She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,30

make a beeline for the door. If he chases after you, I’ll trip him and try and buy you more time. He’s big, but I can slow him down.”

“Or, we can just get up and walk out like two normal people.”

“We can’t take risks with your freedom.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Without moving your lips.”

“I don’t want anyone to know what we’re saying.”

“Nobody cares what we’re saying. On three, we just leave.”

I counted, then stood and started for the exit. Dunk hesitated, then fell in behind me. I thought we’d make it. I could feel the outside air as my hand wrapped around the metal handle on the door and began to push through.

“Hey, kid—”

Both Dunk and I froze. People on the sidewalk circled around the half-open door and continued on their way. We could run. Maybe Dunk was right. Our heads swiveled in unison, looking back at the detective.

He had turned on his stool and was facing us. His eyes landed on Dunk. “You were out there yesterday, right? Across the street at the alley?”

“Yes, sir,” Dunk said. His voice lost whatever bass it had picked up in the past year. He sounded ages younger.

“Exciting, right? Like on TV?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

Without hesitation, “Duncan Napoleon Bellino. I live at 1822 Brownsville Road in apartment 207. I’m eleven years old, sir.”

The detective raised an eyebrow, reached for his pad, and made a note. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Dunk. “What about the day before yesterday? Or the day before that? Did you see anything strange over there? Anybody out of the ordinary hanging out?”

“No, sir.”

“When was the last time you were in that alley? Do you ever play back there?”

“No, sir.”

“No, you don’t play back there? Or no, you’ve never been in that alley?”

“Either, neither, I mean…I’ve never been in that alley. I don’t play back there.”

Lurline Waldrip pushed through the door at the kitchen and dropped a white towel on the counter. “Sorry about that, I was in the back. Need a menu?”

When the detective turned to face her, Dunk and I bolted through the door, retrieved our bikes from the lamp post in front of Krendal’s, and raced up the hill. Neither of us looked back. I don’t think I ever pedaled faster in my life.

We raced up the hill and over, then turned left on Maytide Street, rode two more blocks and made a quick right on Klaus, another left on Newburn, my bike chain squeaking with each hurried rotation. Over the next twenty minutes, we circled the entire neighborhood twice, certain the detective’s Crown Vic would either come up from behind or appear somewhere up ahead. The car didn’t, though. At the top of Gorman’s Hill, I locked my brakes and skidded to a stop. Dunk slid in the gravel beside me and dropped his feet to the ground, huffing so loud I could barely hear my own labored breaths. Sweat dripped down my temple, and the back of my shirt was soaked. “We should get off the road,” I finally managed.

“Where?”

I knew exactly where, though. I’d been avoiding the place since Saturday. “Come on.”

It took us a little under ten more minutes to reach the cemetery. With the gate open, we continued riding inside, I didn’t brake again until I reached the mausoleums, there I slowed and pulled between two of the larger ones: Polanski and Nowy. I climbed off my bike and leaned it against the wall and tried to catch my breath as Dunk maneuvered his bike next to mine.

“That guy is like a bloodhound,” Dunk finally said between gasps. “He was all over me back there, did you see that?”

“I don’t think he knows anything.”

“Maybe I’m the one who needs to run. I might need to borrow some of your money.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Lots of innocent men in prison, Thatch. I wouldn’t be the first. Haven’t you ever watched that old show on TBS, The Fugitive? It’s about a doctor, Dr. Richard Kimble, he gets convicted of killing his wife even though he didn’t do it. He goes to jail, escapes, and tries to find the real killer.” Dunk paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “I can’t go to jail, Thatch. I most definitely can’t escape from jail, and I don’t have time to search for the real killer even if I did. I’ve got shit to do in my life, and that ain’t it.”

I rolled my eyes. “The detective saw you in the crowd yesterday and asked a