried across the hall to the only other apartment on my floor. Mrs. Hooterman. An old lady. I didn’t know her very well, but I’d grunted a good-morning to her in the hall once or twice. I was sure she’d recognize me, anyway. I rang her doorbell.

  There was no answer. Watts’s footsteps sounded on the second-floor landing. Started coming up the next flight of stairs. Behind me, the low hum of the elevator grew louder. I rang the doorbell again.

  A trembling, cranky voice came through the heavy wood: “I’m comink. Hold your horses.”

  “Come on, come on,” I muttered to the door.

  I heard Watts on the third landing, one flight below me. I heard the elevator nearing the fourth floor.

  “Ooo is eet?” squeaked Mrs. Hooterman.

  “John Wells,” I whispered.

  “Vat?”

  “Wells. Your neighbor. John Wells.”

  The door opened a crack. I saw sallow eyes in hounddog wrinkles, a cap of blue-white hair. I heard Watts start up the last flight. I heard the elevator ease to a stop behind me.

  “Oh, Meester Veils, vat …?”

  “I need to borrow a cup of sugar,” I said. I pushed the door in with my shoulder. I nearly bowled Mrs. Hooterman over as I shoved past her into the room.

  “Va … Va … Vere’s your cup?” she said.

  “I need to borrow a cup, too.” I saw the top of Watts’s head crest the stairs. I heard the elevator door open. I shut Mrs. Hooterman’s door.

  I turned around. There she was. A shivering squib of a woman, leaning on a cane. Those eyes regarded me cautiously.

  “You need a cup?”

  “A cup and sugar. A cup of sugar, in the cup. Right.”

  I looked around quickly. The layout was pretty much the same as mine. A broad room with the windows on the far wall. Those windows looked out on an alley. Across the alley—about six feet across—was another building: windows in a flat wall of brick.

  Mrs. Hooterman had begun vibrating slowly toward the kitchenette.

  “Are you bakink a cake?” she called back over her shoulder.

  Outside, down the hall, there was pounding on my door.

  “Open up, Wells. It’s the police.”

  Mrs. Hooterman paused, turned. “Vat?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, a cake. Cookies. I’m making cookies. You need sugar for cookies, right?”

  “Did ju say somethink about the poleese?”

  “Grease. You need grease. Greased sugar cookies. Kids love ’em.”

  More pounding. “Come on, Wells. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  Mrs. Hooterman narrowed her eyes at the door. She frowned.

  I rushed across the room to the window.

  “Come on, Wells,” Watts shouted. “Open up. You’re covered everywhere.”

  “Oh mein Gott!” said Mrs. Hooterman.

  I threw her window open. Stuck my head out. The air, the city noise, washed over me. There was no fire escape. Just a four-story drop. Across from me—those long six feet away—another window was open to the spring. There was a light on in the apartment, but no one visible.

  “Oh mein Gott!” said Mrs. Hooterman again. She started shuffling toward the door.

  I climbed out onto the window ledge.

  My mouth went suddenly dry as bone. The wind sighed all around me. My throat closed. I breathed in little gasps. I tried not to look down but I sensed the hard pavement of the alleyway below. I sensed it swaying up and down like a ship in a storm.

  Behind me, I heard Mrs. Hooterman fumbling with the doorknob. I heard her thin, cracking whine raised in a kind of shout.

  “Help! Help, poleese! Oh mein Gott, he’s in here, dis creeminal.”

  I jumped.

  There wasn’t much push. I could only bend my knees a little, then push off quickly before I lost my balance. After that, for one moment, I was floating through a kind of whirling peacefulness. Only the air surrounded me. The pavement passed by below. The wall of the building ahead drew closer. There was no noise but the city whisper. That single second seemed to stretch out and out and out forever.

  Then I slapped into the wall. My cheek crunched against brick. My hand scrabbled blindly for purchase where I thought the open window was. I knew I was about to fall and die. And then I grabbed hold. I wrapped my fingers around the sill, clung until the wood cut my flesh. I hung in the air above the alley, my muscles stretched, my teeth gritted, a steady groan forced out of me in the effort to hold on.

  Sobbing, I began to pull myself up. Up the wall toward the window, inch by inch. With a gasp, I threw my arm over the sill. Dragged the lower half of my body up after it.

  “Wells!” The patrolman’s shout came from across the way. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Then there was Watts: “For shit’s sake. He’s getting away. Take him out!”

  Another aching effort and I hauled myself over the windowsill. I tumbled into the apartment beyond.

  A woman shrieked. I rolled on the floor and looked up in time to see a frying pan come spinning at me through the air. I crossed my arms before my face. The pan struck my wrist. I let out a shout as the pain jolted up and down my arm.

  The shriek sounded again. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me, please!” A pretty young woman in a blue jogging suit came hurtling through a doorway at me, a butcher knife clutched in both hands. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me,” she screamed. She raised the knife over her head as she barreled toward me.

