He was staying in the shadows, something that he did almost unconsciously now when he was out this late, staying out of the splash of headlights as they passed, or the weak glow of the streetlights that more than anything emphasized how dark the streets were at any distance from them. He was outside, and outside was where he was most comfortable. The fact the streets were dangerous at night was something he had to balance with the feeling he so often had of being trapped, or at least confined, when there were walls and a ceiling surrounding him.
Even though it was very early in the morning, only an hour past midnight, across the busy street he saw a few different groups of people, a few men, a couple of groups of older teens. Women didn’t come to this part of town unaccompanied unless they were that sort of women.
These guys were hanging near a bar with neon beer signs in the window. Some of the men would eventually head into the bar. Some had already been in and were now outside, just hanging and talking, not wanting the night to end, delaying leaving the scene, delaying going home. That sort of men.
He watched the men, the traffic, the teens while scoping out places that might offer safety should he need it. That’s what you did if you were a teenager and alone, out at night.
The teenagers were the ones he mostly watched. They were the ones to beware of. He was a loner. Kids like him had to be watchful. He’d learned how to be invisible, though, and staying without moving in the deep shadows was one of the ways.
The light from neon beer signs cast a reddish glow on the sidewalk under the window where the signs were hanging. That’s where most of the groups were congregating. Perhaps they felt more comfortable in the light, just as they did being with their own kind, the safety-in-numbers rule. The ones who’d been inside were the noisiest, becoming well lubricated before they came out. The ones yet to enter were mostly short of funds and hoping someone might show up who owed them a beer or three. Some were just there, hanging, with little thought about much of anything at all. Waiting for life to come to them. Not concerned with what would come next. That sort of men. That part of town.
He wanted no part of other teenagers who were out and about. They’d be rough kids, street kids, tough looking and acting, and just like the ones he saw across the street, they’d be in groups.
He’d been mostly a loner, a survivor, from the time he’d passed into his teen years. Sure, there was safety in numbers for teens as well as men, and he probably could have caught on with other teens like him, but there was a cost to it, a cost to belonging to a group. He’d never liked the cost. He’d never liked having to go along with whatever they were up to.
He glanced at a clock in the window of one of the stores that had closed for the night hours earlier and saw it was now past one. Way too late to sleep at the mission. Every night, if he wasn’t back there by ten when they shut the doors, he’d be sleeping on the streets again. He’d rather be inside. Again, he had to weigh the balance just as he had to do with so many things in his life. Sleeping in or out—the benefits of being in were always in conflict with the rules he’d have to follow to be there, and need to be wary of the others sleeping so close to him. The cost of sleeping outside alone with no protection needed to be weighted against the lectures and chores and religious mumbo-jumbo he’d be facing, sleeping in.
He knew he should get moving. Being here with other people around was risky. But he didn’t want to take the risk. He was pretty sure he was inconspicuous were he was. Deep shadow was his friend. Any movement could catch someone’s attention. He was already committed to sleeping rough, and he knew a place not far from here, but that would have to wait till the teens moved on.
He hoped the place he wanted tonight wouldn’t be occupied. Sometimes he’d find someone else sleeping there. Then he’d have to find a different place, and he’d end up with very little sleep. Not that that would be the first time. He’d danced this dance too often before. Now, though, he stayed in the shadows, not moving. He watched and waited.
Eventually, maybe a half hour, maybe longer, the group of teens broke up into twos and threes, and they wandered off group by group. It was very late now, almost two in the morning. Still, he waited before walking away. The street became deserted, the quiet only interrupted as someone would leave the bar and walk off. He wanted to be sure the teens were well away before he lost his invisibility.
Finally it was time to go. The place he had in mind was a nearby park. Wasn’t much of a park but it was’t concrete, either. Usually he could find a good spot there. There were some bushes he could get behind, a bandstand to crawl under, some park benches which he usually avoided as there was no hiding on them. He stepped out of the shadows and had taken only a few steps when he stopped. Something had caught his attention. Something that felt wrong.
Across the street, a man had just left the bar. By his stagger, it was apparent he’d had his fill of booze or beer. He was a big guy of indeterminate age. Heavy set, paunchy, red face made redder in the neon’s reflection. He stood in the doorway, lit a cigarette, looked around, appearing cautious. He was wearing a tee shirt and jeans, the shirt untucked, the jeans scruffy.
A car started and pulled out of a parking space along that side of the street. It began moving, very slowly, up the block toward where the man was standing.
