Spilled Milk, no. 1

by Michael J. Scott

  There were only three possible exits from the chamber. Two doors and the window. Both doors had cops behind them waiting for me to make a move, and the window was three stories above a street crowded with more cops, their cars, at least four news vans, and a huge crowd of spectators mingling across the street.

  I needed a fourth way.

  I thought about creating some kind of diversion. If there was a way to hide in the room, I might be able to escape when they finally broke through and searched it. But my options were severely limited. I had no convenient places to hide, and the likelihood of being to stay hidden once they started searching was slim to none.

  I toyed with the idea of faking my death, except that I had absolutely no means of accomplishing such a feat, short of drinking myself into oblivion, and I'm fairly certain that wouldn't have had the effect I desired.

  Thus stymied, I turned my attention to the walls of my cell. The one behind me held the window and the outside. But even if I could get through, snipers across the street could take me out long before I could make my escape. Assuming I didn't fall three stories to the concrete in the attempt, that is. The wall in front of me held the courtroom on the other side, and right now it was full of cops. If I were gonna go that way, I might as well just open the door and walk right on through. To my left was a concrete wall, beyond which lay the stairwell and more cops. Even if I could get through the wall somehow, I had nowhere to go except into the arms of the police.

  To my right lay, as far as I knew, another judge's chamber. Without an idea who or what was on the other side, I couldn't say for certain whether or not I'd be opening up a door that I couldn't slam shut again.

  That left the ceiling and the floor. The floor felt solid enough. Probably three quarter inch plywood over six or eight inch floor joists between it and the room below. The ceiling, however...

  I pushed myself to my feet, craning my neck to study it. It was just plain old sheet rock. The courthouse only had three floors, so there was nothing above us except air vents, conduit, and some insulation. It was my best bet.

  But if I were going to go out that way, I'd have to make sure of a couple of things. First of all, I had to be sure there wasn't someone on the other side trying to come in. My best bet there was the bailiff's gun. If the cops had thought of this, then it was only a matter of time before they got me anyway.

  But assuming they hadn't thought of the ceiling, the next thing I had to ensure was that the police believed I was still in the judge's chambers while I made my escape. And that would require a little bit of technological ventriloquism.

  I picked up the judge's cell phone, studying it. Looking at the buttons on the desk phone, I quickly found what I was looking for. Yes, I thought. This just might work.

  ***

  My plan involved chiseling out an opening through the ceiling large enough to slip through. All I had to work with was the letter opener from Judge Rawles' desk drawer. It took considerable prying and jabbing to carve my way through the sheet rock, while all the while brushing fragments of gritty plaster out of my eyes.

  Meanwhile, Detective Rogan continued to harass me over the phone. This actually worked in my favor, because it gave me a chance to test my plan. But after a couple of tries, I got the desk phone to successfully forward the calls to the judge's cell. If Rogan was on to what I'd accomplished, he didn't show it at all.

  I spoke to him in small bits, letting him think I was getting tired and hungry, and bored. Except for the part about being bored, it wasn't that far from the truth. It took only a few minutes to saw through the plaster with the letter opener, even dull as it was, and soon I was ripping down the insulation and hoisting myself up to peer through the darkness. In a far corner of the roof I spied a ray of daylight piercing the inumbrate attic.

  It meant I could find a way out. I was almost free.

  I dropped back down and started packing up what I needed, stuffing it into the judge's purse. Car keys, lighter and cigarettes, vodka bottle, $10,000 cash, and cell phone. I was ready to make my escape.

  It was time to call Detective Rogan, and give him my list of demands.

  “Gerrold,” he said. “It's been six hours. How long you want to keep doing this?”

  “Shut up and listen. I want you to do something for me.” I lifted myself into the rafters, speaking to him on the cell phone.

  “And what's that?” He sounded tired.

  “I want a bus to take me to the airport. Blacked out windows. I want a plane, fueled and ready with a flight plan to a non-extradition country. I want my kids on the bus with me. You've got one hour.”

