“Stop right where you are!” the police officer shouted, and in that moment, in that precise moment, as the night looked down on them and no one came outside and no one drove by, fourteen-year-old Cohen remembered he still had the gun in his coat. Instinctively he found the flapping slit of his pocket and reached inside. He and Than ran with Hippie laboring on between them. Clouds rolled in from the southwest, swallowing the moon and taking on a threaded silver lining.
“Stop!” the police officer yelled again, and this time, for some unknown reason, Cohen stopped. Both of his hands went into his coat pockets. He could feel the smooth, cold metal of the handgun, out of place in a world with so many rough edges. The trigger was there too, though he didn’t let his finger remain on it. He was afraid of what might happen if he did.
Than and Hippie’s running petered out when they realized Cohen had stopped. Than bent over, breathing heavily. Hippie fell to the ground and sat, drawing her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead on them. Cohen wasn’t sure, but he thought she might be crying.
“Put your hands where I can see them!” the police officer shouted. His voice seemed to be the only thing on the street, the only sound in the world.
Cohen watched as Than rotated with slow steps, still bent at the waist, still gasping for breath. Hippie slid around on her backside until she faced the police officers. She was holding her hand again, as if the pain hadn’t completely gone away.
Cohen was about to turn around, was practically in the act, when he stopped. He saw something on the ground.
“I said, put your hands where I can see them!”
There. Between Than and Hippie. He had missed it at first because he thought it was a shadow on the sidewalk, but he could tell it wasn’t. It was a mark left behind by the Beast. This was its trail. This was where it had gone.
He glanced at Than. They made eye contact. Cohen looked quickly at the shadow-trail, and Than’s glance followed. Hippie did not look up. Her forehead stayed on her knees.
Cohen glanced over his shoulder, surprised at many things. The police officers stood much farther away than he had originally thought, nearly a block behind. They pointed their weapons at him and Than and Hippie. He was surprised to see that some neighbors had woken up and come out onto their porches, and now they stood there, watching. Snow started falling from the clouds that had eaten the moon, a snow that first fell lazy and meandering, spaced so far apart.
That’s when the storm blew in. Thick snow swirled on a north wind, blowing the blizzard into the faces of the police officers. The one in front, the one who had done the shouting, hid his face in the crook of his hand and yelled something, but Cohen couldn’t understand it.
“I think we should run,” Than shouted through the storm. Hippie stood to her feet.
“Okay,” Cohen said. He could barely see the officers through the falling snow, but they seemed to be walking closer.
“Ready, Hippie?” Than asked. “On three. One. Two. Three.”
They ran, the shouts of the police officers following them, faint and ineffective in the wind and the snow. Cohen overtook Than and Hippie and led the way, darting down a side alley, nearly slipping on a wide, deep puddle of black. He slowed for a moment, staring. It was the Beast’s shadow-trail. He kept running. He didn’t look back.
They came to a wide street. The wind was stronger there in the open, and the snow stung his face. Hippie was behind him somewhere.
“Hippie!” Cohen shouted into the storm, but the wind swallowed his voice. Then he saw her. She stopped, disoriented, weak, her arms hanging limp at her sides. He could tell she was about to sit again. He ran back, grabbed her arm, and dragged her along. The three of them walked forward together, slowly, through the blizzard.
All the running, the turning back on their own trail, the cutting through alleys, the low visibility, had turned Cohen around and left him confused as to exactly where in the city they were. But in a moment, when the storm slowed and there were spaces between the snow, he looked up ahead and recognized the street. It was Duke. They were coming up on the funeral home, back to where it had all started. And as they drew closer, he saw smears of black tar on the glass doors.
“You said it was probably dead by now,” Cohen said quietly. There was no anger in his voice, no bitterness or blame. He looked at Than. Than nodded, a weary gesture. The two looked at Hippie. She blinked, and her eyes stayed closed for a moment.
There was nothing else to say. The three of them pushed open the doors and walked into the funeral home, their own shadows melting into the darkness.