I Will Find You(50)

Will they search the roof eventually anyway?

I have to believe the answer to that last question is yes.

The night sky over Manhattan is clear. The Empire State Building is lit up in red, but I have no idea why. Still, it is a stunning sight. Everything is. We, of course, never appreciate what we have. That’s what they say. But it really isn’t that. It’s just conditioning. We take for granted what we become used to. Human nature. I want to revel in this for a few minutes, but alas, that’s not possible. I said before that I never cared about being locked up. Matthew was gone and it was my fault, so I was content—if that’s the right word—with having no life. I didn’t want to feel. But now that I’m back out in the world, now that I’m tasting that city air, that electric current, that vivacity of sound and color, my head is reeling.

When the cops burst open the roof door, I am ready. I have been eyeing the jump since I got up here. I don’t know how many feet it is. I don’t know if I can make it. But I am on the southeast corner of the building. I run with all my strength, my arms pumping. The wind is rushing in my ear, but I still hear the warnings: “Stop! Police!”

I don’t listen. I don’t think they will shoot, but if they do, they do. I accelerate and time my steps so that I spring off my left foot just inches from the roof’s northwest corner.

I am airborne.

My legs bicycle-run in the air, my arms still pumping. It is dark on the neighboring roof. I can’t see if I will make it and for a moment I flash back to the cartoons of my youth, wondering whether I am going to pause running in midair like Wile E. Coyote before I drop like a stone to the ground beneath me. I feel my propulsion slow as gravity starts dragging me down.

I begin to fall. I close my eyes. When I land hard on the roof across the way, I tuck and roll.

“Stop!”

I don’t. I somersault to a standing position. Then I do the same thing again. I run, I leap, I hit the next roof. Then the next. I’m not scared anymore. I don’t know why. I feel exhilarated. Run, leap, run, leap. I feel as though I can do this all night, like I’m freaking Spider-Man or something.

When I find a roof that’s truly dark, when I think I’ve put enough distance between me and the cops on the roof of Hilde Winslow’s building, I stop and listen. I can still hear the cops and the commotion, but it feels as though they are somewhat distant. The back of the building is dark and really, how much longer can I play Spider-Man?

I find a fire escape and half run, half shimmy down it until I’m about ten feet off the ground. I stop again, look, listen. I’m in the clear. I let myself dangle for a moment from the bottom rung of the ladder and then I let go. I land hard, knees bent, a smile on my face.

When I straighten, I hear a voice say, “Freeze.”

My heart sinks as I turn. It’s a cop. He has his gun trained on me.

“Don’t move.”

Do I have a choice?

“Hands where I can see them. Now.”

The cop is young and alone. He is pointing his gun toward me while he bends his neck to talk into one of those clipped-on microphones. Once he does, this backyard will be flooded with cops.

I have no choice.

There is no hesitation, no fake, no juke. I simply launch myself straight at him.

It has been less than a second since he told me not to move. I am hoping the suddenness of my attack will catch him off guard. It is a dangerous move obviously—he’s the one pointing the gun—but the cop looks hesitant and a little scared. Maybe that will play to my advantage and maybe it won’t.

But what options do I have?

If he shoots me, okay, whatever. I probably won’t die. If I do, well, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. More likely, I’ll be wounded and end up back in prison. If I surrender peacefully, I end up in the same situation. Back in prison.

I can’t allow that.

So I lower my head and bull-rush him. He has time to start to yell “Freeze!” again, but I get there before he can complete the word. It ends up sounding more like “Free!” and because I’m hyped up and desperate, I take that as a good omen. I tackle him around the waist, jangling his utility belt and heavy vest and all the things that weigh modern cops down.

Keeping my momentum going, I follow through like a pile driver as we land hard on the concrete walk behind the townhouse. His back takes the impact hard, and I can hear the woosh sound as the air comes out of him.

He is struggling for breath.

I don’t let up.

I take no joy in this. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I know that he is just doing his job and that the job is just. But it is him or Matthew and so again I have no choice.

I rear my head back and then fire my forehead toward his nose. The head butt hits the cop hard, like a cannonball hurled at a ceramic pitcher.

Something on his face cracks, gives way. I feel something sticky on my face and realize that it’s blood.

His body goes slack.

I hop up. He is moving, groaning, which both scares and relieves me. I’m tempted to hit him again, but I don’t think there’s a need. Not if I move fast.

As I rush toward Sixth Avenue, I take off my blazer and wipe the blood off my face. I toss the blazer and my baseball hat into the shrubbery and keep moving.

When I reach the street, I try to slow my breath.

Keep moving, I tell myself again.