  “Or what? You think we're gonna make some kind of arrangement for hostages? You haven't got any!”

  “Oh no?” I started moving through the rafters, carefully planting my feet along the beams as I inched forward. “How about the Detective of the city police department and thirty of its finest officers?”

  “What is this? Some kind of joke?”

  “Not remotely. You know that part about me not having a plan? I was bluffing. I had this planned out from the beginning. Whole building's wired to blow. You get me what I want, or I take us all out in a blaze of glory.”

  He laughed. “You're bluffing.”

  “Am I?”

  I hung up the phone. Taking the judge's extra robe, I tore off a couple of strips and drizzled the vodka onto them, and then stuffed them into the top of the bottle. Holding the lighter beneath it, I struck a flame. In seconds, the fabric caught fire.

  Here goes nothing, I thought, and tossed the Molotov cocktail toward the cinder blocks that made up the far exterior wall. The bottle shattered, and a blue and yellow flame rushed out, spilling onto the rafters and sheet rock far above the sprinkler heads poking down through the ceiling to the rooms below. I stared at the flame a moment, then hustled toward the shaft of daylight I'd seen poking around the edges of the HVAC unit near the center of the building.

  The attic glowed orange as the fire spread. I picked my way step by step over the rafters, hearing them creak under my weight. I winced with each step, certain that someone would hear me moving above and sound the alarm.

  I was only a third of the way there when I felt the heat. Looking back, I saw a churning mass of angry flames licking the rafters and studs, spreading a canopy of roiling smoke billowing through the peak of the roof. I fumbled for the phone, a sickening realization strangling my gut.

  My kids were still in the building.

  The phone rang ceaselessly. “Rogan, damn it, pick up the phone!” I didn’t care anymore whether or not they heard me in the attic. I had to get my kids out of there!

  The ringing continued as the flames spread. The heat made me sweat. Abruptly, the phone stopped ringing. I stared at it, dumbfounded by what I saw.

  He’d hung up on me!

  Swearing, I hit redial. Of all the times to try and assert control. After the third ring, he picked up. “Rogan here,” he said cheerily.

  “What the hell, Rogan! When I call this number you’d damn well better answer!”

  It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t listening. He’d hung up again. I felt ready to hurl the phone across the room. Better yet, punch a hole in the ceiling and drag his body up here, let him see the fire for himself. Crushing it to my face, I gritted my teeth and tried one more time.

  After the fifth ring, he picked up. “Rogan.”

  “The building’s on fire.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Just get my kids out. You can stay if you want.”

  He laughed, but I hung up before he could say anything further. Behind me, the fire roared, and the first of the burning timbers collapsed to the ceiling in a shower of sparks. I heard the claxon pulse of the fire alarm screech out its warning. The sprinkler pipes shook as the water pumped through the caps and deflectors, dousing the floor below but doing little to quell the flames above. I took a breath and inhaled smoke, collapsing to one knee in a fit of coughing.

  I had
to get out of there now. There was nothing else I could do but trust that the alarm and sprinklers would get Rogan’s attention, and they’d take my kids to safety. Gagging on the acrid reek of the burning roof, I crawled through the black, beam to beam, inching toward the ray of light that promised freedom and, more importantly than anything, air.

  Chapter 5

  I reached the shaft of light even as the smoke filled the attic. Pressing my lips to the vent, I sucked air from the outside, panting in the coolness offered me. Stepping back, I surveyed the air vent.

  It couldn’t have been more than sixteen inches square, mounted into the side of the wall. I had box fans back home that were larger. Not only that, but I couldn’t even tell if there was anything on the other side that I could climb down onto, or if it were a straight drop to the street below, likely filled with cops, onlookers, or other witnesses I’d rather avoid.

