“Hold on.”
The rail marshal jumped off the platform and began jogging across the field toward them.
“We’ve got company.” Simon ducked back behind the wall and checked his surroundings. All the warehouse’s doors were lowered. There were no vehicles nearby. No visible place to conceal themselves. A few steps away stood a stack of wooden pallets a head taller than him. He grabbed Nikki’s hand and led her to the pallets.
“Get behind there.”
Nikki tried to slip into the gap between the warehouse and the pallets. “Too tight.”
Simon squatted and slid his hands beneath the bottommost pallet. With a grunt, he lifted the stack and moved it a few inches to one side. He repeated the motion on the opposite side, creating a narrow space between wall and pallet. Nikki squeezed into the opening and Simon pushed the pallets as close to the wall as he could. “Stay here.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll figure something out.” He ran to the far corner of the warehouse. It was twenty meters across the road to the next building. Even if he made it before the marshal arrived, he had no place to hide. He searched for a door, a window to break, anything. Close by, the marshal’s radio crackled.
Simon saw a drainpipe and began climbing, praying it remained anchored to the wall.
The marshal reached the warehouse before Simon had made it to the roof. The marshal pulled up directly beneath him, hands on his hips, gathering his breath. Simon froze. Twenty-five feet below him, the marshal turned in a slow circle, reconnoitering the area. For a moment, he looked directly at the pallets, directly at Nikki, then looked away.
Still, he didn’t move on, but kept in his place as if nailed to the spot, his head scanning the area, nose raised like a cat scenting his prey.
Simon’s fingers grew tired. Between the day’s heat, his nerves, and the run from the terminal, his hands were moist with perspiration. He dropped one hand to his trousers and dried his palm, then did the same with the other.
Below, the marshal’s radio crackled again. A man said, “Jacques? Anything?”
“Still checking.”
Simon had wedged the toe of his shoe between the pipe and wall, the tip of his sole resting on a bracket securing the drainpipe. Now he felt the shoe slipping. He increased his pressure, wedging the shoe more tightly. Suddenly, his foot came free of his loafer. He slipped. His hands clutched the pipe with all his might. Miraculously, the shoe remained in place. He dug his other foot into the space, his ankle turned, his calf screaming. Hugging himself to the pipe, he guided his unshod foot back to the loafer. His toes touched leather. Slowly, he worked his foot into the shoe until he could put pressure on it and stand easier.
By now, it was not only his hands that were sweaty. His entire face was beaded with perspiration. He felt the drops rolling off his forehead, down his cheeks. As he stared at the top of the marshal’s head, he counted the drops falling from his chin and watched powerless as they fell to the ground.
“Well?” asked the voice on the radio.
A hand touched his hair. The marshal gazed upward, but not at Simon.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “They didn’t come this way.”
Simon let go a breath.
The marshal returned the radio to his belt. Instead of returning to the station, he took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit up, leaning against the pallets, his shoulders inches from Nikki.
Simon held his position, hands burning with fatigue, growing stiff, unresponsive. He caught Nikki staring at him and he knew she was urging him to hold on. His hands began to slip. He dried them again but to less effect. His shirt was wet on his back, his legs quivering.
The marshal smoked contentedly and then, without warning, threw the butt to the ground with only half the cigarette finished and walked back to the terminal.
Simon slid down the pipe, his legs giving out when he hit the ground, his rear landing firmly on the concrete. After a moment, he stood and freed Nikki, who appeared as wrung out as he felt.
“Well,” she said. “I guess it’s official.”
“What’s that?” He was out of breath, too exhausted to pay much attention.
“I’m a fugitive, too.”
The idea made him laugh. “How does it feel?”
“Not good.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
