Man on The Run by Charles Williams(2)

Man on The Run — 16
She’d probably been hit by that door when it
slammed shut. Then I remembered the way she’d
weaved as she got back in the car the first time,
and bent down to sniff her breath. At least part of
Suzy Patton’s trouble—if this was Suzy Patton—
was that she was crocked to the teeth. I didn’t
know how carbon monoxide and alcohol mixed in
the human system, but I had a hunch she was
going to be a very sick girl in a few minutes. I
slipped off the high-heeled sling pumps and kicked
open the bathroom door. She began to retch. I halfled
and half-carried her and held her up. When she
was through being sick, I wet a wash cloth at the
basin and bathed her face while she leaned weakly
against the bathroom wall with her eyes closed.
She didn’t open them until she was back on the
bed. She took one look at me and said, “Oh, good
God!” and closed them again. She made a feeble
attempt to pull her skirt down. I straightened it for
her, and she lay still. I went out in the living room
and lighted a cigarette. I could handle her all right,
but if the police came by again and noticed those
garage doors were unlocked, I was dead. I looked
at my watch. It would be at least three more hours
before it was dark.
I stood in the doorway and looked at her. She
was a big girl and a striking one, with blonde hair
almost as white as cotton. Close to five-nine, I
thought. Probably thirty to thirty-three years old.

She wore her hair in one of those short haircuts
they used to call Italian; I didn’t know what they
were called now. She was dressed in a dark skirt,
soft dark sweater, and a rust-colored shorty coat.
She wore gold earrings, and an expensive-looking
watch, but no rings of any kind. It was a handsome
face, and even as sick as she was now there was
the stamp of vitality on it.
I went out and heated the coffee. When I came
back with a cup of it she was sitting up on the edge
of the bed holding her head. “Try a little of this,” I
said.
Man on The Run — 17
She sighed. “Are you still here? I thought I’d died
and gone to hell.”
She didn’t seem to be particularly scared.
Probably the way she felt at the moment she
considered that anything that could happen to her
now would have to be for the better. I held out the
coffee, and she took a sip of it. I lighted a cigarette
and passed it over.
She took a drag on it and shuddered. “What
happened?”
“I pulled you out from under the back of your car.
One of the garage doors must have conked you.”
She felt the back of her head. She winced. “I
remember now. And the engine was still running,
wasn’t it? I tried to get up and passed out.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said.
She looked up at me and shook her head. “I think
you’re out of focus. You look like Spartacus, and
sound like Sergeant Friday. Who are you, and
how’d you get in here?”
“My name’s Foley,” I said. “And I broke in.”
“Oh. Then you must be the one they’re looking
for. Those roadblocks out on the highway.”
“Are they searching the cars?”
“Just slowing them down, I think, and looking in.
I was too busy being sober to pay much attention.”
I held out the coffee again. She drank a little
more of it. “Why are they looking for you?” she
asked.
“They think I killed a policeman.”
She glanced up quickly. “Oh. I think that was in
the paper this morning. Something about a fight.”
“That’s it,” I said. I set the coffee on the dresser.
“How do you feel now?”
“Terrible. But thanks for pulling me out of there.
You saved my life, such as it is.”
“Is anybody meeting you here?” I asked.
“No. Why?”
Man on The Run — 18
“I had to know. Is this your cottage?” She
nodded.
“Then you’re Suzy Patton?”
“That’s right. Suzy Patton, the has-been. The
written-out writer.”
I wondered if she were still drunk. “What do you
mean?”
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s something an exwriter
never attempts to explain to a non-writer.
There’s no language, if you follow me.”
”I probably don’t,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter.
Just keep quiet, and don’t try to call the police or
get out of here.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked.
“Don’t get tough,” I told her. “I’m not going to
hurt you, but I’ll tie you up if I have to.”
“What do you expect to gain by that?”
“Time. If I can hide out long enough, they may
think I’ve got away, and I can get out.”
She had clear gray eyes that didn’t seem to be
afraid of much of anything. “That’s a stupid
procedure. Why don’t you give yourself up?”
“I’d get life. Or the electric chair. Cut it out.”
“They’ll catch you sooner or later. You know
that.”
