There Fell a Shadow (19 page)

He fired again, but by then I was running. I faked to the left, broke to the right. I heard the crack of the pistol but felt no pain. I ducked deep into the shadow of the Shakespearean theater.

I pressed against the wall, panting. A fresh bout of coughing worked in my throat. I gulped it back. I stared at the crest of the footpath.

The assassin came jogging over it. He wore black as he had the last time I saw him. A black jump-jacket this time, black jeans. His face still bore the scars I'd given him. In the moonlight, I saw his nose was bandaged. One of his cheeks was scarred.

The sight of him nearly stripped me of hope. I remembered our fight in the hotel. I was a reporter. He was an assassin. If we tangled again, I didn't think I'd survive.

He stood on the path. He scanned the ball field for me, the barrel of his gun following his gaze.

I crouched down quickly. I grabbed a fistful of snow. It was melting, icy. It stung my hands with cold. I packed it into a ball.

The assassin was turning slowly toward the theater. He stood now in profile to me, staring down the path.

I gave the snowball an overhand toss. The assassin turned to face me. I watched the little gray missile fly over his head into the moonlit night. The ice in it glittered.

The assassin started. He'd spotted the statues. At the same moment, the snowball hit the edge of the field behind him.

He whirled and fired. The gun cracked once in the quiet park. The barrel spat flame.

I took off, stretching my legs over the snow.

There was a path around the theater's curving wall. I took it, putting the building between us, blocking his shot. I stood still for a second. I tried to quiet my panting. I listened.

He was coming. Slowly. Warily.

I ran.

I stayed on the clear path so the field's brittle snow would not betray me. He was young and in good shape. I had no chance of outstripping him without the element of surprise.

I was around the theater now. I was sprinting by the edge of a small lake. The white light of the moon rippled on its surface. Some kind of castle peered down on it from above. My arms windmilled the air as I ran beside the water. My lungs heaved. My breath came in little cries.

Just ahead of me, the path curved away from the lake. It went up a small hill and disappeared behind some shrubbery. I did not look back. I poured it on. My head hung loose on my neck with exhaustion. I watched my feet flap against the pavement. I didn't have the energy to keep it quiet now.

I hauled myself up the hill, my breath rasping. I turned the corner into a circle of bushes.

A horse reared over me. A grim rider raised a sword.

I cried out. I stumbled back. I fell on my ass.

Another goddamn statue. A king on horseback. He peered down at me crossly.

I sat on the pavement under him. I cursed. I coughed. I fought for breath.

Around me the trees moved and rattled in a chill wind. Their branches made a lacework against the purple sky. Even here, the wind's whisper mingled with the whisper of cars passing. Otherwise the park was quiet, empty.

I bowed my head between my knees. I hacked hoarsely. I spat into the darkness beside me.

I heard the killer's footsteps coming up the hill. I raised my head a little. On the other side of the statue, the path continued. Down through the shrubs, out of sight. I stared at that exit. I was too tired to run anymore. If I fought with him, he'd kill me. I didn't know what to do.

With a breath that sounded like a squeaky door, I climbed painfully to my feet. I staggered to the statue. I hid behind the pedestal. I rested my head against it.

Around the edge of the concrete, I saw the assassin come into the little grove. With a cry, he swung his gun up at the mounted king. He lowered the gun. He cursed softly. He chuckled.

He stood there amid the bushes, a silhouette surrounded by the shaggy darkness of their branches. He surveyed the platform around the king. I forced myself to breathe through my nose.

I watched the gunman. For a moment he seemed bewildered. He looked around him again. He swept the bushes with the gun. Finally he settled on the pedestal. He came toward it slowly, circling wide, so I couldn't slug him when he came around.

I was out of choices. It was run or die. My legs felt wobbly. My chest felt like it was on fire. I gave one great push off the pedestal, like a swimmer pushing off the pool for another lap. The shove sent me half running, half reeling backward. In that single instant, there weren't fifteen feet between me and the guy who wanted me dead. The assassin saw his chance. He wheeled. He pulled the trigger.

I left my feet, diving for the way out. I heard two shots fired fast before I hit the ground.

I came down on pavement. It tore the skin off my forehead as I slid. Then I was going over and over in a somersault. I came up to my feet and stumbled on down the hill.

I was dazed. The side of my face was damp with blood. I careened this way and that, reaching out with my hands for purchase like a drunk. The shadow of the assassin crested the hill just above me. He raised his gun again.

There was a flash. I was blinded by it. There was an explosion of noise. It filled my ears. Confused, I saw the assassin lower his pistol. A massive shape whipped by me, obscuring the killer from my view.

It was gone. He lifted the gun again. Again, the light, the wailing noise. The massive shape blocked his fire.

I was on the park's eastern drive. Cars were honking at me as they slashed by. They blocked the killer's line of fire. He couldn't get off a shot.

I made my way across the road. The cars passed. One, then another, then another. I waved my hands at them. They didn't even slow. The assassin was now making his way down the hill after me. I jogged away from him, south along the road.

At first, as I went, I looked back over my shoulder. I waved at the passing cars. I was hoping for a cab.

A cab came. Its toplight was on. It was free. I spun in my tracks and waved both arms over my head. The cars' headlights dazzled me. The long honk of its horn peaked and died. The cab whizzed by. It vanished around the corner. Unless you happen to have a bazooka, the odds for getting a car to stop in Central Park after nightfall are pretty slim.

So now we played cat and mouse. My friend the murderman had reached the snow at the edge of the road. I was jogging away from him along the opposite curb. Car after car flashed in between us as he followed after me, waiting for an opening to get across.

