by David Barry
He lay in his frozen tomb and waited for them to approach. He heard the crunch of their boots as they stopped only feet away from where he lay. They clicked on their flashlights and shone them up the wall.
‘We’ve lost him,’ one of them said. ‘He must’ve gone over the wall. Let’s go after the others.
The police car siren started its urgent screaming again. As soon as Bill heard it fading as they left the immediate vicinity, he crawled from out of his hiding place and shook the snow off. He was shivering. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this cold. He hurried along Frankfort Avenue. He knew that within minutes the entire police force would converge on the area and he needed to find somewhere to hide. It was too dangerous being out on the streets.
He walked another two blocks and found a used-car lot, with at least fifty cars for sale. He wound his way through the cars towards the back of the lot, found a large sedan, climbed into the back and lay huddled on the floor.
He was wet and shivering. The shivering became more violent, but this was a way of keeping his body from succumbing to sleep, which could be dangerous in this weather. If he went to sleep in this temperature, he might never wake up.
Every so often, he heard a police car wailing past. He tried to work out a plan.
As soon as morning came, there would be hundreds of people about, heading for work; perhaps he could get lost in the crowd. Who was he trying to kid? He was wearing standard prison clothing: a thin khaki windcheater, black prison trousers, and a baseball cap. Because he’d been in the prison baseball team, he’d decided to wear the cap during their breakout to keep some body heat from escaping. But wearing a baseball cap in a severe February snowstorm would look odd. He decided there was nothing he could do about it and would just have to chance it. What other choice did he have?
While he cowered, shivering in the dark, his thoughts roamed. He thought of Louise and Jenny. And some of the guys he’d worked with: men like Doc Tate, who was convinced Bill was jinxed. Maybe he was right. He brought everybody bad luck. Then he thought of his time with Jean, his final lover. After his capture in Philadelphia, they had tried to implicate her, made out she knew he was a criminal. She denied it, and so did he, and she never went to trial. After the trial, she didn’t return to New York, but beat it back home to Harrisburg, instead. He wondered what ever became of her and her thwarted ambitions. Probably settled down with some fine young lawyer. Young lawyer? Jean would be almost forty by now. If she had settled down to marriage and motherhood, that would have been some time ago. It was over fourteen years since they’d met at Roseland. Time had dragged by since then. He wondered if Jean or Louise ever thought about him. Somehow he doubted it. They had to get on with their lives. Move on and stop thinking about him. A forgotten man. Forty-eight years old and twenty of them spent behind bars. What a waste.
But here he was, after battling to stay sane over the last fourteen years, finally free. For the time being.
Eventually the miserable, grey dawn arrived. He guessed it must be almost seven o’clock, as crowds of people shuffled along the sidewalk through the snow. Then more and more people, all going in the one direction, so he guessed they were heading for a train or bus station. He couldn’t risk the early arrival of someone who worked at the car lot, so he opened the door to let himself out. A blast of cold air clutched his body like an icy hand and he really had to push the door against a large mound of snow that had accumulated overnight. Still the snow was falling, getting thicker and thicker. He saw there was a large skip at the back of the car lot, brimming over with junk, threadbare tires and rusting automobile parts, so he got rid of the gun he’d taken from the guard, covered it with an oily rag, and pushed it as far as he could into the rest of the trash. Then he threaded his way through the cars, and joined the crowd of people walking along the sidewalk.
After only two blocks he reached a bus station. There was a bus leaving for West Philadelphia and he jumped on. Eastern State Penitentiary was in West Philadelphia, he noted with some irony. As the bus took off, any worries he had about being recognized were groundless. Frozen early-morning risers were huddled and cocooned in their own separate spaces, glad to be out of the snowstorm for a while. No one gave him a second glance. He sank down in a window seat and basked in the warmth, and almost wished the journey would last longer than it did.
