by Matt Witten
Doing (a) and (b)—climbing the fence and hopping onto the tree—was surprisingly easy. And I even managed to do (c)—crawling out to the end of the branch—without having a heart attack, despite the chief's search beam swooping past me about five feet away.
But doing (d) and (e)—reaching out to that barely open window and forcing it upward—was another story entirely.
First I tried reaching out with my good arm. But the strain of holding on to the branch with my bad arm was too much. I almost fell out of the tree.
So I tried it the other way around, holding on to the branch with my good arm and opening the window with my bad one. But that was equally useless. The window was heavy enough, or stuck enough, that when I tried to lift it the pain in my stabbed shoulder made my head spin. Again I almost fell out of the tree.
Any moment now one of those search beams would find me. Or else some well-meaning civilian in pajamas would notice an oversized monkey hanging off of a tree behind the Orian Cillarnian.
What an undignified way to get arrested.
I grabbed hold of the branch with both arms and desperately tried to contort my body so my foot would reach the window. If only I did yoga.
If only I were Tarzan.
If only I were sitting in some quiet cafe somewhere, sipping cappuccino.
But I wasn't. I stretched my thigh muscles more than they'd been stretched in years, and finally managed to reach the windowsill with my foot.
I paused for breath, then pushed up at the window with my toes, straining with all my might. But the window was stuck. I lifted it a quarter of an inch at most. Then my foot fell back to the windowsill, exhausted.
I heard voices on the street, close by. I shoved upward with my foot again. My leg was in agony, with all kinds of muscles and tendons popping and tearing. This time the window went up maybe half an inch before my leg couldn't take it anymore and dropped back down.
Somebody's searchlight flashed along the back fence and wiggled up and down. I froze. Had they heard me? The voices were talking quietly, and I couldn't tell what they were saying. Then the searchlight swept across my tree trunk. Shit, they had heard me.
I felt like a raccoon treed by a pack of especially bloodthirsty dogs. I might as well just drop out of the tree and give myself up. But then, amazingly, the light veered off and aimed for a porch across the street. The voices moved away, too.
I didn't take time to contemplate the miracle. Instead I frantically walloped the bottom of the window with my foot, and lo and behold, I hit the jackpot at last! The window went up a full twenty inches.
One more kick like that and the window would be far enough open that I'd be able to dive right in. With a surge of strength, I kicked again.
But nothing happened.
I kicked yet again. Still nothing. I kicked and kicked, harder and harder, faster and faster, until my thigh muscles felt like they were on fire. But it didn't do any good. This time the window was totally stuck. The opening was still way too narrow for me to dive through.
Then a cop car drove up and stopped right in front of the Orian Cillarnian. Cole got out. He looked toward the back of the building, where I was.
God, now what? I couldn't just stay on this branch and wait to get shot. I looked down at the ground. I could jump, but it was pretty far, thirty feet at least. My arm and leg would be totally destroyed, and besides I'd make a lot of noise. I'd be handing myself to Cole on a silver platter.
He was talking to another cop and pointing in my direction. They were about to come my way.
There was only one thing to do.
I put both feet on the shivering branch and tried without success to steady myself.
Then I dove for the window.
My arms made it through the narrow opening and grabbed onto the windowsill from the inside. But my head banged hard into the window sash, hurting like hell and almost jarring me loose from the sill. My feet were dangling, unable to find purchase. I hung on to the side of the building by my arms—by one arm, really, because the other arm was fading fast. I could feel myself falling down to the cold hard ground, and from there to Cole's arms and jail—or death.
If only I could get my damn elbows onto the windowsill, then maybe I'd have a fighting chance to squeeze myself through the window. I closed my eyes and fought with all my might to pull myself up. Straining with my one good arm and struggling to find any infinitesimal toeholds between the bricks, I jerked my body slowly, painfully up the wall. My elbows crawled upward one tiny lurch at a time: half an inch higher . . . one inch . . . one and a half inches . . .
