The Take(88)

“The stairs,” he said, heading down a staircase parallel to the escalator. Nikki followed close behind. He reached the main floor and slowed long enough to see the rail marshal appear at the top of the stairs. Simon circled behind the staircase and ran to the far side of the terminal, past a bookstore, a café, an electronics store. He came to a supermarket chock-full of shoppers and ran inside.

“Go to the back,” he said, pausing to peer behind him, catching a slew of uniforms spreading across the terminal, looking this way and that. He watched long enough to know the police had not seen them, then hurried to the back of the store. Nikki waited by the door to a storeroom.

“Let’s get out of here.” He opened the door and went inside. He looked to his right, then left, then zigzagged his way through crates of produce, soft drinks, and paper products, finally spotting the delivery entrance.

They were outside seconds later, standing in a loading zone at the rear of the station.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a group of warehouses across from a grass field. “You good?”

“I better be.” Simon took a last look behind him. The door to the storeroom remained closed. He led the way across the parking lot, over a dirt berm, and through the field. A minute later, they had reached the warehouses and were effectively out of sight.

“Now what?” asked Nikki, bent over, hands on her thighs.

Simon peered around the corner as the door to the loading zone burst open, a half-dozen policemen pouring outside. A few looked in their direction. One of the men raised a hand and pointed at Simon. It was the rail marshal.

“Hold on.”

The rail marshal jumped off the platform and began jogging across the field toward them.

“We’ve got company.” Simon ducked back behind the wall and checked his surroundings. All the warehouse’s doors were lowered. There were no vehicles nearby. No visible place to conceal themselves. A few steps away stood a stack of wooden pallets a head taller than him. He grabbed Nikki’s hand and led her to the pallets.

“Get behind there.”

Nikki tried to slip into the gap between the warehouse and the pallets. “Too tight.”

Simon squatted and slid his hands beneath the bottommost pallet. With a grunt, he lifted the stack and moved it a few inches to one side. He repeated the motion on the opposite side, creating a narrow space between wall and pallet. Nikki squeezed into the opening and Simon pushed the pallets as close to the wall as he could. “Stay here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll figure something out.” He ran to the far corner of the warehouse. It was twenty meters across the road to the next building. Even if he made it before the marshal arrived, he had no place to hide. He searched for a door, a window to break, anything. Close by, the marshal’s radio crackled.

Simon saw a drainpipe and began climbing, praying it remained anchored to the wall.

The marshal reached the warehouse before Simon had made it to the roof. The marshal pulled up directly beneath him, hands on his hips, gathering his breath. Simon froze. Twenty-five feet below him, the marshal turned in a slow circle, reconnoitering the area. For a moment, he looked directly at the pallets, directly at Nikki, then looked away.

Still, he didn’t move on, but kept in his place as if nailed to the spot, his head scanning the area, nose raised like a cat scenting his prey.

Simon’s fingers grew tired. Between the day’s heat, his nerves, and the run from the terminal, his hands were moist with perspiration. He dropped one hand to his trousers and dried his palm, then did the same with the other.

Below, the marshal’s radio crackled again. A man said, “Jacques? Anything?”

“Still checking.”

Simon had wedged the toe of his shoe between the pipe and wall, the tip of his sole resting on a bracket securing the drainpipe. Now he felt the shoe slipping. He increased his pressure, wedging the shoe more tightly. Suddenly, his foot came free of his loafer. He slipped. His hands clutched the pipe with all his might. Miraculously, the shoe remained in place. He dug his other foot into the space, his ankle turned, his calf screaming. Hugging himself to the pipe, he guided his unshod foot back to the loafer. His toes touched leather. Slowly, he worked his foot into the shoe until he could put pressure on it and stand easier.

By now, it was not only his hands that were sweaty. His entire face was beaded with perspiration. He felt the drops rolling off his forehead, down his cheeks. As he stared at the top of the marshal’s head, he counted the drops falling from his chin and watched powerless as they fell to the ground.

“Well?” asked the voice on the radio.

A hand touched his hair. The marshal gazed upward, but not at Simon.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “They didn’t come this way.”

Simon let go a breath.

The marshal returned the radio to his belt. Instead of returning to the station, he took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit up, leaning against the pallets, his shoulders inches from Nikki.

Simon held his position, hands burning with fatigue, growing stiff, unresponsive. He caught Nikki staring at him and he knew she was urging him to hold on. His hands began to slip. He dried them again but to less effect. His shirt was wet on his back, his legs quivering.

The marshal smoked contentedly and then, without warning, threw the butt to the ground with only half the cigarette finished and walked back to the terminal.