2 Grand Delusion (19 page)

Then I closed the door, latched it, and turned on the kitchen light. Jesus—the upper arm of my blue denim jacket was soaked with blood. More blood was spattered around on the kitchen floor. Looking at it made me almost faint, and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that a sensitive artist type like me should be doing other things with his life besides getting into car chases and beating up drug dealers.

I didn't call Andrea yet, because I didn't want to get her all upset. So I took off my jacket, trying not to look at the part of my flesh that was flopping around loose. Fighting the angry sparks of pain that were somersaulting up and down my arm, I grabbed some towels from the countertop and rags from under the sink and bound the arm as best I could.

I wanted to call an ambulance, or else attempt to drive to the emergency room myself. But I was still wary of the cops, and I was trying to decide if going to the hospital with this injury might get me into trouble, when the doorbell rang.

Was deranged Dale coming back for more?

I grabbed the knife with my good arm and headed for the door. But then I looked out my front window and saw red lights flashing. The cops. What the hell did they want?

The doorbell rang again. Maybe I should ditch the bloody knife. I quickly hid it behind the TV set, then came back to the front hall. But by the time I got there, my wife and kids were there, too.

"What's going on?" Andrea asked fearfully, as the kids watched me with wide eyes.

"Nothing. Go back upstairs," I replied.

She stared at all the rags and towels covering my arm, and her face went white. "What happened to you?"

"Really, it's nothing," I said inanely, "it's okay."

She pointed at some redness that had seeped out from under one of the rags. "Is that
blood?"
she asked, horrified.

The doorbell rang a third time. Andrea looked out the window. "It's the police. They can take you to the hospital."

"No, we're gonna shoot them!" Leonardo called out.

"Shoot them dead!" Raphael agreed.

"Shush!"
Andrea said, and opened the door. Manny Cole and Young Crewcut stood on our doorstep with their hands near their guns, poised for action. Their faces looked dead serious, but their eyes were sparkling with excitement. Behind them another cop car pulled up.

Andrea was saying, "My husband's been injured. He needs to be taken to the hospital immediately."

"I'll be glad to help, ma'am," drawled Cole, enjoying himself immensely. "Let's go, Mr. Burns."

"Wait," I said. "What are you doing here? How'd you know I needed help?"

"We can talk about that on the way to the hospital, Mr. Burns. No need for your wife and kids to know all the details, wouldn't you agree?" He gave me a nasty wink.

"You talked to Dale, didn't you? What did he tell you?"

Young Crewcut chipped in.
"Everything,
Mr. Burns. How you came to his house, trying to bribe him into lying about the murders. And when he said no, you attacked him with a knife."

Andrea gasped. Raphael gazed up at me and asked, "Did you really attack him with a knife, Daddy?"

He looked impressed. Andrea, however, looked alarmed. She looked like she was wondering if Dale's story was true.

Framed again.

The world was closing in on me. The pain in my arm was searing. It reminded me of the fateful little pinch that had started it all. I was so sick and tired. I wanted to give up. Just lay down and cry. Let them pick me up and carry me off to the hospital or the jail or wherever they felt like taking me. I'd confess. I'd confess to anything, if they'd just leave me alone.

I turned to Cole. "Let me get my jacket."

He nodded. I went to the kitchen, where I slipped and fell on a bloody patch of the floor. Then I got up, picked up my blood-soaked jacket—

And ran like hell out the back door.

21

I had a seven-second head start at best. I was still in my own backyard when Cole and Young Crewcut exploded through the back door shouting,
"Freeze! Stop right where you are!"

And I was still vaulting over the back fence when I heard the first gunshot.

What the hell—? Was Cole just shooting in the air?

I landed on the other side of the fence, then kept on running. My arm was throbbing but it didn't slow me down.

The back fence did slow
them
down, though. I gained about four seconds while they climbed over it.

And every second counted. The next two gunshots came as I ran into Western Alley. After the first shot I felt a sharp pain in my neck and I was sure I'd been hit; then I realized the pain was radiating up from my stab wound.

The second shot hit the alley right behind me. Then it ricocheted and rattled a garbage can just to my left. No, Cole was definitely not shooting at the air.

He was shooting at
me
.

Maybe he figured if he killed me while escaping arrest, it would put him in the clear for capping Pop and Zapper. With me dead, the chief would go ahead and close those cases, and no one would care enough to investigate any further.

I hit Ash Street and veered right. I could hear the cops racing up Western Alley behind me. What should I do? If I kept running down Ash, they'd have a clear shot at me as soon as they came out of the alley. So at the second house on the right, I did a quick dive behind some juniper bushes.

Lately my whole life seemed to depend on successful dives behind juniper bushes.

I couldn't see the cops through the greenery, but I heard them come to a stop at the top of the alley. "I see you, Burns!" shouted Cole. "Come out now or I'll shoot!"

Then there was silence. At one a.m. on a Wednesday morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Deathly quiet. No one around to witness it if the cops shot me. They were fifty feet away, with just one house between us. I tried to slow my ragged breathing.

