I dived into a cubicle and duck waddled under a desk as someone walked into the room. Whoever it was hesitated in the doorway, and I pulled my feet further into my hiding spot. The lights didn’t come on, and I was grateful for the few seconds it took me to wonder why. That question was answered when I saw the reflection of a flashlight beam bounce off the glass office walls. I pressed back against the desk with my heart hammering, my face jammed against the fabric of the cubicle, and my legs tangled in a chaos of cables and wires.
The intruder—the other intruder—made faint bumps and rustles following in my footsteps. He—it was a man, judging from the shoes I glimpsed as he walked quickly past my cubicle—headed straight for Katrina’s office. Without bothering to keep quiet, he started to throw drawers open and toss things around. I heard the tinkle of glass breaking and thought of the framed photos, and heard the thump of some of Katrina’s heavy books hitting the carpeted floor of her office. I muttered to myself. I’d been stealthy, professional even, but this idiot was endangering both of us. The faint whine of the elevators had been growing more frequent as the morning arrivals picked up. I knew Katrina had recently come to a parting of the ways with her paralegal, but one attorney and a couple of administrative types still shared the offices, and all I needed was for one of them to arrive before I could make my escape. Crouching low, hoping he was making enough noise to shield me, I made my way toward the outer door. I was nearly there when I bumped into the reception desk. The orchid pot wobbled. I lunged for it, but it crashed and shattered on the marble floor with a noise loud enough to stop my heart. A mess of bark chunks, terra cotta shards and moss scattered over the floor near my feet.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?”
There was no way to answer that question without getting into serious trouble. I exploded out of my crouch and bolted. As soon as I cleared the doorway into the outer hallway, I made for the emergency stairs.
I slid down the first two flights without feeling my feet touch the ground as the door above me slammed open. I skidded and stumbled down more flights of stairs, three at a time, and burst through the ground floor fire door. A group of people waiting for the elevators produced a variety of startled and profane shouts as I charged through them, knocking them out of my way. I flung myself at the emergency exit crash bar, barged outside and, with the fire alarm screaming in my ears, ran hell-for-leather along the alley. With a heartbeat’s incredulity, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I didn’t think the security guards would shoot me, but I didn’t know for certain—this was America, after all. It goaded me to further effort. Without bothering to see if the way was clear, I dived across the busy street into the alley opposite. Brakes squealed and shouts echoed behind me as my pursuer followed.
I’d never understood the phrase “running for your life” before. I’ve been chased once or twice, but mostly I was doing the chasing, after reluctant celebrities with my camera. I’m not a fast runner, but fear of death is apparently a great motivator, and I legged it down the anonymous alley as if my heels were on fire. I dived for the opening at the end, flinging myself forward as a small puff of brick dust flew off the wall a foot ahead of me. I ran through the dust before it had time to settle. Someone really was shooting at me! With some vague idea that I should be zigzagging to throw off his aim, I slammed painfully into the opposite corner with my shoulder and careened off it onto Stockton Street. I burst onto a crowd of Chinese women clustered around displays of daikon and bok choy, all arguing with a beleaguered clerk who was trying to put out more produce from a tower of battered cardboard boxes. I crashed into the women, who went down like bowling pins, earning me a hefty shove from somewhere as I stumbled over a tangle of arms and legs and bok choy that sent me flying out into the slow-moving stream of traffic. Several outraged shouts and honking horns followed me as I dodged an open-mouthed cyclist and kept running.
Around the next corner, I tore the green wig off with my baseball hat and stuffed them in my hoodie’s kangaroo pocket and, without slowing down, shucked the hoodie and hurled them at a homeless woman crouched beside an Italian delicatessen.
“Thanks!” she shouted after me. I was left wearing unremarkable jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I dodged right at the next corner, kept running for half a block, then pressed myself into an alcove containing a fire hydrant and a pair of large, stinking wheelie bins. I leaned over with my hands on my knees, trying hard to breathe through the remains of my panic. After a few minutes, when I was capable of standing upright, I flattened myself against the brick wall and looked up and down the street. I didn’t see anyone I knew, and I definitely didn’t see anyone waving a gun around. I walked quickly to Geary and jumped on the first bus I saw.
Luckily, I had my Muni pass in my jeans, because I found I’d given the homeless woman the thirty-five dollars I’d shoved in my hoodie as I left home.