Witness To Death - Dave White

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I didn’t call you.”

      “I told them I was your lawyer. I made a fake business card on a computer at an overnight Kinko’s. Odds are they won’t believe it for long. They’re probably looking up my info right now.”

      “What? Why would you—”

      “Shut up,” she said. “You’re in trouble, and I think I’m in trouble.”

      “Of course I’m in trouble. I’m in jail.” As his muscles bunched together, John felt as if someone was pulling a string taut behind his neck. “Wait, what do you mean you’re in trouble?”

      “Work.”

      “Work. Work? You’re a receptionist. And your boss is not a slavedriver. You and I both know…” John shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for this. It was ridiculous. “I watched five men die tonight!”

      Ashley looked up at him and squinted as if he’d just told her he peed himself.

      “Would you shut up?” she said. “We’re getting out of here.”

      The cop standing at the door must have heard them. John saw him reach to his shoulder and say something into a radio. Ashley started fiddling in her purse and came out with a glass soda bottle. Looked like Sprite.

      “Stop!” John said. “We’re not going anywhere. Let the police sort this out.”

      “John. Someone is trying to kill me. And I think they want to kill you too.”

      John froze, half out of his seat, his legs still touching the chair.

      Before he could say anything else, Ashley unscrewed the cap. John could smell turpentine. She poured some of it on a handkerchief and stuffed it in the bottle.

      As the cop watched the window, his eyes widened. John saw the knob turn and the door start to open.

      “Get ready to run,” Ashley said.

      She pulled a cigarette lighter from her purse and lit the handkerchief, whirled, and threw the bottle at the door. Before the bottle hit, John saw the cop fall away from the door, covering his face with his forearms. The bottle hit, cracked, and there was a whoosh.

      John squinted at the brightness of the explosion. His face heated, and he felt sweat at the edge of his hairline. His hands started shaking again. Ashley grabbed him by the wrist and pulled. He saw the cop rolling on the floor. His sleeve was on fire.

      “Come on!” she screamed, dragging him through the door.

      Alarms rang and the sprinklers went off in the hall. The water was freezing. As it washed down John’s face, he could taste it mixing with the salt of his sweat.

      Police were yelling for everyone to get out of the building. Some of the fire had spread to a nearby desk filled with papers, and across the carpet on the floor.

      Two male cops and a woman in cuffs ran, splashing up puddles, yelling and bumping into each other. Ashley grabbed John’s wrist tight and pulled. They stepped in between an older couple. The smoke was thick like black coffee, and filled John’s nostrils. He coughed hard and tried to breathe. His chest was on fire, and he wasn’t getting much air. He and Ashley crouched lower, where the air was a bit cleaner.

      Some cops were acting like baseball coaches, trying to wave everyone toward the door. Smoke billowed around their arms, but otherwise, it was hard to see them.

      No one stopped them.

      By the time they reached the winter air, its chill quickly crusted the freezing water on their clothes. Ashley’s hair was matted to the sides of her face and she pulled it back into a ponytail. She took John by the arm again and pointed toward the far corner of the building.

      “I’m parked over there,” she said. Ashley started to drag him in that direction, but John didn’t walk with her.

      “I’ll be a fugitive.”

      “You’ll be better off on the street than in a police station. Follow me.”

      John blinked, still not sure what was happening.

      “Let’s go!”

      He went with Ashley, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. Sirens rang off in the distance, fire trucks speeding toward them. John tugged his arms against the handcuffs, but there was no give. He had no idea how he was going to get them off.

      The crowd started to thin as they got closer to her car. Ashley ignored cops, ignored pedestrians, and ignored the chaos around them. She did what she always did: looked like she belonged.

      Until they were about ten feet from the car.

      It started as a low rumble, and John felt the ground shake beneath him. The rumble became an explosion, and the front glass doors of the police station erupted in a flash of light. The crowd turned their heads to look, and Ashley stopped for moment. Then she took John by the arm again and ran to the car. No one followed, too busy heading back toward the burning building.

      Once in the passenger seat, John looked at Ashley.

      “You knew that explosion was coming?”

      She shook her head. “Must have been a spark near some gas or something.”

      “I don’t believe you.”

      “You don’t have to,” she said, and drove off toward the Turnpike.

      Michelle Sandler pulled off the Turnpike, made a few turns, came up behind the station, and saw the roadblock. Maybe, she thought, the police station is always blocked off like this. When she went to DC with Frank a few months ago, there were roadblocks around all the important buildings.

      She turned right, away from the police station, found a parking spot. Before she could walk over to the station, she had to get her purse out of the trunk. It was hidden under Burt, the health teacher’s replica skeleton. She always kept her purse in the trunk, in case someone tried to mug her. And once she’d agreed to repair Burt’s broken rib over vacation, Michelle had an even better hiding spot for her valuables.

      Not that any of that mattered anymore.

      She slung the purse over her shoulder and replaced Burt. When she turned to start walking, she smelled the smoke in the air. It was sharp and acidic. She kept walking and heard the sirens. As she rounded the corner, she saw the crowds a block away. And she saw the front of the station was in flames. Firefighers were spraying water at black holes that used to be windows. The cops had set up a barrier and were herding civilians behind it.

      One police officer was standing by himself, closer to the building, where Michelle was. Despite the cold, he had his hat off and was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Soot caked his face.

      Digging the bottle of water she always kept with her out of her wallet, she approached him.

      “Here,” she said, holding out the bottle. “Are you all right?”

      The cop took it, smiled, and then took a long pull. When he finished, he said, “Thanks.”

      “What happened?”

      Shrugging, the cop said, “I don’t know. Probably shouldn’t talk about it.”

      “My friend. I came down to bail him out. He was under arrest.”

      The cop laughed. “How are you planning on doing that? There isn’t a judge here.”

      She hadn’t planned at all. In fact, if bail hadn’t been posted yet, she wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do. When she drove down here, she just wanted to see John. Make sure he was okay. But life had taught her that when all else failed, lie.

      “His lawyer’s right behind me,” Michelle said. “He’s coming from Toms River.”

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