Rule #57: There’s often a “however” in life.
The Art Museum was built on the highest hill in Forest Park. It looks out east to the long slope of Art Hill, with its statue of Louis IX on a horse, his sword lifted high. In the winter, there could be a couple of hundred sledders on the hill in front of the museum. On the south side of the museum, the shoulder of the hill slopes away from the museum buildings and the big, open space where the festival was still going on. We were at the top of the shoulder. When we started to run, we went down its grassy flank. There were some big trees. Their branches already had leaves, so it was shady under them, with dapples of sunlight in places. The ground was steep enough for us to move fast. I kept my strides short, though. I wanted to sprint but didn’t. I didn’t want to start running full tilt and risk stumbling. The ground was too uneven to go all out. Langston and Corinne were taking the same strategy. Running with quick, short strides, all of us abreast, all of us watching the uneven ground as we went over it.
I hadn’t heard a lot of gunfire before. I went a couple of times with my father when he had to qualify, for his job, at the state police range over in Concord. It was exciting for a few minutes. The reality was that after the first few dozen rounds were fired, it got kind of boring. It wasn’t boring now. Also, the sound was a lot sharper and louder than it had been at the range with my father, where I’d had on ear protectors. The first shot rang sharp, crisp. The air was clear, low enough in humidity that the crack carried. I involuntarily hunched when I heard the shot. I felt a sharp tug between my shoulder blades where the muscles in my back gave a quick spasm. Like stiffening my back muscles was going to stop a bullet. I tried to shrug my shoulders to loosen things. It’s hard to do when you’re running. I looked right, then left. Langston and Corinne were both still upright, still running. I took those as good signs.
In about thirty seconds, we were most of the way down the hill, into the woods near the bottom of the slope. The trees got thicker there. The ground cover was dense, overgrown. There wasn’t any way a park mower could have gotten into the tangle here. There wasn’t any grass to mow. Long ropes of grapevines twisted around on the ground, and the only other cover was a heavy mat of dark leaves, damp. I could smell the dirt and wet mulch where we kicked them up as we ran. Corinne was a couple of strides ahead of me. She tripped on a vine, went down to one knee, but before I could reach her, she was back up and getting her stride. It was impossible to get into the kind of flat-out, loping stride that would have given us much distance. On the other hand, all the trees made us harder targets. And if we were slowed down trying to get through it, so were the two coming after us. At least I hoped so. I fought the urge to turn and look back. I didn’t want to risk falling if I did. And if they were behind us, there wasn’t much I could do about it anyway.
Off to the left was a rock the color of concrete, about the size of the kitchen table in our apartment. It was rounded, with a silhouette that reminded me of a crouching bear. Or maybe a tiger coiled to spring. I was considering it as I ran and listened for the sound of another shot. Multitasking. I didn’t think I was doing a very good job of any of it. Even so, I was distracted by the rock. I wanted to ask Corinne about it. Hey, I wanted to say, that rock over there. Think it looks more like a bear or a tiger? I didn’t.
And then we were all three past the rock, and I heard a second shot and then a dull, clunking sound like someone had dropped a golf ball on a sidewalk. I heard Langston make a huuhh sound. He was a couple of paces behind me.
“You okay?” I yelled. I twisted around to see where he was. Hearing that noise from Langston, I felt my face flush. I suddenly wanted to throw up the fried rice I’d been eating only ten minutes ago but what seemed like about six months ago.
“Branch clipped me,” Langston said. “I’m okay.” He huffed. His face was pink. But he wasn’t struggling. I glanced again at Corinne. She looked the same. She’d tied her hair back earlier in the day. She looked grim, determined. She was staring at some finish line up ahead, I thought. I wondered where it was. The Toyota had been a dependable machine, taking me all the way from New Hampshire out here, including a trip back to Buffalo to pick up Corinne. It was sucking a lot of oil, true. It was still a good car. It wasn’t bulletproof, though. I didn’t have a plan for what would happen after we got to it. I thought about how this seemed to be becoming a habit for me, making impulsive decisions and hoping that once made, something would open up for me. Then I thought that I was perhaps being just a little too introspective for a guy running down a hill through the woods with a couple of low-level Chinese gang thugs shooting at him.
I felt a quick flash of relief. I could see the road lined with parked cars. Another car was pulling up and stopping, double-parking, blocking off the street. Both doors opened, and I saw Mr. Cataldi jump out and take a squatting position, pointing his gun directly at the three of us. Behind him, on the other side of the car, I could see Ms. Masterson’s head and shoulders over the hood. She had a gun pointed at us as well.
“Get! Down!” she shouted. We did. All three of us. Corinne was close enough to me I could reach out and push her. I put my hand between her shoulder blades and shoved, and since she was already leaning over, scouting for a place to land, she went down fast. It sounded like all the air in her lungs came out at once. I dived. Corinne’s elbow clipped my cheek as we went down. The carpet of dead, wet leaves was thick, sloppy. I went face first into it. My shoulders were hunched. My right arm hugged Corinne; she had her left arm around my neck. I heard Langston hit the ground, along with a squishy sound as he plowed into dank mulch. I tensed, waiting for the shots. Wasn’t much I could do about it, short of burrowing into the clammy, matted leaves. I gave it some consideration. Instead of the shots I expected, I heard Mr. Cataldi.
“Stop! That’s all! FBI!” Mr. Cataldi shouted, then it was Ms. Masterson again. “Put the gun down! Put the gun down now!”
Corinne was trying to suck air in through her mouth in short staccato bursts. I could feel my pulse in my temples. I realized there was a rock digging into my left knee. Then I heard the wail of sirens, way off in the distance, drawing closer. I lifted my head just high enough to turn and glance at Langston. He stared back, a big smear of dirt covering most of one cheek. There was a dried leaf, ragged and torn, hanging from his hair, right in front of his face. He didn’t pull it off. He just left it there, keeping his face as close to the ground as he could.
“Wow,” he said.
Mr. Cataldi and Ms. Masterson were both trotting toward us. As they got closer, Ms. Masterson said, “Are you all okay?” They both had their guns out, both pointed up the hill past us. Ms. Masterson stopped where we were. Mr. Cataldi kept going, up the hill toward the two who’d been chasing us.
“Okay,” I said. I pulled my knee off the rock and got my leg beneath me and sat up.
“All of you!” she said again. “Tell me if you are okay?”
“Okay here,” Langston said. He pushed up with his hands and sat on his knees.
Corinne rolled over. The front of her jeans and shirt were streaked with mud. “Okay,” she said. She sat up.
Ms. Masterson ran past us, following Mr. Cataldi up the hill. Below, the road was thick with police cars, lights churning. Cops were coming up toward us, at least a dozen of them. I looked over my shoulder. The Curl and Eyebrows were both face-down farther back up the hill, arms behind their backs. Mr. Cataldi was putting handcuffs on the Curl.
Corinne sat with her legs out in front of her.
“That was an experience,” I said. I realized I was shaking a little.
“First for me,” Langston said.
“Me too,” Corinne said. “And that was enough.”
The three of us stayed where we were, sitting on the damp, mulchy ground, which wasn’t all that comfortable but which seemed, at least for the moment, at least for me, far preferable to doing anything so strenuous as actually trying to stand up. I had a feeling, given the way I was still shaking, that effort was going to take a while.
“Come on,” I said. “Brisk run in the park. Who feels like jogging home?”
They both shot me expressions that told me they didn’t appreciate my humor.
“You two are the reason our generation’s in such poor shape,” I said. But like them, I stayed right where I was.