I
thought things were looking tricky before; now they were downright dire.
I
kept moving, trying to stay ahead of the pursuit, jumping over fences and
laying low in neighbouring gardens; the fact that they were so overgrown made
staying out of sight relatively easy. I didn’t allow myself to get
overconfident: I had plenty of local knowledge to guide me, but so did the guys
following me. What I knew, they most probably knew also.
I
crept into old man Southwick’s glasshouse and holed up for awhile to get some
kind of plan structured. I sat down on the concrete slab, brushing away pieces
of broken glass and trying to ignore the heavy odour of fertiliser and potting
mix. I had a strong desire for a cigarette and several times I had to
consciously stop my hands going through the motions of lighting up: the last
thing I needed was to signify my presence with a pall of smoke. In the end I
stuck the coffin nail in my mouth and just pretended it was lit.
Off
towards the ocean, a flicker of light and a distant rumble told me that another
storm was rolling in. At least that was something in my favour: the cover it
would provide would help me get somewhere - I just had to sort out where that somewhere
was.
I
figured that my pursuers would stake out every locale to which I had an
attachment. That would mean my home at the “Sunny
Seashells”, the old Waite mansion where I grew up, and my office in town
above the convenience store. For a minute I thought of Doreen’s place, but I
rejected that idea: Winston would think of it and I didn’t want to bring any
grief to the Hepplethwaites. The problem of how to escape Innsmouth when the
residents were looking for you wasn’t insurmountable: Olmstead did it, back in
the day. However, the locals had learnt from his example: the train tracks
which he had followed to freedom had been strategically torn up in places and
the tunnels shut tight with heavy wooden doors. I sucked angrily at my unlit
cigarette and tried to take another tack.
Alright,
so getting out of town was problematic. What about staying in town? What I needed was a place where I could lie low for awhile
until the heat cooled down. Again my options seemed limited. The old abandoned
gold works and canneries were obviously a good choice as hiding places, but
that word “obvious” stuck out a little too prominently – if I could think of
it, so could they, and it would be just a matter of time before they kicked the
door in and found me, in a wrinkled suit with a three day growth, shovelling
beans out of a tin. Rodney’s shack was also out of the question, since I’d just
seen it get kicked over by something very big with very big teeth, something I
didn’t want to tangle with if I could help it.
That
left me thinking about defence. If I did get cornered, what were my options? I
was unarmed, apart from my fists, and I very much regretted having thrown the
gun away at the Gilman estate. Still, it was done and no use crying. That being
said, my own gun was in the safe in my office in town, along with $25,000 in
small bills, cash that would be useful in getting beyond the reach of the
Order. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that a quick trip to the
office was warranted. There was a back way in that few people knew about –
handy for when irate customers or bill-collectors came calling – and maybe the
guys from the E.O.D. would think that I wasn’t stupid enough to go there.
Maybe.
The
first few drops pattered on the glass roof above, and a white flicker of light
sent gentle shadows scattering through the rotting greenery. I stood up slowly
and dusted myself down. Going to the office was a bad idea, but no better than
any other alternative; at the very least I might be able to arm myself if I got
there first. I stepped out into the darkness and trotted silently into the
storm...
To
Be Continued...
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