“I’m not trying to make any long-range plans,” I
said coldly. “They’re after me, and if they get me
it’s going to be rugged. I’m operating one minute
at a time. When I’ve used up this minute, I’ll start
on the next one.”
“And in the meantime you’re going to add a
charge of kidnaping to make it worse?”
“It doesn’t get any worse,’ ‘I said.
“So you intend to stay here?”
“That’s right.”
She sighed. “Well, could I get my purse out of the
car? Or is that against the rules?”
Man on The Run — 19
“We’ll both go get it. That is, if you think you can
walk now.”
“I’m all right. Except I’ve got a splitting
headache.” She slipped her shoes on and stood up.
She seemed to be steady enough. We went out
through the kitchen.
“Wait there by the door,” I said. “I’ll get it.” I
stepped down into the garage, keeping an eye on
her. She made no attempt to run back and get out
the front door. I brought the purse in. She drew
some water at the tap and swallowed a couple of
aspirin she took from the purse. We went back into
the living room. I walked over and felt my clothes.
The shirt and shorts were fairly dry, but the suit
was still soggy. When I looked around she’d gone
into the bedroom. Maybe she was trying to get out
the window. I ran to the doorway and looked in.
She was standing before the mirror of the dresser,
calmly touching up her lipstick. She glanced at me
inquiringly. “What’s the matter?”
”I thought you might be trying to get out.”
“In that rain? Don’t be silly.” She pressed her lips
together, surveyed the result, and dropped the
lipstick back in the purse. Then she combed her
hair. She was a very smart-looking girl. And
spectacular. And about as unflustered as they
came.
“You don’t scare easily, do you?”
“Not any more,” she said. She dropped the comb
in the purse and looked at me. “Should I?”
“Why not?”
She gave me a crooked smile. “I’ve had two
unsuccessful marriages. I’m over thirty. I’m utterly
alone. And I’m washed up as a writer. So what are
you going to do to me, Mr. Foley? Think of
something.”
“All right. But just don’t try to get out of here.”
“Who said I was going to? This is my cottage,
isn’t it? I don’t intend to be chased out of it by
some displaced gladiator hiding from the police.”
Man on The Run — 20
I tried to read what went on behind that face, but
I got nowhere. There was a chance, of course, that
she was unworried because somebody was meeting
her here. And when he arrived I couldn’t handle
the two of them. Well, all I could do was sweat that
out along with the rest of it.
Man on The Run — 21
Three
Wind shook the house again, and rain slashed at
the windows. It was a little after four now, and in
another two hours it should be growing dark. I
could hear the rattle of the hasp and padlock once
in awhile as gusts of wind battered at the garage
doors. She was sitting on the chaise longue by the
coffee table, calmly smoking a cigarette.
“Didn’t the paper say you were a merchant
marine officer?” she asked.
“That’s right,” I said. “Third mate on a tanker.”
“Then why the trouble with a policeman? You’re
not a criminal.”
“It was personal,” I replied. “Had nothing to do
with his being a cop.”
“Did you go there with the intention of killing
him?”
“No.”
“Then why did you?”
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
I heard a car coming along the road. Whirling, I
slipped to the window and peered out. It was a
police cruiser, going slowly past with its windshield
Man on The Run — 22
swipes beating against the rain. It went on. In a
few minutes it came back by, and I had to go
through the whole thing again. It went past without
slackening speed. They hadn’t noticed. I sighed.
She said something.
“What?” I asked, turning away from the window.
“Was that a police car?”
I nodded.
“Why are you so worried? They have no reason to
try to come in here.”
I told her about their being here before. “If they
find out your car’s here now, they’re going to come
in just to be sure you’re all right.”
“Oh,” she said. “So that’s the reason we can’t
have a fire in the fireplace?”
”Of course.”
“What will you do if they do come?”
I shrugged. “What can I do? If you don’t go to the
door they’ll know something’s wrong and they’ll
come in anyway. They seem to think I have a gun.”
I reached out to feel the clothes again. The suit
was still damp. When I turned she was watching
me. She looked away. It was the second or third
time I’d caught her doing that, and I wondered
what she was thinking.
“Were you armed when you went to that
detective’s apartment?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Were you drunk?”
“I’d had five or six drinks.”
“You must have known he might be armed. After
all, he was a policeman.”