When he alighted, not far from the penitentiary, he was comforted by the arbitrary choice of this particular route. He didn’t think the cops would be looking for escaped convicts stupid enough to head in the direction of their old prison. But he still had to be extremely cautious and keep away from anywhere public. He didn’t know if his face would be in the papers yet. But it would be certain to be in the noon editions.
He found a small clothing store that was just opening up, disposed of his baseball cap in a garbage can, and went inside. The proprietor was busy putting items of clothing onto a rack, and gave Bill a cursory glance as he entered.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘What a day,’ Bill acknowledged. He selected a working man’s, dark blue donkey jacket from a rack, grabbed a cloth cap from a pile in a basket, and took them over to the counter to pay for them. The proprietor hurried over and Bill handed him two fives. As the proprietor took them, he stared at Bill and frowned.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he said.
Bill’s heart stopped. Should he make a break for it? The man was staring at him, waiting for him to speak. The silence stretched taut, like an elastic about to snap. Then the man seemed to relax, glad that he’d reached a solution.
‘You ever hang out at Barney’s pool hall?’
Relieved, Bill gave the man a caught-out grin, as if he’d stumbled on his guilty secret. ‘Cannot tell a lie,’ he said.
‘Been there a couple of times,’ the man continued, feeling quite chatty now he’d made his first early sale. ‘Never been much good at the game myself, so I stopped going. You want these in a bag?’
‘Sure,’ said Bill, knowing it would look suspicious if he said he’d wear them immediately. ‘I only live round the corner. ‘
The proprietor bagged Bill’s purchases and handed him his change. ‘Mind how you go,’ he said.
Bill thanked him and left the store. He wheeled round a corner into a side street, took the coat from the bag, and slipped it on over his windcheater. Then he tugged the hat on and headed back to the main street. Now he would look like any other guy down on his luck and looking for work.
He mingled with the crowds along the main street for a few hours. Although he was hungry and thirsty, he couldn’t risk going into a diner. More than anything, he wanted a steaming cup of coffee. So much so, he could smell it in his mind.
At noon he bought a paper. On the front page large pictures of he and Van Sant stared out at him. The others had been recaptured; Van Sant and he were the only two still at liberty. And the state police, as well as the Philadelphia police, were looking for them. Bill decided his only hope was to try to make it to New York.
He caught a bus to Roosevelt Parkway, which was the main route to New York. The snow was hurling it down and he was soon drenched in white, which worked in his favor, as everyone else looked the same. He stood at the edge of the highway and jerked his thumb at trucks and cars as they went past but no one stopped. He couldn’t feel his toes and he stamped his feet up to keep the circulation going. After an hour, he had just begun to despair when a battered old coupe crawled to a stop. The driver hadn’t pulled over too close to the sidewalk, in case his car got stuck, and Bill hurried out into the road. A truck overtaking the car widely honked a horn angrily. Bill swung open the door.
‘Thanks. I sure could use a lift. ‘
The driver was a mild-mannered elderly man, his skin wrinkled like parchment.
‘And on a day like today, I could use some company,’ he said. ‘I’m headed for Princeton. ‘<
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‘Princeton’ll be fine. ‘
As Bill settled back into his seat, he noticed a noon edition of the paper in the back, his picture staring up from the front page. He wondered if the driver had seen it yet. He must have done. Headlines sell newspapers, so he would probably have glanced at the front page as he bought it.
‘Where you headed?’ asked the driver.
‘Boston,’ Bill lied. ‘I’ve been unemployed for a while now. I’m a plumber. And I’ve got a cousin in Boston who can fix me up with a job. ‘
The man chuckled. ‘Good time for plumbers, would’ve thought. All them frozen pipes. ‘
Bill laughed along with him. ‘Yeah. Maybe I’ll do okay in Boston. ‘
‘From Philadelphia?’
‘Originally from Newark. Moved to Philly ‘bout ten years ago. What about you?’
‘Philadelphia born and bred. On my way to Princeton to visit my granddaughter. Got scared of this weather. What with that and the escaped convicts. ‘
Bill stiffened. He knew he had to sound indifferent, almost like he wasn’t that interested in the story.