The pain was so great that I started drifting out of my body, like it belonged to someone else. But after what felt like hours, my elbows finally hit the edge of that windowsill. I gave a desperate lurch and was able to plant my elbows on top of the sill. Then with one last rush of adrenaline I wriggled my body under the stuck window sash until, more dead than alive, I found myself plopping into the building headfirst.
From way down below I heard Cole saying, ". . . neighbor thought he heard a noise back here." As quietly as I could, I closed the window.
Then I collapsed to the floor and passed out.
If they wanted me, they could have me.
22
I woke up several hours later with an aching head, a torn-up leg, and an arm that felt like it should be amputated. Dawn was breaking, and so was I.
With my adrenaline long gone, I was shaking from the cold. Looking around me, I saw I was in the Orian Cillarnian bar. The bar was separated from the back room by a curtain; I tore it down and wrapped it around my body. Some tablecloths were stacked on a table in the back room, next to a pile of S.O.S. flyers, and I wrapped them around me, too. If anyone invited me to a toga party, I was ready.
But I was still shaking. Maybe it wasn't the cold; maybe it was fear.
Or hunger. I suddenly realized I was famished. I wildly searched the cabinets behind the bar for beer nuts, pretzels, Sweet and Low packets, anything. But I found nothing except glasses of every shape and size. There was one locked closet and a locked refrigerator; no doubt they contained all the food, but in my exhausted state, I couldn't figure out how to bust them open. I was sorely tempted to just go outside and turn myself in; then at least maybe I'd get something to eat.
Why did I keep having this urge to surrender? It was morbid. I'll bet Cary Grant never felt that way in North by Northwest.
And speaking of Cary Grant, why did I keep comparing myself to movie characters?
Fortunately, any thought of surrendering was instantly forgotten when I noticed a mini-refrigerator right in front of my nose. I opened it and was greeted by the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever seen: a half-eaten liverwurst sandwich and a half-full bottle of Mountain Dew.
It took me all of about ten seconds to suck down both the sandwich and the Dew. My mind defogged; I could feel my IQ rising with each calorie. Even my arm felt better. When I found a half-sour pickle in the back of the mini-refrigerator, I knew today must be my lucky day.
There was a pay phone at one end of the bar. I felt in my pocket and was astonished to discover three quarters there. Further proof that my luck had turned. First I called Andrea. She picked up in the middle of the first ring.
"Hello?!" she gasped.
"I'm okay, honey," I said. My voice startled me; it rattled hollowly, like it was coming from deep inside a cave.
Andrea started crying. "Jacob, where are you?"
"I'd rather not say. But I'm really okay, and I'll see you soon."
She spoke quickly, to keep me on the phone. "Honey, they found the knife behind the TV, and it was all full of blood. Maybe you should just give yourself up. Jacob, I want you to know, I love you," she gulped, "no matter what you've done."
No matter what you've done. Thanks for the vote of confidence. "Look, they may be tracing this call. I love you, too." Then I hung up.
After that I called Malcolm, or tried to. But his home and beeper numbers weren
't listed in the ancient phone book hanging from the phone; and when I spent my second quarter dialing Directory Assistance, the weary-sounding woman who answered my call didn't have Malcolm's numbers either. I thought about trying him at his office, but he almost certainly wouldn't be there yet. I only had one more quarter, and I better not waste it on an answering machine.
On the other hand, who was there left for me to call? Dave? Dennis? There was no one. I was all alone.
No, I wasn't.
Footsteps. Someone was inside the building.
They were coming toward the bar.
I ducked into the alcove behind the pay phone.
Lia Kalmus loomed into view. She started past me toward the back room, no doubt to pick up those S.O.S. flyers.
But then she saw me. She screamed.
She was too petrified to move. I lifted my hands carefully to show I didn't have a weapon. "It's okay, Lia, don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
I must have looked pretty strange, covered with curtains and tablecloths. She backed away from me slowly. I thought about rushing her and trying to tackle her before she could make it to the front door. Great idea—throw in an aggravated assault along with all of my other crimes.