“I suppose so,” I said irritably. “I didn’t even
think about it. All I was interested in at the time
was bending his fat face for him. And as for having
a gun myself, I could have thrown away twenty of
them by this time. With the case I’ve got, a lawyer
would tell me to plead guilty and pray.”
Man on The Run — 23
She shook her head. “I thought the paper said he
was killed with a knife. That should prove you
didn’t have a gun, or you’d have used it. Whose
knife was it? His?”
“How do I know?” I said. “I didn’t see it.”
“You’re not really serious about that?”
“Of course not. The electric chair just brings out
the clown in me. How’d you like to see my
impersonation of Red Skelton?”
“Don’t get sarcastic. I’m not forcing you to stay
here.” She lay back on the chaise longue and
gestured toward the couch with her cigarette.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”
“What do you care?” I asked.
“I probably don’t. But if we’re going to stay
cooped up together the rest of our lives, we might
as well talk.”
I sat down, diagonally across the coffee table
from her, and lighted a smoke. “I’d had trouble
with him before. About two weeks ago I threatened
to knock his roof in if he didn’t watch his step. It
was in front of witnesses, so that helps too. Don’t
bother telling me that sort of thing is stupid; I
know it, but when it comes to characters like
Stedman I’ve got a very short fuse. He’s a Lover
Boy, one of those big, flashy, conceited types that
has to spread himself out as much as possible to
give all the girls a break. Especially the ones whose
husbands are away a lot.
“My wife used to be a nightclub singer. We’ve
been married about a year. It didn’t work out very
well, because it’s no cinch being married to a guy
on a tanker unless you just like being alone most of
the time. We run up the East Coast and back like a
commuter train, gone fifteen days and home one,
except that we do get a long vacation once a year.
She couldn’t take it. Last trip in I found out she’d
been running around with Stedman. He was single
and had an apartment there in the same building,
the Wakefield, in the 1200 block on Forest Avenue.
We had a real fight about it, and the same night I
Man on The Run — 24
ran into Stedman in the Sidelines Bar, up in the
next block, and had a few words with him. The
owner of the place is a good friend of mine, though,
and he broke it up and talked me out of starting
anything.
“Last evening when we docked, I got the word.
About the divorce, I mean. She was in Reno, along
with the car and most of the joint checking
account. Around nine o’clock I came uptown from
the refinery and stopped in the Sidelines for a few
drinks, and the more I thought about it the more
burned up I got. I mean, I wasn’t broken up about
it—hell, we were about washed up anyway—but I
don’t like being played for a sucker, at least not by
types like Stedman. So I went up to his apartment.
“When he opened the door and saw who it was he
tried to shut it again, but I pushed my way in and
belted him one. He wasn’t wearing the gun and
holster, of course, because he was off duty, but he
was a long way from being a pushover. He was a
little heavier than I am, and he could really punch.
We made a hell of a mess out of his living room.
The apartment-house manager started pounding on
the door and saying he was going to call the police.
We were both pretty well banged up and winded
after about five minutes of it. When I went out
Stedman was on his knees in the middle of the
living room trying to get up, and I wasn’t in much
better shape myself. I was groggy from some of the
punches I’d taken, and I had blood on my hands
and clothes from some of the cuts I’d opened on his
face. The manager was gone from the hallway, but
I met two tenants who knew me, at least by sight. I
went back to the Sidelines, but before I got there I
heard the siren and saw the police cruiser pull up
in front of the Wakefield. At the bar, I went on
through to the washroom to clean up. It took three
or four minutes to get the blood off and straighten
out my clothes, and then I heard some cops come
in the front looking for me. I ducked out the back
way into the alley. I didn’t want to spend the night
in jail and take a chance on missing my ship in the
Man on The Run — 25
morning. I figured that by the time I got back from
the next trip it’d have blown over and at the most
I’d just have to go in and pay a fine. It was starting
to rain by then. I ducked into a movie.
“It was around one in the morning when I came
out I called the Sidelines and asked Red Lanigan if
the dust had settled enough so I could come back
and have a drink, and that’s when the roof started
to fall in. He pretended I was somebody else and
said Stedman had died of a knife wound and that
the police were taking the city apart trying to find
a sailor named Foley. I thought he was kidding, but
before I could say anything else he hung up on me.