‘I haven’t read the papers,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
The man spoke excitedly. ‘Group of convicts escaped from Holmesberg Prison. Tied the warders up, took their guns and escaped over the wall. Then they held a milkman up at gunpoint and forced him to drive them into Philly. Armed and dangerous they were.
‘Were?’ Bill questioned.
‘They captured them. They’re back inside now, so we’re quite safe.’
Bill guessed the driver had read the story hurriedly, and hadn’t picked up on all the details.
‘That’s a relief. I’m glad they caught them. ‘
‘So am I. I wouldn’t want to meet one of those guys on a dark night. ‘
Bill smiled wryly to himself. Although he’d carried guns, he’d never ever fired one. As for the other convicts who’d escaped, not one of them wanted to risk the ultimate sentence in the chair at Sing Sing.
The driver was a cheerful man and continued to talk excitedly about the escape, and Bill threw in the odd comment as though he knew nothing about prisons and convicts. The snow continued to fall and the car’s wipers brushed it to the edges of the windscreen, where it lay thickly, so that the view through the windscreen was restricted. At an intersection a light turned red, and there was a traffic booth on the side of the highway, with a cop sitting inside. As the car stopped, he got up out of the booth and walked over to their car. He peered inside through the windscreen, looked at Bill, then at the driver. This is it, thought Bill. The end of the road. Back inside with another fifteen to twenty added to the original sentences. He’d need to live as long as Methuselah if he was ever going to be paroled.
Then the light turned green and the cop waved them on. Bill tried not to show how relieved he felt.
They reached Princeton in the late afternoon and the driver slowed to a halt. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve arrived. I turn left here to the campus. If you head straight on, you’ll be going north. Good luck with the frozen pipes. ‘
Bill laughed politely, thanked him, then got out of the car. He waved and watched as the car turned the corner, regretting the loss of shelter and warmth. He trudged steadily through the centre of Princeton, heading towards the New York highway. The streets were deserted and treacherously icy. He slipped several times and was soon wet through. By the time he reached the highway on the outskirts of the town, it was almost dark. Although New York was only fifty miles away, it might has well have been on the opposite side of the world.
Pretty soon the cold feeling in his body changed to a deadly numbness and he became worried about freezing to death. He left the highway and cut across some fields to try to find some sort of shelter. The snow was knee height and he found it difficult to walk. By now it was pitch black and he was starting to panic. After all he’d been through, was this how it would end? A useless parasite, frozen to death in some lousy field.
His eyes strained in the darkness. Up ahead something black contrasted with the whiteness of the snow. It looked like a building. He moved quicker, shivering and panting with the effort. He reached the shape and discovered it was a derelict barn, its door hanging off and its one window broken. But at least it would offer some sort of shelter. He went inside. It was pitch black, but the space inside seemed to be empty. He knew if he was to survive this night, he had to keep moving. He jumped up and down on the spot and smacked his arms against himself. He desperately wanted to sleep, he could feel the tiredness washing over him, his brain telling him to lie down and take it easy. Reaching out for the side of the barn, he steadied himself then slid to the ground. He closed his eyes and the relief was unimaginable. A soothing phrase drifted into his mind. To sleep, perchance to dream. Where had he heard it before? It was. . . it was on Broadway. Yes, that was it. He and Jenny had been to see Hamlet. A tragic death. Death! The word screamed at him from the deeper recesses of his soul. He opened his eyes and held onto a groove on the wall of the barn. With an enormous effort, he pulled himself to his feet, and began slapping his sides and moving round in circles. Move. He had to keep moving. Keep his circulation going. But he was exhausted. This was his second night without sleep.
The night dragged on forever. More than once he decided he’d had enough and was tempted to settle for much-needed sleep. But as soon as he huddled on the floor for a brief respite, a warning, screaming voice inside his head made him get up again. Then he’d have to start painful movements to keep from freezing, and to keep himself awake. It was a nightmare, this never ending night of cold exercise. Eventually, when he thought the night would never end, the pitch black outside became a charcoal grey. And as the dawn lightened he saw that it had stopped snowing, and a weak amber sun glinted through the clouds.