The boy saw this, and he’d stopped walking. Something felt wrong. It was a feeling, nothing else, but he’d learned to appreciate his feelings, his senses. That’s all this was, but it was enough. Those two occurrences happening together had caught his attention. It was almost like the car had started because the man had come out onto the sidewalk. That was too much of a coincidence, so he stopped, wishing he was still in the shadows but not wanting to move back to them. Not wanting to move at all or do anything that might catch anyone’s interest.
The car continued its slow progress down the street. The man it was nearing watched it approach, and when it had about reached him, he put his right hand behind him and then dropped it to his side. The teen saw the red neon light of the beer sign glint off the gun now visible in the man’s hand.
The car stopped when it was abreast of the man, the man still in the doorway. The passenger’s side window hummed down, the faint sound of it just reaching the boy’s ears. The heavyset man looked at the car, then stepped forward and lowered his head so he could see inside it. His gun was still at his side.
The man suddenly staggered backwards as three shots were fired, not loud but distinctly gun shots. The sound came from inside the car. The heavy man with the gun in his hand crashed backwards two steps and fell into the bar door, pushing it half open as he fell.
The car door opened and the driver got out, took two steps to reach the fallen man. The teenager watched as he raised his gun and fired two more shots. Then the man turned back to the car. Doing so, the teen had a clear view of his face.
The night was dark, but where the man was standing the darkness had a reddish glow, and the man’s white face stood out. The man was only about 25 yards from the boy. Close enough.
The boy saw the man, and the man with the gun saw the teen, no longer in the shadows, watching.
The boy didn’t hesitate. He started running. The man took a couple of steps to follow, then changed his mind and ran to his car and jumped in. He pulled a quick uey and floored the accelerator. The tires chirped, the car jerked forward, speeding up dramatically. The teen was down the street a ways now, but the car would catch him in only seconds.
With the car rapidly approaching, the boy suddenly turned and ran back the way he’d come. He passed the car before the driver had time to react. “Damn,” he muttered, and made the fastest uey he could, but by the time he was going again, the boy was out of sight, having found more shadows to move into while still running.
The teen was terrified. He knew what it meant, having seen the driver, knowing the driver had seen him looking at him. The driver had just killed a man. The boy ran. Instinct had kicked in; he’d taken off running. He knew this street, this neighborhood, and his head was working as fast as his legs were pumping. He heard the car’s tires squealing as the man was making his uey. He knew he only had seconds before the man would be coming again.
He was scared, but he was used to fear, he’d experienced it often before, lived with it, and it motivated him rather than paralyzing him. He was on foot while the man was in his car. More of life’s balances: there were advantages and disadvantages for them both.
For the boy, he knew the streets, the houses, the alleys and trees and bushes here. He knew he had a chance to find safety if he just had enough time. He could hear that car coming straight toward him again, the engine roaring as the car accelerated.
The driver couldn’t see the boy. First he’d been in the shadows, then while he was turning the car around the boy had gone out of sight. Perhaps he’d turned down the first street he’d come to, running hard. He needed to find him. The boy was a loose end, and a danger. He needed to fine him.
The boy heard the car continue straight on the street it was on; he realized the driver must not have seen him turn, but knew he’d be back. Where the car had gone straight, there would have been no place for him to hide, and the man would see that quickly. By turning, he’d bought a little time, but that was all. He again tried to stay in the shadows on this street. Not only didn’t he want to be visible to the killer when he came, but it was best if no one in the houses could see him, either. He didn’t belong here. This was gang territory, black and Hispanic gang territory. A lone white kid running through the night couldn’t afford to be seen by anyone.
He was sure the man in the car wouldn’t give up easily. But he felt he had an edge now. When it came, he’d be able to hear the car; the man in it couldn’t hear him. He’d be able to see the car before the man in it could see him. An edge.
He heard the screech of brakes. The car had stopped. The driver must have figured out where he’d gone. Where else could he have gone but down this street?
The boy kept going, no longer running hard, checking out the houses around him. A slight breeze picked up and he wrapped his arms around himself, even though it was mid-summer and not a bit chilly, and he’d been running hard. Nerves, he thought. He slowed down to a trot, looking as he ran. The houses were all dark, as could be expected at this early morning hour.
He heard a car, the car he was sure, at the end of the street he’d turned into. It was moving slowly now. Ducking lower to provide a shorter profile, he turned into the driveway he was jogging past and ran down it till he’d reached the back corner of the house. He needed to be able to get into back yards and off the street before the man came this far, and especially if he got out of his car and started searching on foot.