I called Stedman’s apartment. A man answered
without saying who he was, and it wasn’t
Stedman’s voice at all. It still didn’t make any
sense, but I was beginning to be scared. I flagged a
cab, thinking I’d ride by the apartment house and
see if there were police cars in front of it. But the
driver kept watching me in his mirror. At first I
thought it was because of the shiner and the
bruises on my face, but then I began to wonder.
Maybe the police had broadcast my description. I
paid him off and got out, high-tailed it in the other
direction, and ducked into an alley, and in less than
two minutes the corner where I’d got out was
surrounded with police cars. I guess I lost my head
completely then. They almost got me twice in the
next hour, and the last time was near the railroad
yards. I lost them in the dark and the rain. Then I
saw a freight pulling out. I ran and got aboard and
climbed down into a gondola.”
She shook her head. “That’s probably the most
fantastic story I ever heard.”
”Right,” I said. “So I ought to give myself up and
try it on them for laughs?”
“There wasn’t any knife involved in the fight?
And you didn’t see one?”
“No,” I said.
“And he was on his knees, still alive, when you
went out?”
Man on The Run — 26
“That’s right. He might have had just a shade the
worst of the fight, but he wasn’t badly hurt, any
more than I was. He was a pretty tough boy.”
“Did you close the door when you went out?”
“I suppose so. I was pretty groggy, but it would
be the natural thing to do.”
She nodded. “You say the manager was gone,
presumably to call the police, but there were other
people in the corridor?”
“That’s right. There was a woman about half out
of the doorway of the next apartment. She’d
probably already called the police. At least,
according to the radio news I heard, it was
somebody next door. I don’t know what her name
was, but I knew her by sight, and I suppose she
knew me. She ducked back when she saw me come
out of Stedman’s door. And then I met another
tenant on the stairs—”’
She gestured with the cigarette. “That’s not what
I mean. Apparently there’s no question of
identification. But when -you came out, this woman
couldn’t have seen into his living room? And
verified that he was still alive?’
“Not a chance,” I said. “She was in her own
doorway, on the same side of the corridor.”
“And how long do you suppose it was from the
time you left and the police got there and found
him dead?
“I don’t know.” I said. “Somewhere between
three and five minutes, probably. I walked down a
flight of stairs and out the front of the building, and
I was about a block away when the cruiser pulled
up at the entrance. They had to find out which
apartment, and then force the door—”
“How do you know they had to force it?”
“That’s what the radio said.”
She nodded. “Then you must have closed it, and
it was self-locking.”
”Probably. Unless he closed it, or somebody else
went in or out after I did.”
Man on The Run — 27
“No,” she said. “That woman wouldn’t have given
up her ring-side seat. She’d have stayed right there
watching the hall until the police arrived. If
anybody else had gone in or out, she’d have said
so.”
“Then there had to be somebody else already in
the apartment when I got there.”
“How would he get out?”
“Through the kitchen and down the back
stairway that leads to the garage in the basement.
There’s an exit to the alley on the ground floor.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “But you didn’t see anybody
else in the apartment:”
“No. But I was only in the living room.”
“You didn’t see a coat, wrap, hat, or a purse, or
anything?”
“No. I wouldn’t have noticed, though, if there had
been one. I was boiling, and all I saw was
Stedman.”
“If there were somebody there, why would he
suddenly decide to kill Stedman? Presumably, it
would be a friend or acquaintance.”
“Or one of his girl friends. I don’t know. All I
know is that he was all right when I went out of the
room, and less than five minutes later he was
dead.”
“Do you think anybody will ever believe it?”
“Of course not. Why do you think I ran?”
“It does have one thing in its favor,” she said.
“It’s stupid enough to be true. Anybody could make
up a better story.”
I shrugged and got up to prowl restlessly around
the room. Light was fading now inside the house. I
turned, and her eyes were on me. This time she
didn’t look away. She shook her head musingly.
“I keep trying to decide whether you look more
like a Roman gladiator,” she said, “or some raffish
medieval monk who got caught in the wrong
bedroom.”
Man on The Run — 28
“Well, my clothes will be dry in a little while.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s a fascinating combination
—a cassock and a black eye.”
There was something provocative in her tone,
and when I turned quickly to look at her I saw the
same thing in her eyes. I walked over beside her.
She moved over almost imperceptibly, and I sat
down on the edge of the chaise.