Desperately, I sought for an opening of my own. A place to run where I wouldn't have to test myself against his swiftness and his youth. Next to me was the darkness. A darkness carpeted by the eerily gleaming snow, roofed by the shifting halo of the branches against the moon. Past that—not very far past that—there was a low stone wall. On the other side, the pink-whiteness of Fifth Avenue streetlamps flashed and vanished behind thick clusters of sycamores. I was about ten blocks from home.

I jogged slowly down the road. The killer jogged across the street from me, a few steps behind. The cars kept passing. I wondered whether I should go for the wall. Once I made my move, I was committed. Without a long head start, he would surely run me down—then shoot me down—before I gained the Avenue.

I decided to go. Too late. The last car rushed by us. The assassin came dashing across the drive, his gun half-raised. Another group of cars had come whipping around a corner, bearing down on him. But he had it beat easy.

I crossed the other way. I ran out in front of the traffic. The glare of headlights washed over me. The horns, the screeching brakes bore down.

Then I was over. The wall of cars was again between me and my assailant. With all that was left of my energy, I ran along the roadway's snow-covered edge.

I ran on blindly. The cars kept going by. More pulled out ahead of me. There was an intersection. I plunged into it. Horns, lights, screaming brakes heralded my crossing.

With the cars from the intersection feeding into the drive, the traffic was heavier now. It was tougher for the murder-man to make his way across. He sidled along the road, waiting for his moment. Somehow my legs kept carrying me forward. I was putting some distance between us.

I was on a path again. A stone wall rimmed it. The wall was topped with boulders and bushes. They peered down at me as I stumbled past.

The road turned. I came around it. For a few seconds, I was out of the hunter's sight. It was then I looked up. I stopped short. I nearly screamed.

This time it was a panther. A great black cat poised to pounce on the rocks two feet above me. It seemed to have just emerged from the bushes that surrounded it on either side. It was bent forward, its head jutting out, its eyes pinning me.

The thing was so real it took a long moment before I could completely convince myself it was just another statue. It took another moment still before I could break its hypnotic stare and move again. By then my mind was racing, grabbing at a possibility. With my wind gone and my legs close to giving, it was the only possibility left.

I jumped. I reached up. I grabbed the panther around its lowered neck. My feet found niches in the wall. I pulled myself upward. My hands scrabbled over the back of the beast. I crested the wall.

I moved behind the bushes. I took a step away from the panther, then another. I crouched down, inching toward the edge of the wall.

On the drive below me, car after car raced by. Then a break. The road was quiet. I heard the killer's footsteps padding across the pavement. He came around the corner. He came walking by the wall. I crouched down even lower, hiding behind the cat, peeking over at him.

He was coming on fast. His eyes were going over the path in front of him inch by inch. He'd lost me, but he knew I couldn't be far.

About a step before he came under the panther, he stopped. I could see him clearly. I could see his long, brown, youthful face. I could see his sharp, brown, ruthless eyes. He was thinking. It didn't make sense. I couldn't have vanished like that. I could almost hear his mind working. He was about to think of the wall, about to look up and spot me.

But before he did, he took another tentative step forward. He was directly under the panther.

I growled.

I did it deep in my throat. I let the hoarse rasp of my breath run through it. It came out harsh and real: the sound of an animal. A grinding sound under the sough of the traffic.

The assassin looked up. He saw the cat. He let out a high-pitched shriek, waving the gun but too scared to fire. I jumped off the wall, landing on the path beside him. He whipped around, his mouth still open on the scream. I slugged him.

It wasn't much of a punch. I didn't have much to put into it. It was an old-fashioned haymaker, though, and it came a long way before it scored. It crashed into his teeth. I felt one of them snap beneath my knuckles. I felt my knuckles sliced by the blow. I followed through, falling forward with the motion of the punch as he fell backward with the force of it. We both went down to the ground, several feet apart.

I wasn't happy. I'd been going for his nose. I figured it was hurt already, if I connected, it might put his lights out. As it was, I don't even know if he let go of the gun when he fell. I do know that by the time I fought my way to my feet, he had the pistol in his fist again. He was climbing to his knees, looking around for me. His chin was running with blood.

I could not cover the distance between us before he shot me. If I turned tail, though, there was a chance I might make it to the Fifth Avenue wall. It was a small chance. It was the only chance. The road was still empty in front of me. I ran into the darkness.

I was across the street in a moment. I was on the grass. I was on a flat plain of lacy snow, broken by the black, towering trunks of the oaks and sycamores. Branches danced and rattled above my head. My feet fell hard. The snow broke under them. The low wall bobbed before me as I ran, coming closer and closer. The lights of the Avenue flashed and bobbed beyond it.

I reached my hands out. I touched the wall. I grabbed it.

I do not know if he was close behind me. I don't know if he tried to shoot again. I vaulted that little wall as if West Berlin were on the other side of it. I went over the top, expecting bullets to bring me down.

I hit the ground. My momentum carried me out onto the sidewalk. I went to one knee. I sobbed for lack of breath, kneeling there on the gray octagonal stones, the same stones that paved the side of the park from which I'd come.

I lifted my eyes. There was the Avenue. A steady stream of Friday traffic passed south along it. On the sidewalk, two lovers were coming toward me from the north. They were arm in arm. A middle-aged man was walking his German shepherd up from the other direction. The eager dog strained at the leash, panting. On the opposite sidewalk, a band of young people were swaggering downtown. I could hear them calling to each other. Laughing.

I got to my feet and looked back at the wall. There was only darkness beyond it. That weird darkness, gleaming eerily with the moon and the snow.

I was out of the park.

I'd ducked the little son of a bitch again.