Leanne Davis [Davis - Wesley

W ESLEY

Run. Run! Damn it! My legs dont react anymore. They wont obey me. Run. Faster. Harder. Farther. I glance over my shoulder. Damn it! Theyre gaining on me. Two cops. Two damn cops jogging after me as I sprint much faster than they can. I charge forward, just in time to spot a chain-link fence. The perfect obstaclefor them! I grab the smooth, round tip of a metal post and swing my legs in tandem over it. No problem. Too easy. I hope the cops, who probably dont get their food quite as creatively as I do, wont have the muscles or confidence in their bodies to hop a six-foot fence as quicklylike lightning, reallyas I do. I fall, stumbling when I hit the uneven lot below. Why are they freaking bothering to chase me?

These patrol officers who probably rarely ever have to run, let alone sprint, are hopping fences and curbs on cracked, uneven pavement, and pivoting around dumpsters, buildings, and random debris of the small main street area Im leading them through. This crosses my mind more often than anything. I sincerely hope they dont get hurt coming after me. If they get injured and also manage to catch me, theyll no doubt pin the blame on me.

Why are they breaking into a sweat and risking their own damn necks, chasing me through the back alleys of town? I cant be worth it.

I stole a damn money box. I doubt it held even a hundred bucks. Granted, the lady was seated in front of the local liquor store at her little table. She was sitting on a chair and had a lock box and a sign asking for donations for the local blind charity. No, she wasnt exactly a fair victim for me to select. The sign claimed the charity worked to employ and provide training and job opportunities for blind people. No. The old lady I stole from isnt blind. My conscience tweaks, however, as I acknowledge the charity I took it from. The lady might have been in her early sixties, but not a young, vibrant sixty-year-old. She was hunched over, wearing a cardigan and appeared small and feeble. I applauded her choice of locations, in front of the local and only liquor store, catching people before they wasted their money on booze they didnt need and using guilt to get them to donate when she so sweetly asked for their spare change.

It was too easy. I spotted the old lady collecting money and watched her for maybe twenty minutes. There was no one else around. Just a few customers who dropped in change as they entered or exited the store. I crossed the street, passed closer, smiled at her, and she smiled back. Yeah, that made me feel a smidgeon bad. But still. Lightning quick, just as I stepped nearer to her, I dug around in my jeans pocket as if I were searching for money, and she kept smiling at me, her hands folded together on the table like she suspected nothing. Then, instead of money in my hand, I grabbed her box and turned away with it. I tucked it close to my body like a football against my chest and sprinted across the street. There was a car waiting at the stop sign in front of the liquor store. I ducked behind the vehicle, turned left, and ran down a few blocks before taking another right and cutting through an alley behind the local post office. The car that was waiting at the stop sign took off after me. Hence, my slick cutoff so the car couldnt follow. The tires squealed, and I could imagine their obvious frustration when they realized they couldnt chase me.

No doubt, thats who called the cops. Minutes later, I hear their shrill sirens as I quickly take off down the central walking path that bisected the town. I pass people here and there, ducking around strollers and couples, clutching the metal box tightly. I flip behind a tree with branches that dipped all the way to the grass and quickly flick the box open. Old lady didnt bother to put the lock on it as she sat there collecting her change. I reach in and grab the loose paper bills, tossing the box and change to the ground at my feet. Stuffing the bills, mostly fives and ones, into my sweatshirt pocket, I quickly peek out. I hear the sirens but see no one, so I eagerly take the lucky break and hop back onto the path. Up ahead it crosses in front of a chain tire store. I ditch the landscaped path to go behind the store, which is wooded and hilly. I make my way through the shadows of the trees and bushes.

I eventually step out of the small woods into a neighborhood. As I turn down another side street, I slow down, walking nonchalantly. But come on, its freaking Silver Springs, Washington. There is no one out and about right now. There is no way to blend into the crowd as there is no crowd. Its hard to miss me walking around. I hear the roar of sirens behind me once more. The cops jump out, and I pivot right, darting into a yard, hurdling over the small gate and running through the backyard, again jumping the fence, hitting the woods above the tire store in a half roll, half run and scurrying down the leaf-laden ground, hidden only briefly by the foliage. Then Im back to the street below, which is where I start sprinting off the road and zig-zagging through the backyards of houses before returning to the main street.

Im not breathing hard yet. Im almost grinning. They arent going to catch me. My legs are pumping furiously. My thighs are straining, and all the muscles are engaged. Im in better shape than those two cops combined. One is pudgy and overweight, and the other is balding and wearing spectacles. So, my guess is neither are in their aerobic prime.

I am, however. I relax my pace when I see them over my shoulder, struggling to climb over the high fence. They cant do it. Well maybe if they grabbed a ladder. Or a stool. Maybe an electronic lift. I smirk.

Im running still, but calmer now until I cross the road and drop down on a bulkhead made from railroad ties. It provides a five-foot high berm between the beach below and the road above. I scramble towards the pier on my left. It attaches to the land, right at a high spot on the road, with permanent posts that hold it up. Theres plenty of room to crouch under it and tuck my body up towards the berm. I flop down, sitting on the dry, fine sand under the pier. The dock juts out towards the water with a wooden ramp that slopes down where the dock splits up into three rows of boat moorage. Several boats bob gently in the waves. Some of them are used for fishing and made of metal, while several more are much flashier, including fiberglass ski boats and jet skis. There are two large sailboats and four houseboats of various sizes.

The Columbia River undulates underneath them all. The wind blows continuously and the white-capped waves rush towards the shore, bobbing the boats and docks up and down. The piers hold the dock firmly against the fast current. Boats mill about on the river or troll along it. Downriver from that, but far off in the distance, I spot the piers that line the Oregon side of the river. A large ship called Panama is tied to one of the massive docks. For hours on end, grain falls down large metal shoots into the bowels of the ship. The June sun is out early, making it warm and pleasant. I pull out the change I stole. Counting it, I learn Im a hundred and six dollars richer. More than I hoped for. It nags at my conscience. Charity for the blind becomes charity to me. Its likely that the woman I stole from is shaken and upset, losing all her faith, if she had any, in society and mankind.

But I needed the money.

Why? Because Jacey needs it. Shes my friend. And with only a few of those, Im willing to go to extremes for them.

Ill need to leave town, even though its a good spot. I like the trees that appear before and after the idyllic village and there are plenty of riverfront lots with comfortable spots to hide and relax. The river is glorious in the morning sunlight. In other places, I find myself in some ugly-ass building with dumpsters and a view of the neighboring brick building. Here? I get to stare at the water, the boats, the ships, and the numerous but very entertaining tugboats.