On his knees DeLeon Williams carefully looked through a crack in the door--an actual crack in the wood that he'd been meaning to fix--and could see that the officers were no longer there.
No, he corrected himself, they're no longer visible. Big difference. He saw a glint of metal or glass in the bushes. Maybe from one of those weird elves or deer lawn ornaments the neighbor collected.
Or it might be a cop with a gun.
Lugging the bag, he crawled to the back of the house. Another peek. This time, risking a look through the window, struggling hard to control the panic.
The backyard and the alley beyond were empty.
But once again he corrected: seemed to be empty.
He felt another shiver of PTSD panic and an urge to race out the door, pull the gun and charge down the alley, threatening anybody he saw, screaming for them to stand back.
Impulsively, his mind whirling, he reached for the knob.
No . . .
Be smart.
He sat back, head against the wall, working to slow his breathing.
After a moment he calmed and decided to try something else. In the basement was a window that led into the tiny side yard. Across eight feet of anemic grass a similar window opened into his neighbor's basement. The Wongs were away for the weekend--he was watering their plants for them--and Williams figured he could sneak inside, then upstairs and through their back door. If he was lucky the police wouldn't be covering the side yard. Then he'd take the alley up to the main street and jog to the subway.
The plan wasn't great but it gave him more of a chance than just waiting here. Tears again. And panic.
Stop it, soldier. Come on.
He rose and staggered down the stairs into the basement.
Just get the hell out. The cops'd be at the front door at any minute, kicking it in.
He unlatched the window and climbed up and out. Starting to crawl toward the Wongs' basement window, he glanced to his right. He froze.
Oh, Jesus Lord . . .
Police, a male and a female detective, holding guns in their right hands, were crouching in the narrow side yard. They weren't looking his way, but staring out, toward the back door and the alley.
The panic again slammed hard. He'd pull out the Colt and threaten them. Make them sit down, cuff themselves and throw away their radios. He hated to do it; that would be a real crime. But he didn't have any choice. They were obviously convinced he'd done something terrible. Yes, he'd get their guns and flee. Maybe they had an unmarked car nearby. He'd take their keys.
Was somebody covering them, somebody he couldn't see? A sniper maybe?
Well, he'd just have to take that chance.
He quietly set the bag down and began to reach for the gun.
Which was when the woman detective turned his way. Williams gasped. I'm dead, he thought.
Janeece, I love you. . . .
But the woman glanced at a piece of paper and then squinted as she looked him over. "DeLeon Williams?"
His voice gurgled. "I--" He nodded, shoulders falling. He could only stare at her pretty face, her red hair in a ponytail, her cold eyes.
She held up the badge that was hanging around her neck. "We're police officers. How'd you get out of your house?" Then she noted the window and nodded. "Mr. Williams, we're in the middle of an operation here. Could you go back inside? You'll be safer there."
"I--" Panic was shattering his voice. "I--"
"Now," she said insistently. "We'll be with you as soon as everything's resolved. Be quiet. Don't try to leave again. Please."