As soon as it was light, he left the barn and trudged across the field towards the highway. While he couldn’t really feel much warmth from the weak morning sun, at least he knew he wouldn’t freeze to death now; and the effort of clambering through the snowdrifts helped to keep the frostbite at bay. As soon as he reached the highway, he began to feel more optimistic. If he could survive a night like that, he could surely overcome any more hard knocks.
He’d been trying to hitch a ride for only five minutes when an old rusty Packard chugged past, then stopped. Bill ran forward and swung open the creaking door. The driver was some sort of manual worker, wearing oil-stained dungarees.
‘Where you headed for?’ he said
‘New York. ‘
‘Hop in. I could use some company. ‘
‘Good luck with the job search,’ said the mechanic. ‘I hope you get fixed up real soon. ‘
Bill stood on the Bronx sidewalk and thanked him with genuine warmth, gave him a half salute and slammed the door shut. He watched as the Packard coughed and spluttered, and its gears ground noisily as it pulled away from the sidewalk.
Bill awarded himself a small, self-confident grin. He was back on form. He’d been lucky. The driver had accepted his story about being down on his luck and seeking work. But what terrified Bill was the approach to New York. He knew they’d be watching all the tunnels and bridges. The driver had chosen to enter across the George Washington Bridge, and Bill saw the toll booth looming ahead, and had no choice but to stay calm and bluff it out. But when the driver drew level with the booth and handed over his fifty cents, the cop barely looked up. Just two working stiffs on an early shift. It had been that simple.
He walked towards the nearest subway, bought a newspaper, and caught the first train heading for Brooklyn. He hated sitting on subways, where commuters randomly examine the faces of their fellow passengers, and he ducked behind his paper. The headline news was about Russian spies getting information on the atom bomb. The story of Bill’s escape came a close second. He learnt the FBI were helping the police
and were keeping tabs on all his old haunts, and anyone he had ever known was being kept under surveillance. Bill wondered about the stupidity of the police spokesman who had given the press this information. Now he was warned. Contact no one he knew.
He got off at Borough Hall station and mingled among the crowds in Fulton Street. He was desperate for something to eat, so he found a crowded restaurant, went in and ordered steak, fries, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and coffee. It was the first meal he’d enjoyed since 1933. He had about thirty dollars left now, which wouldn’t last very long. He needed to get himself a job, something that provided him with accommodation. He decided to go for a job as some sort of hospital orderly in a nursing home. They didn’t pay much, but at least board and lodging was provided. But first he needed to sleep.
He paid for his meal, then went into the men’s room. There were three cubicles, and they were all vacant. Although it wasn’t ideal, snatching some sleep in one of the cubicles seemed to be his best bet. Recovery time. As he sat on the toilet seat and leaned back against the cistern of one of the cubicles, his eyelids started to close. They were jerked awake again as someone else banged into the cubicle next to his. Unable to fall sleep immediately, he couldn’t help but listen to the undignified noises of some guy’s bodily functions. But as soon as the toilet had been flushed and vacated, Bill’s heavy eyelids closed and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Louise stands in Times Square. Bright lights but no people. Apart from Louise, Times Square is deserted. A taxi screeches to a halt close by, and Dutch Schultz gets out. He puts an arm around her and escorts her into a restaurant. Bill sees himself panicking. He knows what is about to happen but is unable to do anything about it. He knows he is dreaming. He sees himself curled up against the cistern of the toilet. He also sees the Dutchman, sitting at a table opposite Louise. Two waiters arrive to take their order, both carrying tea towels over their arms. The towels are whipped aside and are replaced by Colt 45s. The waiters shoot the Dutchman in the head and blood spurts everywhere, drenching the restaurant, like a color wash in a painting. Louise is terrified, screaming and screaming, and from somewhere a baby cries out for its mother.