  But with the fire raging behind me, I had no other choice, and little time remaining. I emptied the purse onto the bottom of the ceiling. Wrapping it around my hand, I made the best makeshift boxing glove I could manage, and then hauled off and pounded away at the top of the vent cover. It groaned and sagged where I struck it, but did not yield.

  More timbers crashed behind me. I could hear the fire trucks arriving outside. I hit the vent again, managing to pop one of the rivets that held it in place. Moving to the other side, I tried again. I could feel the sharp edges of the aluminum shredding the purse, biting into my knuckles. Hit it again.

  The cover sprang loose, and I shoved it outward, bending it downward with my hand. Peering outside, I saw nothing but the gravel floor of a lower roof not six feet below me. This must’ve been part of the addition, completed decades after the original courthouse was finished.

  I retrieved the items I thought might be useful and stuffed them into the shredded bag, then tossed the whole thing through the hole. It landed with a smack on the other side and the contents spilled out onto the gravel surface.

  I had nothing to grab onto, and the sharp edges of the vent and the aluminum siding on the exterior wall bit into my skin. I felt the metal slicing into my fingers and grit my teeth as I stuck my torso through. For a moment, I hung upside down from my waist, snagged by my belt buckle on the broken vent cover. Abruptly, it slipped free and I tumbled headfirst to the gravel below.

  I hit the roof with my head, seeing a brilliant flash like lightning behind my eyes and feeling an incredible pain shoot down my spine as I crumpled to the hard surface. I tried to tell myself to get up, but couldn’t summon my body to respond right away. With a groan I managed to pull my arm out from underneath my body and turn myself over to face the sky.

  It still shone mostly blue, but a dark, hazy brown cloud poured out of the air vent I’d just come through, obscuring the heavens. I lay there panting a while, until flames started licking at the sides of the air vent. Pulling myself into an upright position, I felt something warm trickling down my forehead. My hand came away sticky and red when I touched my scalp, and I could feel bits of gravel clinging to my hair. I wondered how badly I’d injured myself. It didn’t hurt much, no more than a throbbing ache behind my eyes. My knees and arms hurt more, but as far as I could tell, nothing was broken or dislocated.

  I struggled forward on my hands and knees until I reached the shredded purse. I started stuffing the judge’s belongings back inside and glanced at her cell phone. The screen was cracked and dark. Broken. I flung it to one side. After slipping the purse over my shoulder, I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled across the roof deck.

  When I reached the edge, I slowed, ducking down and peering over the side. Directly below me, I couldn’t see anyone. A copse of trees hugged the building, but these didn’t come close to reaching the height of the second story roof. I looked up and down the street, and aside from the people scurrying toward the front of the building, where all the action was what with the fire trucks and cop cars, I couldn’t see any way to get down.

  Moving to the far end, I saw the rear entrance to the building, with a sloped, steel roof above it. It reached about three quarters of the way up the height of the second floor, about eight feet below me. I didn’t relish the idea of jumping, and I hoped that if I could balance myself against the side of the building, I could touch down atop it and slip down to the ground below without falling off. I swung my leg over the side, then the other, struggling to find purchase on the smooth surface of the wall.

  As I lowered myself down, a sudden explosion shook the building. Startled, I slipped and tumbled to the roof, where I bounced off and fell into the bushes growing on either side of the concrete steps.

  Agony seared through my back as I collapsed onto the grass. I dragged myself to my knees, bleeding from a dozen cuts and scrapes. On top of it all, I’d bit my tongue.

  But for all that, I was out of the building. Limping, I slipped away from the courthouse and shuffled to the parking garage across the street. People on the sidewalk didn’t seem to notice me. Their eyes were turned upward, gawking at the fireball that billowed into the sky. I glanced at it only briefly, too consumed with wanting to get away to care what damage I’d done. I tried not to think about what might have happened inside, or whether or not the cops had gotten my kids to safety in time.

