The long way home

CHAPTER FOUR

The Killer in Question But now here I was, trapped in the library, both exits blocked. I felt fear closing around my throat like cold fingers. I figured there were probably more of these Homelander thugs downstairs, even more of them outside watching the doors. If I tried to leave, they would wait till I got outside and kill me. If I screamed for help, they would kill me right here. There was no way out.

Now the two men saw me. Mustache-Man cast a glance over at Blockhead, and Blockhead glanced back. Obviously, they'd been waiting here, waiting for the blond killer to finish me off in the bathroom. I guess they weren't very happy to see me come out alive. Well, too bad for them.

I had to think of something. I had to figure out a way to get past them. They were staying cool, staying at their posts by the stairs. They didn't want any open violence. They didn't want to cause any trouble in public if they could help it. They preferred waiting for me to go outside.

I thought maybe I could use that to my advantage somehow…

I started moving. I walked to the information desk. I walked casually, as if everything was fine.

The librarian was a sweet-faced older lady. As I approached her, she looked up, blinking at me vaguely through the lenses of her enormous glasses.

The block-headed man sitting at the desk kept his eye on me. He was tense. His hand hovered inside his jacket. I was pretty sure he had a gun in there. I was pretty sure if I asked the librarian for help, he would pull the gun out and start shooting.

So I didn't ask her for help. Instead, I spoke in a clear, calm voice, friendly and relaxed, as if I didn't even know Blockhead and Mustache-Man were watching.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said pleasantly.

She was a small woman, barely five feet tall. She looked sort of bulky and shapeless in a dark flowery blouse. Her hair was short and dyed a kind of silvery blonde. Her wrinkled features were kindly but distant, abstracted, as if she were far away inside her own mind.

"Yes?" she said, in a quiet, librarian sort of voice. "Can I help you?"

I reached into the inner pocket of my fleece. I brought out the papers I had there. I chose one quickly from the pile. I handed it to her.

"Could you tell me if you have any books about this case?" I said. "I couldn't find any in the computer."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blockhead cast a quick look across the room at Mustache-Man. He wasn't sure what to do, whether to make a move or not, pull his gun or not.

That's exactly what I was counting on.

The librarian took the paper from me. She peered down at it through her glasses. It was a printout of a front-page news story from the Whitney County Register. "Escaped Killer Thought to Have Joined Terrorist Gang," the headline read.

There was a big picture of my face in the center of the story. I was the killer in question.

The librarian blinked down at the page for a moment. Then she lifted her eyes to me.

"Let me see if I can…" she began to say.

Then she stopped. She saw me. She recognized my face. How could she miss it, looking at my picture like that, then looking up at me? I saw the blood drain out of her cheeks. Her parted lips began to quiver. Her eyes shifted frantically as she tried to figure out what to do.

"Would you…?" she stammered. "Would you excuse me for just one moment please? I'll-I'll check on this for you. I think we may have something at one of our other branches. I'll have to give them a call and ask them. All right?"

"Sure," I said as easily as I could. "I'll just wait here."

Quickly, the librarian turned away and went through a door behind her. It led to a small office behind a large pane of glass. I could see her through the window as she moved to the office desk. She picked up the phone there. She pressed the buttons. As she waited, she glanced at the page in her hand again and then looked up at me through the glass. She forced a smile at me. I forced a smile back.

I didn't think she was really calling another branch of the library. I was pretty sure she was calling the police. She was telling them to come and arrest me, the dangerous fugitive in her library.

At least, I hoped that's what she was doing. It was the only chance I had.

Now-as Blockhead and Mustache-Man watched me tensely-I started moving again. I walked away from the desk. Casually, I strolled across the room to the windows. I looked out through the glass at the street below, trying to see how bad the situation was.

It was worse than I thought.

The season was late autumn. The time was early evening. Dusk was falling. The office buildings of Whitney's downtown were slowly turning to silhouettes against the darkening sky. The grassy triangle of the little park across the street was disappearing into shadow beneath the naked branches of its spreading oak trees. Cars went by- not a lot, but a steady stream of them. Their white headlights flared as they approached. Their red taillights faded into the distance as they drove away.

And I could see them: the Homelanders. Waiting for me. Two hulking shadows in the park under the trees. Two more at the near corner. Two more at the far corner. Who knows how many others? Standing there. Ready. Too many to fight. Too many to get past.

My eyes shifted. I looked down at the street. There were lines of cars parked along both curbs. I moved my gaze over them slowly. I was looking for a motorcycle. I was looking for the Harley-Davidson that fit the key- the blond killer's key that was now in my pocket. I had only driven a motorcycle once before in my life. The older brother of a friend of mine had let me try it. I had a natural feel for it and by the time I'd driven it a short distance, I was maneuvering the big machine pretty well. I thought if I could somehow get past all those thugs in the shadows, if I could get to the Harley fast, get on it fast- well, maybe then I could use it to escape.

My eyes continued moving over the line of cars. My breath caught. I felt a small spark of excitement and hope. I had spotted the motorcycle.

Then, the very next moment, the spark of hope died. I felt my stomach go sour.

There were two of them. Two motorcycles. One was parked at the near curb, down by the corner to my left. One was parked on the other curb, almost directly across the street from the library entrance and in front of the park. In the gathering darkness, I couldn't tell whether one or both of them were Harleys that might match my key.

I might-might just-be able to make a mad dash and reach one of the bikes. But how could I tell which bike to choose, which one the key fit?

"Don't even think about it. You'll never make it."