The Long Way Home by Andrew Klavan Read Free Book Online Page A

headlights. I was deafened by the noise. I was caught in the space between, caught on a little stretch of street that was getting smaller and smaller with every instant as the two cruisers rushed together.
    In the seconds left to me, my eyes desperately scanned the road. There: a driveway, just to my right, the driveway to the small garage of a small, white clapboard house.
    I nearly upended the bike as I turned into the drive at full speed. The sirens shrieked, the lights flashed. Now there was just the garage in front of me, a garage with a car already parked in it; no way out. Again, I looked around wildly. Now I saw the small front yard, the little brick-faced house next door—and a narrow alley between the two houses.
    When I slipped out between them, the cops in the two closing cruisers found themselves rushing toward each other, toward a head-on crash. The cars braked and swerved. One bumped up onto the sidewalk, its muffler crunching into the curb as it came to a sharp stop. The other car managed to slow down enough to make the sharp turn and follow me up the driveway. He was right behind me.
    I twisted the handlebars. The motorcycle hopped up onto the house’s front lawn. The sudden change from pavement to soft earth made the tires go wobbly underneath me, but I couldn’t slow down. I raced across the front lawn, heading for the little alley between this house and the house next door.
    Behind me, the cruiser that had pulled into the driveway stopped short. I heard its doors fly open. I heard a huge, booming voice—one of the officers speaking over the car’s loudspeaker: “Stop right there!”
    I drove the motorcycle forward, fast but unsteady on the grass. I tried to hold on to it, tried to get control of it so I could make the turn into the narrow alley.
    It was no good. I was losing control.
    I hit the brakes, trying to cut my speed before the bike went over. The moment the motorcycle slowed, the soft earth seemed to grip it even harder. I felt the bike begin to slide out from under me.
    It all happened with a dreamy slowness at first, and then it happened very fast. The bike tilted and tilted and I felt my body going down and down and I felt my hands losing their grip on the handlebars—and it seemed as if it was taking several hours, as if it might never come to an end.
    Then— wham —it ended. I hit the ground and everything sped up again. I flew off the bike. I flew through the air, eerily watching the bike kick up dirt as it twisted away from me. I felt a flashing ache go through me as I hit the soft grass with my shoulder. I rolled, fast, and went on rolling. I didn’t know if I was hurt. I didn’t know if I’d be able to get up. But I sprang to my feet and, before I knew it, I was running.
    That huge voice boomed at me again through the night. “Police! Stop right there!”
    Then I was in the alley. Racing as fast as my legs would go. I brushed a garbage can and sent it spinning and clattering out in front of me. I had to leap over it to keep from tripping. I leapt and kept running.
    There was a low diamond-link fence up ahead, a gate into the backyard. The breath came out of me in harsh gasps as I pumped my arms, pumped my legs, charging toward it.
    Another shout: “Hold it, West! Or I’ll shoot.”
    I was at the fence. I grabbed the top of the gate. I lifted off my feet.
    A gunshot. It was like a bomb going off—unbelievably loud. There was a tearing sound. White splinters flew into the air as the bullet ripped into the corner of the house beside me, about an arm’s length away.
    I felt my stomach turn to water. I was so scared that if I could’ve stopped right then, I probably would’ve.
    But I was already in the air, already leaping, vaulting, up over the gate, into the dark yard behind it.
    I landed on my feet and ran—ran so fast I felt as if I were wearing a rocket pack. A swing set flashed by my shoulder. A sandbox flashed by my feet. A lighted window appeared in front of me. And