  There was the short snap of a gunshot. The wall between us exploded in a cloud of white plaster as a bullet tore a hole in it. The woman pulled up short, reared back, still shrieking.

  I drove off the floor, flew into her. Tackled her, brought her to the ground as a second shot snapped off, a second cloud of plaster exploded—just where she’d been standing.

  “God damn you!” the woman screamed. She tried to drive the butcher knife down into me as we rolled together on the floor. The blade slit the edges of my thumb. I grappled with her, grabbed her wrists, pushed her hands back away from me.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  The woman shrieked: “Simon!”

  I raised my head and saw him. A chunky two-year-old waddling through the doorway at full speed, his face contorted with fear.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  “Simon, stay away!” She tried to yank her wrists free.

  “Simon stay away!” the child cried. He kept on waddling toward us.

  Now I started shrieking, too, babbling as I shrieked: “Tom! Don’t shoot, it’s a kid, Tom, Tom, Jesus, Tom!” I let the woman go and somersaulted across the room at little Simon. There was another shot. I grabbed the kid. I felt a hot wind burn across the back of my neck. I knocked the kid to the floor and threw my body over him. The wall exploded once again. Chunks of plaster tumbled down from the ceiling.

  The woman shrieked: “Who the fuck are the good g
uys here? I need to know the good guys!” The woman was half off the floor. She was tearing at her hair in panic, her face mottled.

  “Get down!” I screamed. “I’ve got him! Get down!”

  The child writhed and shouted in my arms. The mother dropped to the floor. She curled up, her hands to her hair, the knife falling away from her.

  For a long moment, we stared at each other, our eyes at floor level, our breath heavy. The shooting had stopped. The quiet was bizarre.

  “Mommy?”

  “Hush. It’s all right,” she whispered. She stared at me. “Who’s shooting at us?”

  “The police.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Maa-meeee.”

  “Hush, sweetie.” She choked back her tears.

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “I’m innocent.”

  “Please don’t hurt him, don’t hurt my boy,” she said.

  “I swear. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Just help me get out of here.”

  “Don’t hurt him, please.”

  “They’ll be coming soon.”

  “Please.”

  “Please,” I said.

  My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t stop it. I was gasping for breath. The woman looked desperately at me, at the child squirming and crying in my arms.

  I took the kid out from under me, but kept my grip on him. He squirmed, trying to reach his mother. I held him close to the floor. Pushed him across it to her. She reached out, grabbed hold of him, pulled him close. She buried her face in his hair, sobbing.

  “Help me,” I said. “Please.”

  She glanced up at me through her tears. “How will they come?”

  “The stairs. The elevator. I don’t know.”

  “The door is through there, down the hall.” She lifted her chin at the doorway through which she’d entered. “The stairwell goes all the way down to the basement. There’s a door down there that leads out to the alley.” She held the boy close.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  The woman took a few more breaths. Then she blurted: “The door to the alley is locked. The smallest key on my chain opens it. It’s in my purse, hanging on the door.”

  “Christ,” I said. “Thanks, lady.”

  “You better be the fucking good guy. And drop the keys in the basement when you leave.”

  “Right. I’m sorry,” I said again. She didn’t answer.

  I started crawling on my belly toward the door.

  21

  In the kitchen, a pot of noodles boiled on the stove. It hissed and overflowed, unattended, in the quiet room. I crawled under it, making my way beneath the windows.

  The inches came hard. It hurt to breathe. There was blood running from my hand where the woman had cut it. One of my cheeks had been scraped raw when I’d slammed into the wall. There was pain everywhere. I knew I would not make it all the way.

  Slowly, I scrabbled across the floor. After the kitchen, there was a hallway. It was long and dark. There were no windows, so I dragged myself to my feet and started stumbling along as quick as I could. I followed the hall to the front door.

  The woman’s purse was looped around the knob, the way she’d said it would be. I opened it, clawed through it. Found a brass circle loaded with keys.

  I pushed the door open, peeked out. I saw a hall of doors, other apartments. There were two elevators right in the center of it. A red lightbulb shone above the door to the stairwell. I slipped out quickly and hurried toward it.

  As I moved along the carpeted path, the doors to 193 two apartments opened. Eyes peered out at me, ghostly. No one spoke. I ignored them, moving as fast as I could, fingertips dragging along the brown wall.

  I reached the red light. I hauled back on the heavy metal door, slid into the well. The moment I was inside, I heard the footsteps, rising to meet me.

  I heard Watts’s voice: “… enough backup to take over Long Island now.”

  And an answering growl: “Everyone saw him run for it.”

  “Asshole,” said Watts. “Endangering innocent fucking people …”

  On tiptoe, I climbed the stairs to the fifth landing. I waited there, crouched on the next step up, fighting against my heavy breathing. I heard the two cops stop on the landing below me.

  “This is it,” said Watts.