"I don't think he got away. He's probably hiding behind some bushes somewhere," said Young Crewcut.

"Yeah. Fucker's dead meat," Cole answered. Then his voice changed; he must be speaking into his radio. "Suspect is hiding out on Ash, near Western. Request immediate assistance."

"Ash near Western, here we come," was the radio reply.

"Remember, he's armed and dangerous," said Cole. "He's got a knife, probably a gun, too."

Great, Cole was laying the groundwork for justifiable homicide. He was about to get away with his third murder; a couple more and he'd qualify as a bona fide serial killer. I wondered if he was carrying an extra gun to plant on me.

From my spot behind the junipers, I saw two flashlight beams coming on. Cole was telling Young Crewcut, "We'll start on this side. I doubt he crossed the street. You go left, I'll go right."

Oh, shit—
I
was on the right. As soon as Cole finished checking out the exterior of the first house, he'd come to mine. And he'd find me, no sweat. I watched, paralyzed, as Cole's flashlight played over the front porch of the first house. Then his body loomed into view. He stepped onto the porch and looked around the railing to see if I was hiding behind it. His gun was out in front of him, cocked and ready.

Then he started back down the porch. Another three seconds and he'd be coming my way.

I moved my feet, about to make a desperate dash—and the movement made a crunching sound, because I was standing on a bunch of small pebbles. Some kind of fancy landscaping job. The noise terrified me, but then I got an idea. I quickly reached down and grabbed a handful of pebbles. I reared back my left, uninjured arm and threw those pebbles over the bushes, hoping they'd make it across the street.

Two seconds later, they hit. From the sound of it, they hit someone's porch. And Cole heard it, too. "He's across the street!" he yelled.

Then he ran over there, and so did Young Crewcut. Just at that moment the backup cop car raced up, without a siren but with its red light flashing. Two cops jumped out and raced across the street to join the others.

One of the cops was Dave. I thought about yelling to him for help. At least then I'd be guaranteed they would take me to jail instead of killing me.

But with a sudden start, I remembered: Having Dave there was no guarantee. He might be the murderer. Hell, for all I knew, all four of these cops were in on the murders together. And even if they weren't, they didn't exactly strike me as crusading Serpico types who would rat on one of their own for a minor infraction like shooting and killing an unarmed civilian.

The fearsome foursome were charging around the house across the street. In the midst of all their noise and commotion, I left my trusty juniper behind and dashed into the backyard. Then I crossed through another yard and found myself back in Western Alley, running toward home. I'm not sure what I was thinking; maybe I was hoping to get my Camry.

But there was another cop car guarding the front of my house. So I took off through some more yards and found myself on somebody's driveway back on Ash, a block and a half away from Cole, Dave, and the others. They were splitting up, with two of them heading my way.

Meanwhile yet
another
cop car rounded the corner and came at me from the other direction.

If I was counting right, there were at least six of them and one of me. Somehow that didn't seem sporting.

But I did have one thing going for me: I was on my home turf. This was the West Side, and by God, I was a West Sider.

I quickly scurried off the driveway and stuck to the hedges and backyards until I came to the rear of the Orian Cillarnian Sons of Ireland building. At this hour the place was deserted: a perfect hideout. Unfortunately the cops would realize that, too. They'd probably check it to see if anyone had broken in. So I couldn't just bash a window open, I'd have to pray one of them was unlocked.

I darted around the building, trying the doors and windows. But my prayers weren't answered; everything was locked. I'd have to resort to Plan B.

Only one problem. I didn't
have
a Plan B.

Three cops were approaching, going house to house, just one block away now. They all had flashlights. I better haul ass, plan or no plan. I backed away from the Orian Cillarnian and tripped over a tree root. As I scrambled back to my feet, I happened to glance upward.

Right above me on the second floor, there was a window that was open two inches. It was about a yard away from the relatively thick branch of a tree.

If I could just:

a)              climb the back fence;

b)
              hop onto the tree;

c)
              climb to the end of that branch;

d)
              while hanging on to the branch with two feet and one arm, reach out with my other arm and open the window; and

e)
              dive out of the tree and land inside . . .

No, it was impossible. Even if I had two good arms, it would still be impossible.

I started to run away, but then cop car number five or six—I was losing count—raced toward me. It screeched to a halt four houses away on Ash, meaning I now had cops less than a block from me in both directions. Two cops poured out of the car and came toward me. They hadn't seen me yet, but—oh, God, it was Chief Walsh himself, accompanied by Lieutenant Foxwell. Were they coming to help capture me, or help kill me?

Was the chief somehow involved in the murders, too? That would sure explain his eagerness to pin them on me, regardless of any guilt on my part.

Walsh and Foxwell didn't have tiny little flashlights like the other cops. They had powerful search beams they were throwing all over the neighborhood. Meanwhile, lights were turning on in a lot of the Ash Street houses, and I knew that pretty soon the residents would be coming out onto the sidewalks to join in the fun. Already a couple of civilians in pajamas and nightgowns were standing on their front porches, looking all around. I was surrounded. There was no place to go—

But up.

So I went up.

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.