"Lia, please," I begged, "I need your help. You've got to believe me, I didn't kill anybody, I didn't do anything, I'm being framed!"
She was still backing away. Any moment now she would bolt. "I'm a political prisoner, Lia!" I pleaded. "Just like your Dad! They're gonna destroy me, same way they destroyed your family!"
She stood at the far end of the room, giving me that horrified stare I'd noticed once before, so panicked her droopy eye almost stopped drooping. She was poised to dash madly for the great outdoors.
But at least she wasn't dashing madly yet. If I could somehow get Lia on my side, with all of her connections and power, maybe I could get things to finally turn around. We could force the police to do a real murder investigation.
Maybe I could even turn myself in without getting shot at by some rogue cop.
But first I had to convince this woman. "Lia, it's like this," I said rapidly and nervously, like one of those late-night TV hucksters. "Pop Doyle ran a whorehouse, and some drug dealing operations, and an extortion business . . ."
I laid out the whole fantastic story. The way I described it, our quaint small town was almost as corrupt as post-Soviet Russia.
I may have exaggerated a bit.
But thank God, it seemed to do the trick. No doubt Lia already had some inkling that the Saratoga cops weren't totally kosher. Now, as she listened, her expression toward me slowly softened.
Then her jaw and her good eye hardened into a determined look—a look I recognized from all those S.O.S. meetings I'd attended over the years. She broke in and interrupted me. "Look, here's what we need to do," she said crisply. "We'll go see the mayor. Right now. He'll make that idiot police chief do his job like he's supposed to. And then I'll take you to the station myself. If any of those hoodlums do anything to you, I'll crack them over the head."
I was so overcome I couldn't speak. An ally at last!
I could never have gone to the mayor by myself—it's a long story, but during my previous murder investigation I'd left him writhing in pain on the ground. With Lia behind me, though, the mayor would do the right thing. If he wanted to get reelected, he'd have to. "Thank you, Lia," I breathed fervently. "Thank you."
She brusquely waved me off. "No big deal. My father was innocent—and so are you. Take those tablecloths off you, and let's get out of here."
But that turned out to be easier said than done.
When Lia opened the front door, there was a cop car idling right across the street, and one glimpse told me it was Dave. I ducked quickly back inside the building, so quickly that I wrenched something at the back of my knee and tore up my leg even more.
Ignoring the pain, I started to run out the back door of the building, certain that Dave was about to come racing in after me. But Lia shushed me and motioned for me to stay where I was. She held the door open a tiny crack and watched until Dave finally drove off. Thank God for Estonians, I thought to myself.
With the coast finally clear (or at least it looked that way), we hurried out to Lia's car. I jumped in the backseat and lay down low. I was so revved up I forgot all about my busted body parts, but when they hit the floor of the car, I remembered in a hurry.
Lia started the engine. "We're okay now, Jacob, but stay down just in case. So let's work this out. What exactly do we tell the mayor?"
As we zigzagged toward the mayor's house—carefully avoiding Broadway and other main streets, it looked to me from where I lay—I described again for her, in greater detail, all the evidence I had against Cole. I even told her about the videotape I made, figuring that would be the nail in Cole's coffin.
I couldn't see Lia's face, but somewhere in the middle of my rendition I got the vibe she wasn't as impressed as I wanted her to be. She confirmed it by saying, "The problem is, you still don't have any real proof that Cole killed Pop."
"I have plenty to start with, though. And if we keep shaking the trees long enough, something is bound to fall out."
From my prone position, I was relieved to see the back of Lia's head bobbing up and down in agreement. "You're right, maybe something will. Okay, what the hell, let's go for it." She stopped the car and got out.
"We're at the mayor's house already?" I asked as I sat up.
Wait, this couldn't be right; we were parked outside the cemetery.
Lia opened the back door, pointing a gun at my face.
23
"Get out of the car," Lia said.
"W-what?" I stuttered.
"Get out."
"Get out?"
"GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR!"
I got out.
I looked around for cops. Where are they when you really need them?
