Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [94]
1:37 . . .
I can’t remember moving but I’m suddenly at the foot of the stairs, my free hand on the rail propelling me upward. I now understand the purpose of the device thumbed by the dead assassin. Frantic, I fumble with the doorknob to Espy’s room, then strike the door with my shoulder and it gives way with a loud crack. I’m at her side as she bolts upright.
“Get up!” I order, pulling hard enough on her arm so that she obeys, even before she sees it’s me who is pleading. In my mind I can see the display of the malevolent toaster, and I know it’s counting down with a single-mindedness, one that’s immune to indecision. I grab her jacket off the chair by the closet as I consider our escape. The front door’s no good—not only because we might not make it in time, but also because it might be wired to the bomb. Or it could be that the dead assassin has friends waiting out front. I consider for a second the back porch, but I’m not willing to play chicken with the countdown.
“What’s going—”
I halt the question by tossing her the jacket. I hurry to the window and have to set the gun down so I can undo the latch. When I get the window open, the cold air rushes in. The ground is maybe fifteen feet below, and I see there are no handholds, no drainpipes, nothing but a free fall to the ground below.
I take hold of Espy’s arm and pull her toward the window. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s still sleepy, or because I’m sending out a definite life-or-death vibe, but she lets herself be walked forward. Until she reaches the window. As her part becomes clear, she pulls back.
“Jack! What’s happening?” she demands.
“You have to trust me! Please, I don’t have time to explain.”
The urgency in my voice causes her to reply with a grim nod. She moves to the window, tosses her jacket to the ground below, and places both legs over the ledge until she’s sitting on the sill. She then flips over onto her stomach and shimmies down until her hands are all I can see. There’s the briefest of hesitations before she lets go and drops out of sight.
The cold bites into me as I follow, the thin fabric of my borrowed pajamas no match for the elements. Like Espy but with less grace, I shift into a similar position on my stomach and then lower myself so I’m supported solely by my hands on the windowsill. Because I’m holding the gun in my hand, the maneuver is a bit more precarious. In my mind I can see the bomb’s timer approaching the critical moment, and it is this, plus the fact that the fingers of my right hand are being crushed between the sill and the gun, that lets me release my grip.
I come down hard on a shrub, and my injured knee screams in pain. Ignoring it, I quickly look around in the dark until I see Espy standing a few feet away, shivering as she slips into her jacket. I stumble out of the landscaping. At this point, the darkness is both friend and foe, and I hold the gun in front of me with the certainty that I’ll use it if I have to, that what I’ve seen this night has ripped civility from me like an old bandage.
I grab Espy’s hand and, heedless of direction, start to run. My bare feet kick up the wetness of the grass, but by now I hardly feel the sensation. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything on a physical level. Adrenaline has done its work, creating an insulating capsule of survival.
It seems as if we’ve traveled only a few yards before a concussive blast of sound and light lifts me from the ground and sends me hurtling into the darkness. And I find that I have only one thought during my flight, and it’s that I can no longer feel Esperanza’s hand in my own.
CHAPTER 20
I was sitting in the stands at Fenway Park, Section 86, right field, when suddenly the ball hit me in the temple. I was taking a bite from my chili dog, distracted, when I heard the crack of the bat like a gunshot. By the time I looked up, the ball was close enough that I could see each individual stitch. Now I’m facedown