Moving. He had to keep moving. Moving into and across back yards. There was danger doing that, but whether he moved or didn’t he was still in danger, and if he waited too long he’d be at much greater risk of being caught. Being caught meant being dead.
The streetlights here were far apart and not very bright. This was good for him now that he was behind a house; he could move without being seen from the street. All these houses were small with tiny, mostly untended front yards and with siding that hadn’t seen new paint in years. The few cars parked at the curb or in a driveway were older, low-priced cars. He knew the sort of people who lived here, and he tried to avoid them, especially teens and young men. Because high unemployment was rife here, young men here were always on the outlook for most any way at all to make a buck, the quicker and easier the better. These were hardened young men and this was no place for him to be at night. He was in a back yard where he didn’t belong, but it still was safer than being where the car’s driver could see him.
But he knew he’d be in almost as much trouble if the person living in this house saw him. Burglaries were part of life here, and if a burglar was caught, the people who owned the house he was found behind got hold of him, he’d very likely end up in a hospital before he’d ever get into police custody.
He heard the car stop very close to him, and the door open and close, maybe by the next house down. Damn. The guy was going to search on foot. He probably guessed the boy would be close by, guessed he’d be in a back yard, guessed this was about as far as he could have run in the time he’d had.
Behind the house he was standing next to a back yard beckoned. It was too dark for him to see much of anything. He had no choice, though. He couldn’t stand and wait for the man to find him. He stepped away from the house deeper into the back yard, then moved cautiously across it, moving back in the direction from which the car had come, thinking that was clever, but concentrating more on trying to see in the blackness, hoping there was nothing to trip over. He stopped, halfway across, then moved towards the back of the yard, thinking maybe he could get into the yard behind this one, get to the street running parallel to the one he’d just run down. But he found there was a wall behind the house, a cinderblock wall at least six feet high. There was no way he could climb or jump it.
He kept moving across the yard then. He reached a chain link fence which separated the yard he was in from the one next door to it. The fence had a smooth top pipe and was about five feet tall. The boy was nimble and strong, and putting both hands on the top railing, he vaulted over it.
He was now in the back yard of the house next to the one he’d been behind a moment ago.
Some of his fear was abating. He didn’t see how the man in the car could know where he’d gone, what direction he’d taken, and the guy had to be thinking of getting away from the area. Cops should be swarming the area soon. Just continuing to drive away should be foremost in the man’s mind. He certainly wouldn’t stay searching long.
Then the boy’s luck changed. He’d taken four steps into the fenced yard when he heard a low growl. A deep-sounding one, the sort of growl that comes from not just a dog, but from a very large dog. The growl deepened immediately, and then was followed by a peal of vicious barking. The barking came first from across and deep into the yard, but it got louder quickly. As he turned back, the boy realized why the yard was fenced.
It took but a moment for him to return to where he’d vaulted the fence and go back over it. He was just in time as a large Doberman pinscher was right behind him, snapping at the fence and continuing to bark.
The boy was praying the car had driven on and the man with the gun hadn’t heard the commotion. He knew almost immediately that that wasn’t the case. The fence he’d jumped separated the two houses and he could see between them to the street, and there he saw a stationary pool of light from the car’s headlights. He’d heard no other car on the street; the lights must be from the car the man with the gun was driving. And they weren’t moving. Earlier, he’d heard the man leave the car. The car was still here, and so the man must be, too. He had to have heard the dog.
The boy wasn’t the only one. Lights went on in the house where the dog was kept. Then they went on in the house he was now behind.
What could he do? The boy started to panic; he had no good options and it would be mere seconds before the shooter would appear at the back corner of the house. The black night had been the only protection he’d had, and now light was spilling from a window at the back of the house, throwing a little light onto the lawn, very faintly illuminating he yard.
If the boy ran across the yard trying to get into the back yard of the next house in line, it seemed likely the man would be coming down the driveway and they could very well meet. The man wouldn’t hesitate; he’d shot the man coming out of the bar, and he’d shoot him just as easily.
Frantically, the boy looked around, seeing shapes in the little light available. The yard was small and had grass, mowed grass. There was a small patio up against the rear of the house with some outdoor furniture. At the rear, up against the wall, he saw a small garage and next to it was what he imagined was a tool shed. The boy saw it as his only hope for concealment, although it would be awfully obvious as a hiding place. But what choice did he have? None other. Maybe there’d be something inside he could hide behind. He just hoped he could reach it before the man was in the yard with him and saw him.