  I peeked around the corner in time to see him go through the door. He was with Rankin now. Saint Francis might still be in Mrs. Hooterman’s apartment, or he might be stationed outside.

  I pulled back as Watts and Rankin went through the door, out of the stairwell.

  Then I was moving again. Tumbling down the stairs, my feet dancing out in front of me. I was coughing as I passed the first floor. I continued on down to the basement level.

  The stairs ended in a small cellar. A tight concrete space laced with shadows. A dull light spilled from a doorway around a corner. The laundry room probably. I could hear a washing machine chugging and gurgling. Right in front of me, a corridor twisted away between concrete pillars. At the end of it, I saw a set of wooden doors, padlocked together in the center.

  I came away from the stairwell. I crept forward, feeling for the smallest key on the brass ring. I wove carefully between the pillars. Past them. To the doors. I fit the woman’s key to the padlock.

  “Hello?”

  I spun around. An old man stood at the entrance to the laundry room. A flowered sheet dangled down between his two hands. He was staring right at me.

  I pressed back. The shadows streaked my face. “It’s just me,” I said. “I have to go out for a minute.”

  The man looked at me unsurely. Then, unsurely, he nodded. “Seeya later,” he said.

  “Right,” I answered. I turned my back on him, twisted the key. The padlock snapped open. I pushed through the wooden doors, out into the alley and the cool night.

  The alley ran through the darkness toward Lexington Avenue. It was a thin path cluttered with garbage, dank with its smell. A streetlamp just beyond my view sent a dull streak of light over the pavement. I stood still a moment and let the key ring slip from my hand. I heard the chink of it as it hit the ground. Then I took a breath and followed the light toward the street.

  A horn blared as I came out from between the buildings. I looked right, toward Eighty-sixth. The glow of red flashers whirled over the corner building. In the distance, more sirens bayed to each other like wolves.

  On the sidewalk across from me was the entrance to the subway, the Lexington line. There were cabs cruising by me, heading downtown. I ran my hand over my mouth. It came away slick with sweat. It was hard to come down, hard to think. Impossible, it seemed like, to figure the angles.

  But then, there was only one place I figured I would be safe. And the subway was the fastest way to get there. It was my best shot, the toughest to trace, the hardest to stop. After another second, I came out of the alley shadows. I made my move.

  I jammed my hands into my pockets, ducked my head behind my jacket collar. I took long strides as I headed for the corner. It was hard to keep my legs going. They felt leaden and wobbly at the same time. The sirens got louder. The buildings on the far side of Eighty-sixth began to flash red, too. I got to the corner and saw the “Don’t Walk” sign glaring at me from across the way. I started to jaywalk across.

  Now the sirens were screaming. They were throbbing in my ears. With a sudden glare of twirling red, two cop cars broke through the intersection, raced across Eighty-sixth. They were past in a moment. I heard their sirens die away—as if they’d pulled to the curb right behind me and stopped. I didn’t look back. I just kept walking.

  A step. A step. Another step. I made it to the far side. My legs felt like they were ready to buckle. But now the stairs to the subway were right in front of me. I could see down into the entranceway. There was a short flight leading to a concrete landing, then more stairs around the corner going down into the station. I forced myself on, not looking left
or right.

  I was a yard away, a step away, I was reaching out for the banister with a shaking hand—when another siren started up, close by. Without pausing, I glanced around. I saw a cruiser a half-block north, speeding down toward me on Lexington.

  Just then, my hand touched the cold subway banister. I yanked myself in. I went tripping down the stairs fast as I could. Touched the platform, spun around the corner fast.

  A cop was coming up the next flight toward me.

  He was a littly guy. Round-faced Italian with a heavy black mustache. I saw something flicker in his eyes as we headed toward each other. Something mechanical and coplike. I didn’t miss a step as I skittered past him.

  I hit bottom. The underground hall. Token booth ahead to my left. Turnstiles to my right, the train platform and the tracks just beyond them. I drove my legs toward the token booth. There was a line of three or four people there. As I came toward them, there was a low rumble. Then it broke into a sudden roar. A train shot into the station. About twenty people on the platform crowded toward it. The people at the token booth pressed closer together, buying their tokens as fast as they could. I kept moving toward them.

  “Hey!”

  It came from the stairs behind me. The cop’s voice. I looked back. He wasn’t in sight yet. He hadn’t come back down.

  But he called again: “Hey!”

  I swerved from my course. Turned away from the booth. Headed for the exit gates, reaching into my jacket for my wallet at the same time.

  The train stopped. I heard its brakes squealing. The people on the platform gathered around the doors.

  “This is the express train,” the announcer said. “This is not the local train. This is the express, next stop Fifty-ninth Street.”

  I grabbed the exit gate, pulled it open. Held my wallet up above my head as if I were flashing identification. The subway’s doors slid open.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the cop come down out of the stairway behind me. But he hesitated there, unsure he’d made his man.

  “You there! Excuse me?” he called.