  Under the darkness of the parking garage I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, leaning against the concrete wall. Everything hurt now. I began to think I’d cracked a rib or two on that last fall. The pain got so intense my head swam, a miasma of red blurring my vision. I blinked hard, trying to clear it, and dragged myself further into the structure.

  I grabbed the keys from the purse and held them aloft, hitting the car alarm button. A faint, repetitive honking echoed from somewhere above me. I didn’t know what range the remote had, but I was pretty sure the judge hadn’t parked on the first level.

  I punched the button for the elevator. How long till it came? I felt relief when the doors opened almost immediately. I hit the button for the second floor and pressed the car alarm again as soon as I stepped off. Now it sounded closer. I made my way onto the ramp of the second floor, looking left and right. There, just on the other side of the next ramp, a faint amber flash. I hit the alarm again, and the sound and light vanished.

  As I crossed to the far side I finally spied the judge’s car sitting wedged between a Buick and a Nissan. It was a pale blue CRV with official plates. I unlocked the doors and collapsed into the driver’s seat. It took me a moment to figure out how to shove the seat away from the steering wheel. Judge Rawles wasn’t nearly as tall as me. At least she was neat. I dropped her destroyed purse in the passenger seat, started the engine, and put the car in reverse.

  That’s when I got a good look at myself in the mirror.

  Streaks of crimson flowed down the left side of my face. My right side was gashed and scratched, like I’d gotten in a fight with a feral cat and lost badly. I had a swollen lip and a golf-sized goose-egg on the top of my forehead. From the way my image kept blurring out, I was probably suffering from some kind of concussion.

  I put the car back in park and sat there a moment. I was in no shape to drive, and anyone who saw me would easily remember what I looked like, especially in this state. If I wanted to blend in, I’d have to look a little less Nightmare On Elm Street than this.

  I opened her glove box, looking for anything with which to wipe the blood. All I found was a handful of napkins and a half-empty, travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer. It was better than nothing, I suppose.

  The sanitizer stung when it entered one of the open cuts on my face, but for a brief moment my vision cleared. I removed the worst of the blood this way, dropping the napkins onto the floor until I’d run out.

  Once I cleaned up as best as I could, I shifted back into gear and crept down to the exit. At the bottom, the gate was closed, but there was no attendant in sight. Evidently, they’d all abandoned their posts to see what the action was all about. I don’t suppose it was every day that someon
e burned down their local courthouse.

  Finally, I backed up and then gunned it.

  The gate bar snapped cleanly where I hit it with the Honda, spinning wildly off to the side as I careened onto the street. My head swam with the turn, and I took out a garbage can on the far sidewalk before I could get control over the Honda. Still, it fishtailed as it swept down the road. I sucked air, trying to get the red miasma out of my eyes.

  As near as I could tell, I’d come out on the far street, opposite the courthouse, with nary a cop in sight. For better or worse, I was free.

  Chapter 6

  I drove for another fifteen minutes, but then had to steer the car to the side of the road. A warning grew in my gut, and finally as I opened the door, I vomited the contents of my stomach onto the curb.

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve before closing the car door and leaning back against the headrest. I had a concussion. I was sure of it. I took in several breaths, trying to think clearly. Instead, all I could think of was my kids, hoping they were okay.

  They had to be. The cops wouldn’t have stayed in the building once the fire alarm went off. They’d have gotten everyone out of there, especially the children. That was the worst part of all of this: my kids were nothing more than innocent victims. I tried to do right by them, and the government slaps cuffs on me because of it. Takes them away from me, ‘cause some mealy-mouthed bureaucrat thinks he knows better than their own frickin’ father! And then what? I try to get them back—get free so I can get them back—and the cops go and use them like bargaining chips, like they were daring me to keep pushing, keep fighting. What’d they think was gonna happen? I’m just supposed to roll over? Quit and die? They shoulda spent a little more time studying my military file. There’s a reason I got an honorable discharge. Hell, they shoulda checked with anybody that knew me—they could’ve learned the same thing. For that matter, they could’ve just asked me.