Nine Ella #3
I go deeper into the alley and turn right at the next building, blinking rain from my eyes.
It’s still dark. I’m small and fast, and I know these streets better than anyone.
I memorized the map years ago. I thread through a run of service corridors, cut behind dumpsters, pass locked gates, and keep my steps quiet.
The gunfire fades. Even the chasing steps drop off.
My breath evens enough for me to think. Justice Beathach isn’t going to be happy about this. I’ve slipped him twice now.
Hopefully that gunshot to his fine body is as through and through as it looked.
An old Chevy Caprice waits under a dead streetlight, paint sunburned to chalk.
The lot is empty. I slide in, drop low in the seat, and check the mirrors.
Nothing moves. My hands know what to do without looking.
Plastic bites my palms as I tear it away.
The column is rough under my fingers. The air tastes of dust and copper and stale cigarettes.
I work the old wires together, holding my breath.
When the starter catches, the engine coughs and settles into a tired idle.
I keep it gentle so it doesn’t stall, ease it out of the space, and roll.
I keep well clear of the blocks near the gunfight.
I hit green lights and empty lanes, drift through the skeleton of downtown, and point west. The road climbs toward the hills.
The city thins, trades glass for scrub and low buildings.
Fog hangs over the ridge in a light band.
I push past the last strip mall and head more toward Half Moon Bay.
My heart rate finally slowing, I park in a narrow pullout that smells of eucalyptus and salt.
I kill the engine, ditch the car, and move on foot for about ten blocks in and out of cut-throughs and quiet streets—avoiding all cameras.
I keep to hedges and shadows, pass behind a mural wall, wait under a fire escape while a dome camera pans, then cross when it looks away.
I mapped every CCTV in this pocket years ago.
I follow the gaps I made for myself, hit an isolated laundromat, and quickly yank on jeans and a sweatshirt, as well as a mismatched pair of tennis shoes, from the lost and found bin.
Then I head back out.
Dawn lifts at the edges first. The sky goes pale and the streetlamps blink out one by one.
The Cinderfalls Community Home rises at the end of the block, low and wide with a fenced field and a cracked blacktop.
I stop and breathe until the shaking in my hands backs off.
The retirement home won’t open for hours.
That’s fine.
My tree waits at the front edge of the property.
Roots push up the soil, while the bark is rough and familiar.
I climb to the middle third of the massive tree, where the trunk splits clean and a set of branches hook just right.
I settle with my back wedged into the pocket and my feet braced.
Another branch crosses at my shoulder. I’ve slept here more than once.
The leaves hold the morning light and soften the wind.
I tuck my chin into my collar and listen for engines, for boots, for voices that don’t belong.
Nothing comes. My eyes burn. I let them close, just to count to ten.
I take several deep breaths and let myself drift. The branch holds. The leaves hush the street. Sleep nips at the edges and I give it a little space.
The day wakes slow. Light picks out rooflines and fence posts as the traffic builds, first a few cars go by, then a steady stream. My bruises still ache. I need an energy hit and have to get to my citrines.
Across the way the shift change starts. Night nurses in navy scrubs file out with tired eyes and slight limps while orderlies tug hoodies over polo shirts and bump shoulders on the sidewalk.
A janitor with a red cart locks the maintenance door and checks each pocket for keys.
Physical therapists arrive with gym bags and tape peeking from side pockets.
A social worker in flats calls a ride share and rubs her temple.
The rhythm of it says morning, not panic. It has to be around eight.
I yawn and blink until the scene stops doubling. Then I wipe dust from the too-large jeans. My hands are filthy. I rub them on the inside of the faded pink sweatshirt.
The retirement community sits next to a field, neat and proud.
Fall hits the front walk in an honest way.
Pumpkins line the path in mismatched rows, some smooth, some warty, some painted with cheerful faces.
Mums crowd big clay pots in burnt orange and wine, while a wreath on the glass door holds dried leaves, small pinecones, and cinnamon sticks tied with rough twine.
Someone tucked plastic turkeys into the hedges and a plastic crow into the planter by the bench. The whole place looks tended.
The morning staff has the door propped open with a rubber wedge.
It’s time to see my godmother.