“Can’t we have a fire?” she asked teasingly.
“No.”
“Think how cozy it would be,” She smiled. “An
open fire and the sound of the rain.”
“And the police kicking in the doors.”
“Maybe I’d send them away.”
“Sure you would,” I said.
“You don’t think so?” She ran a finger gently
along the bruise on my jaw. “Does that hurt?”
“No,” I said. I kissed her. Her lips parted and her
arms tightened fiercely around my neck. Then she
was whispering against my mouth. “It’s the way
you look in that garment. I haven’t been able to
keep my eyes off you.”
I kissed her again. She made a little whining
sound in her throat, but then she twisted away
from me and stood up. Her face was flushed and
her breathing ragged as she eluded my hands and
ran toward the next room. I caught her beside the
bed.
“It’s so cold in here,” she whispered. “Did you
close that window?”
I reached out across the bed to pull the drape
aside to make sure, and while I was off balance she
hit me with a shoulder and both arms. I spun
around, landed on the corner of the bed, and slid to
the floor. She ran out into the living room and
slammed the door shut. I got up, raging. She’d play
hell getting away with that; there was no lock on
the door.
Man on The Run — 29
I hit it on the run, turning the knob and starting
to lunge through after her. It opened six inches or
so, and stopped abruptly, and I slammed into it
face-first. Something was holding it at the bottom. I
could hear the sound of her heels as she ran out
into the kitchen. Wild now, I backed off and hit the
door again as hard as I could. The top sprang
outward a few inches, but the bottom scarcely
moved. I heard the car door close out in the garage
and then the engine starting. I lunged frantically at
the door, and this time I managed to fight my way
around the edge of it. It was too late. She was
backing out of the garage. I ran to the front
window just in time to see her get out with the
plastic raincoat over her head, lock the garage
doors, and then calmly get back in the car and
drive off. She knew she was safe once she was
outside the house.
I turned away, swearing bitterly, and lighted a
cigarette. There was no use even trying to run;
they’d be here in less than five minutes. Damn her,
anyway; this was the thanks I got for saving her
life. Then I cursed myself for being so stupid as to
leave the keys in the car. I’d forgotten about them
in the urgency of getting her out of that carbon
monoxide. And now I’d let her make a complete sap
of me.
But how had she jammed the door? It didn’t
matter now, but I went over and looked at it. It was
clever. She’d jammed the end of the fireplace
poker under it. The poker had a large handle, so it
acted as a wedge; the harder I’d shoved, the
tighter it had jammed. Suzy was a clever girl. I
called her that and several other things.
I went over and yanked my clothes off the line
and started dressing. She’d find a police car inside
half a mile, and I might as well be ready when they
got here. I wadded up the blanket and threw it
savagely across the room. I stopped to listen, but
heard nothing except the rain. A minute passed,
and another, while I put on trousers, shirt, and
shoes. What were they doing, sneaking up on me?
Man on The Run — 30
She must have told them I had no gun. I went to
the window and peered out. The road was deserted
and rainswept in the gathering dusk, with no cars
in sight anywhere.
A full hour went by before I dared believe it. She
hadn’t reported that I was here. I wondered why?
Had she been in a wreck?
* * *
Before it was fully dark, I ate some more of the
corned beef and drank a cup of coffee. I turned off
the gas heater for fear it might be seen through the
drapes, made sure the outside doors were locked,
and curled up on the couch with a blanket. The rain
went on. It had a lonely sound.
The Dancy would have sailed this afternoon, and
by now she’d have made her departure from the
sea-buoy and be shouldering her way
southeastward toward the Florida Straits: I lighted
a cigarette and took a quick look at the time. I’d
just now be going up to the bridge in oilskins to
take over the watch. Homesickness and longing
swept over me. I shoved them out of my mind.
In the morning it was still raining, not as hard
now, but with a steady gray drizzle that looked as if
it might go on for a week. I made some coffee and
listened to the radio news. The police were still
convinced they had me surrounded in the vicinity
of Carlisle and were continuing their search. The
only thing to do was stay right here as long as I
could. There was no way to account for her not
going to the police, but she hadn’t, so presumably
she wasn’t going to. I searched the place, trying to
find a razor so I could shave, but there was none.
