‘Watch out!’ AD has pulled his gun. The cop in charge drops his baton and raises his hands. But as he begins to back up, to back away, a shot rings out and AD falls forward with a cry.
Care gasps – they all do – but she is forgotten in the turmoil. The police have found Bushwick. He has been hiding behind a stack of crates. A stack of crates on one of the pallets. I begin to see double and blink to clear my vision. More noise. Bushwick is on the ground. He is cursing. Struggling. His imprecations take in Diamond Jim – ‘You coward, you fool!’ – and then everyone in the room, which is odd. He does not seem in a position to threaten. The two cops who stand over him look ready to beat him back down again. Still, his voice is a rumble. A curse.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’ He pushes himself up and gets onto his knees. ‘You can’t do this. You can’t be here.’
He is angry. Undefeated, it would seem, but once again, even through my haze, I get something else – bitter, acid. He is afraid. There is something driving him that scares him more than these cops. There is someone.
‘Tick!’ Care cries out again, and this time I see why. The shadows from the spotlights are dark and defined, but the edges of one have started to move. It is the boy, behind a crate. He is taking advantage of the confusion. He is trying to sneak past the cops, out to the bay. To the train track beyond and the freedom of the night.
In the distance, that whistle again. Metal growling, thundering closer. Closer still. Another wail. It can’t be Care’s voice. It’s not possible. Her second cry is softer than her first, and with all the hubbub it would not be audible across the open room. But for a moment, Tick pauses. He looks up.
And in that moment, it happens. Bushwick lunges. Pulls away from the officer who holds him and grabs the boy, lifting him off his feet. With one arm around Tick’s waist, he has drawn a blade – a box cutter – and holds it to the boy’s throat.
‘Just leave. Leave. All of you.’ He holds the boy close and looks around. The open bay yawns behind him. ‘You can’t be here. You can’t—’
It happens that fast. A second shot, the sound a thunderclap in the open space, and he is down. Care gasps and would leap forward, only I am there, underfoot, and she trips, stumbling out of the passage.
It does not matter. The cops are focused on the man, who has fallen backward, and then on the boy. A cheer goes up. One officer has hoisted Tick up for all to see. He has blood on him but he appears more stunned than injured. In fact, as the cheers die down, we hear him.
‘Put me down!’ He kicks and writhes as the police laugh. Behind them, Bushwick stirs.
‘Not just yet, little man.’ A woman in an overcoat – a woman with a large purse and rusty curls – emerges. She nods at the cop and takes Tick firmly by the hand. The cop steps back, but as he does so the impossible happens. The prone Bushwick rises, bleeding but alive. Stumbling, he breaks for the dock and, as the cry goes up, jumps to the ground, running. The track is lit by the oncoming train, silhouetting the big man and the three officers in pursuit.
‘He’s going to make it!’ One of the cops – the one with the gun – stops still, drops to one knee and draws. The train does not slow, its whistle warning all in its path. Bushwick staggers up the embankment, the rock and cinder spewing out from beneath his feet. Another of the cops – younger, leaner – sprints toward him, reaching for his collar, for his leg.
Bushwick jumps – and misses. An agonized shriek cut short. The lead cop stumbles backward in horror. The others stop running and lower their weapons. Inside the bay, the sound of vomiting.
The woman has Tick’s hand in hers. He pulls back but the fight is gone. He looks over at us – at Care – but he goes with the big woman. Beside me, Care sobs – once, with a heave of breath that I think will break her heart. But as the rest of the crew is rounded up and herded past the spotlights, their fight gone, she crawls backward, broken into the stairwell.
‘That your big boss out there?’ One of the cops is looking at Diamond Jim. It’s not a question, though, and the jeweler doesn’t answer. ‘That’s who you invested with, huh?’
I retreat to where Care is sitting, hands on her knees on one of the broken stairs. I lean against her, exhausted and confused, but I can share my warmth, and for a minute or two we sit there silently, taking in what has happened. But as the cleanup continues she rouses and starts back up the stairs, climbing as quietly as she can. I follow, my head once more pounding as we near the hidden storeroom. The smell of death thick in the air; the stench making it hard to breathe.