He made it to the shed. He was about to open the door when he saw by the shadows that the shed wasn’t abutting the wall behind it. There was a space between it and the wall, maybe a foot wide.
That would be better, he thought, and tried to force himself into the space. It was tight, but the boy was slender and by pushing hard, he was able to wriggle his way in.
Then all he could do was wait. The awful thought came to him that he was waiting to die. If the man came, there was no way the boy could evade him. He was jammed in too tight, and slipping out the other side from where the man would appear wouldn’t be possible. All he could do was stand there, pressed up against the back of the shed, pressed in between that and the hard block wall, and wait.
He could see nothing, but he could listen. It didn’t take long. He heard footsteps. They were almost soundless as the feet were stepping on lawn, but the boy’s senses were tuned like never before, and the soft sounds came to him clearly, muffled only by the loud thumping of his heart.
He heard the footsteps approaching the shed. The boy took a deep breath and held it.
The shed door opened; the footsteps moved inside but a second later came back out. The boy was hoping against hope that they’d retreat then. But they didn’t. He heard them come down along the side of the shed toward where he was hiding.
His heart couldn’t pound any harder. He turned his head so he’d be able to see the man. He tried to prepare himself to be shot.
“What’s this then?”
It was a rough voice, a black voice, and it sounded pissed. What he could see of the man from his foot-wide aperture was someone large, but mostly what he saw was the barrel of a shotgun pointed at him.
He tightened his stomach muscles and waited, wondering how much pain he’d feel before he’d feel nothing.
“Come on out of there.” It was a command that expected to be followed. Why hadn’t he been shot, the boy wondered? Maybe the man didn’t want the noise it would make. Maybe if he slid out, the man would simply break his neck. Maybe stab him. Was that preferable to being shot?
“Well?”
Yeah, the man was pissed; his tone of voice made that clear. But the boy was uncomfortable where he was, and he was wedged in tightly enough that it was getting hard to breathe, and, what the hell? If he was going to die, maybe it was best to get it over with. It seemed he’d been struggling all his life. Maybe this was his time, and the struggles would end.
However, his mind was also telling him something else. The shooter at the bar had been white. This man was black. The shooter had been dressed. This man was only wearing boxer shorts. This almost had to be the homeowner. Maybe he wasn’t going to kill him.
The boy had to work hard to move at all, but he was trying and moving a little. He’d only gone a few inches when the man reached in, grabbed his arm, and pulled. That helped and suddenly he was out of the tight space.
The man didn’t let go of his arm. His grip was firm, and he pulled the boy around so they were facing each other. “What are you doing back here? Stealing my lawn equipment I’d guess. You’re coming in the house with me. The cops will figure it out. Not my concern. Don’t try to run. I have the absolute right to shoot you, and I will.”
= = =
The assassin was watching from the corner of the house, looking into the back yard. He so wanted to shoot the man, then the boy. What stopped him was a firm belief in following the rules of his profession, rules he’d formulated for himself, rules that had kept him in business longer than most who practiced his occupation. He’d be breaking three of them if he did what he wanted to do.
Those three rules were: one, never do anything impulsively, nothing in a spur-of-the-moment manner; everything must be planned out in detail before it was done. He’d made no plans to do any of this, and here he’d already broken that one by chasing the boy.
Two, wait till the mark is unprepared, expecting nothing, unable to defend himself. Shooting this man with his .22 target pistol, this very large man from a distance with very small bullets, would not necessarily kill him, and the man had a shotgun. That meant it was very likely the man would shoot back. And the noise the shotgun would make would draw attention and make a getaway that much less certain even if the shot the man took missed him.
There had to be cops in the area now. A shotgun blast and they’d come running.
And three, have the getaway totally preplanned so no uncertain moves had to be made. He did have a getaway planned, but it was much, much safer to use it now rather than after there’d been a gun battle in the back yard in a neighborhood where other people certainly had guns and cops would be prowling.
No, a kill here, two kills, actually, would not be wise. While the problem of the boy seeing him would still be facing him, it would be far better to let that go for the time being. He had no idea if the boy would recognize him in a lineup or be able to describe him to the cops. If he could, well, there were still ways to silence him between the time of his arrest and when the boy would testify at trial. Should he be arrested, a very uncertain thing itself, he would quickly be bailed out; he was confident of that. Then it well could be many months before a trial. Lots and lots of time to silence the boy.
No, this was not the time to do this. So, he watched the man take the boy into the house, then got back into his car and drove off.