She motioned with her gun for me to go through the gate into the cemetery. "Move."
"Jesus, Lia, why?"
She aimed her gun. "Move!"
I moved.
It was a cold, gray dawn. She followed me into the cemetery. "Up that hill," she ordered, pointing to the hill a hundred feet ahead of us where Gideon Putnam's family was buried.
I walked toward there as slowly as I could, desperate to think up a way out. What the hell was going on here? "I don't get it, Lia. You didn't kill them, did you?"
"That bastard stiffed me out of twenty thousand dollars—and then he tried to rape me."
Was I dreaming? "Who are you talking about—Pop?"
"Yeah, Pop," she spit out, her damaged face twisting with rage. "Lousy creep was gonna make a fortune from selling the Grand Hotel to the SERC. So he promised me twenty grand if I got their plan approved." The way Lia's burn scar moved when she talked, it was almost like a living thing. "If I let you shake the trees, you'd have found out about the twenty grand, because that idiot Pop couldn't keep his mouth shut. Told Hal Starette and three or four other people all about it." She bared her teeth. "You'd've found out other stuff, too. Keep moving," she snapped. "Don't turn around."
I did what she told me. The hill was just forty or fifty feet away now. Was she planning to kill me when we got there?
I tried to think of some way to get her talking again, to distract her so I could go for the gun. But she didn't need any prompting. Her words flooded out like she'd been damming them up forever. "I did what I was supposed to do, goddamn it. Got all those brainless sheep on the West Side to vote yes. But I go to Pop's house that night after the vote to get my twenty thousand, and he just laughs in my face. Says I should've known better, gotten my money up front. Then he gets in his car and just drives away, the fat jerk. So I follow him. He stops at that house next to you, so I do, too. I go after him to the backyard. I'm thinking maybe I'll settle for ten thousand."
I was still walking ahead of Lia, looking back at her from the corner of my eye, watching for the right moment to strike. But even though she w
as wrapped up in her story, she kept her gun pointed steadily right at the back of my head.
"So we're arguing about it, and then he hits me," she went on, her voice filled with hurt and fury. "He hits me real hard, in my breasts, so hard I'm screaming, and then he hits me again. He's standing over me, laughing, squeezing my breasts, and he's going, 'Hey, you got a nice body, for an ugly bitch. Bet you're a virgin, aren't you?' And then he reaches for my pants. He was gonna rape me!"
She took a deep breath. "So I grabbed his gun and shot him."
We were at the foot of the hill. Above us was Gideon Putnam's family burial plot. I stopped and turned around to Lia. "Move!" she yelled, gun outstretched. "Up the hill!"
So I went up the hill. But I kept my face turned toward her and whistled through my teeth, trying to sound sympathetic. "Well, God, Lia, that's just self-defense. No one would blame you for that."
An angry growl rumbled from her throat. "And then that drug dealer calls me up. Says he saw me kill Pop, and if I don't pay him off he'll tell the cops. Says this Jacob Burns guy is getting on his nerves, and he wants money to get out of town." She gave a short mirthless chuckle. "Screw that. I had to kill him, too. Stand up against the gate."
Stand up against the gate.
Was it as simple as that?
No fanfare, no drum roll? Was this the big good-bye?
My throat went tight. "Don't do this to me," I pleaded, my voice raspy and barely audible, "I've got a wife and two kids—"
"You should've thought of that before. Now stand up against the goddamn gate."
I did.
"Lia," I said, sounding disturbingly whiny, "I just don't get it. I thought you were such a wonderful person."
She snorted derisively. "I'll tell you who was wonderful. My father. It got him killed, and it got me this." She pointed at her ruined face. "To hell with being wonderful."
"But you did so much good for the West Side."
"Yeah, I know, I made you feel good about being an American," she said, sneering sarcastically. "You know how many landlords have slipped me money over the years to go easy on them? Believe me, it adds up. If Pop had just come through with that twenty grand like he promised, I'd have enough money to buy a nice big farmhouse in Greenfield."