The black eye was still puffy and badly discolored;
it would be days before it disappeared. And by that
time the ginger-colored beard would be worse.
Either way, I’d attract attention. It seemed
hopeless.
The day dragged on. I searched the rows of
Suzy’s books until I found an English edition and
Man on The Run — 31
tried to read. It was laid in New Orleans during the
Civil War and was full of intrigue and sizzling
bedroom scenes. Most of the girls were petite and
blonde, with a high degree of inflammability and a
low flash-point. Their descriptions were like scaleddown
versions of Suzy herself; and thinking of
them reminded me of her and made me
uncomfortable. After awhile I put the book away.
And just at dusk I heard a car drive up and stop in
front of the garage. I peered out. It was Suzy.
Man on The Run — 32
Four
She drove in, closed the garage, and ran up onto
the front porch. I heard her key in the lock. She
came in and quickly shut the door. She was
wearing another sweater and skirt outfit, and a
dark coat, and her face was slightly damp with the
rain. She had a briefcase under her arm.
I started to say something, but she shook her
head warningly. Coming close, she whispered
against my ear. “There are some men out in the
road, on foot. We’ve got to hurry. I came back to
get you out of here.”
“How?” I asked. “And why?”
“There’s no time for questions. Put on your coat
and take down that clothesline, while I empty the
ashtrays and get rid of the food cans. We can’t
leave any trace of you here.”
I put on the coat, gathered up my wallet, stuffed
the tie in my pocket, and put away the line. She
swiftly put the place in order and picked up the
blanket I’d used for a poncho. She motioned for me
to follow her. We went out in the garage. The light
was almost gone now, and I could scarcely see the
outline of the car. She unlocked the trunk. I could
just make out that the spare tire had been
Man on The Run — 33
removed, and that there were some blankets in it,
and a topcoat and hat.
She put her lips against my ear. “Get in. I fixed it
so you’ll be able to breathe in there.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Sanport. That’s the safest place for you now.
Hurry up. They’re going to start searching these
cottages.”
I climbed in and curled up on the blankets. She
lowered the cover slowly to gauge the clearance,
and then pushed it down until the latch clicked. I
was locked in. It occurred to me now that it was
too late, that I was completely at her mercy. All she
had to do was drive up to the nearest patrol car or
police station and hand me over like an oyster on
the half shell, if she wanted. She’d be sticking her
neck out a mile by helping me, and yet I’d accepted
her story without question. But still, if she’d
wanted to turn me in, she would have done it
yesterday. Wouldn’t she? I didn’t know. Nothing
made any sense now.
I heard the tapping of her heels as she went back
in the house. In two or three minutes she returned,
put something in the car, and opened the garage
doors. She backed the car out. I could hear rain
drumming on the metal just above my face. She
closed the garage, and was just getting back in the
car when I heard another splashing through the
puddles in the road behind us. It stopped. Little
chills ran up my spine as I heard the growl and
chatter of a police radio. Men were getting out.
They walked up to the side of the car.
“Miss Patton?” one of them asked.
“Why, yes,” she said coolly. “What is it?”
“We’re searching these cottages for that man
Foley that’s hid out around here. Were you just
inside there?”
“Just for a few minutes,” she replied. “I came
back for these papers I forgot when I was out here
yesterday. Why?”
Man on The Run — 34
“You didn’t see any sign he’d broke in?”
“No-o. Everything seemed to be all right.”
“Were you in all the rooms?”
“Yes,” she said. “But, wait. I did notice yesterday
that somebody had broken a pane of glass in the
garage window—”
“We know about that. Well, we won’t keep you
any longer.”
They came back past the side of the car, got in
the cruiser, and went on down the road. I sighed
with relief. She backed on out of the driveway,
stopped, and started ahead. In a moment I felt the
car make a right turn. We were on one of the main
streets that went up through town and bisected the
highway. I began to hear other cars passing. Traffic
grew heavier, and twice we stopped for traffic
lights. I could hear pedestrians crossing. Then we
turned right once more and began to go faster. We
were on the highway. Then, abruptly, we slowed
and began to inch along. We stopped and then
started slowly ahead again. The road block, I
thought. I heard a police radio again, not much
more than an arm’s length away, and a man’s voice
said, “All right, lady.” We began to gather speed. I
exhaled slowly. We were beyond them.