Chapitre 2: Chapter 2
Crossing the street, I went into the shop. A few minutes later I left, wearing the first decent pair of jeans I’d owned since I’d hit the streets two years ago. The jacket I’d found almost made me feel as if I was a real person, not the vagrant most people saw when they looked at me. My old jacket was carefully folded up in my backpack. Waste not, want not, as they say. I’d even splurged on a shirt. Sure, it was a blue work shirt, but it beat the hell out of the tattered sweatshirts and hoodies I usually wore. Before I left the dressing room I tied my hair back so I’d look even morerespectable. At least I’d taken the time to trim back my beard and mustache a couple of days ago, using the washroom at a fast-food restaurant, so while I still looked scruffy, it wasn’t horrible.
With my backpack slung over my shoulder, and the envelope carefully stashed in one of the jacket pockets, I headed to the bus stop. I got lucky. One was just pulling up. I told the driver where I was going and asked which busses I’d need. My luck was still with me, because I didn’t have to transfer. He said I’d be there in fifteen minutes, so I dug my dog-eared book out of my pack and read until I got to my stop.
True, I was dressed better than I’d been when the guy hired me, but I still didn’t fit into the neighborhood, so I hoped anyone who saw me would think I was a gardener heading home after working on some rich guy’s yard, or—I smiled wryly at the idea—a plumber on an emergency call—or something.
I found the address I needed, which was one of several houses on the obviously upper-middleclass street. Doing as the man had said, I went around to the back of the house. There was light coming through one of the windows, so I walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. To my surprise, it swung open an inch or so, letting out a sliver of light. Someone had been careless, or so I thoughtI waited a moment for my knock to be answered. When it wasn’t, I pushed the door open and stepped into what turned to be a kitchen, calling out, “Mr. Anderson?”
That was when I saw the body, a butcher knife protruding from its back, blood from the wound covering the floor around it. I started toward him—it was a male, maybe Mr. Anderson, maybe not—to see if he was still alive. Not that I figured he could be, all things considered, but it was a natural reaction, I think. My foot landed in something sticky—drying blood—and I jerked it back, grabbing the counter to keep from falling. That’s when I heard the sirens.
Yeah, definitely a set-up, with me as the patsy if I didn’t get my ass out of there and fast
I did, barely making it across the alley behind Mr. Anderson’s house into someone’s yard when a squad car came to a screeching halt a few feet away. I guess I shouldn’t presume that’s the dead guy’s name, or the homeowner’s name as far as that goes. Anyway, I crouched behind a trash container beside a garage, keeping my head down. A trick I’d learned when cops drove through downtown alleys looking for guys like me to roust. Someone was watching over me because the people in the house belonging to the garage were either not nosy enough to come out to see what was going on, or not at home.
I waited what seemed like forever until the ache in my knees told me it was move or else. The squad car was still in the alley, along with another one. One of the officers was telling the others to start searching the nearby yards. That was added impetus to my getting out of there. It was full dark now, so I was able to creep and crawl through the yard, staying close to the bushes along one side, until I made it to the next street. Then, as casually as I could, considering I was beyond tense, I walked out of the area.
A few blocks from where I’d started I saw a fancy strip mall. The shops were closed, the two restaurants weren’t, but they were too high-class considering how I was dressed for me to feel comfortable going into one, despite the fact I could afford a meal. Well, I could if I wanted to blow half the money I had left after my shopping spree.
I spotted a bus stop with a shelter at the far end of the mall. The shelter was vacant, so I collapsed on the bench, resting my elbows on my knees, and stared down at the pavement. That was when I realized there was blood on one of my shoes. It probably wouldn’t look like blood to anyone who glanced at it, but it seemed to scream ‘murderer’ in my mind. Of course I wasn’t, but who would believe it if the cops found out I’d been at Anderson’s house and arrested me. I had some well-worn tennis shoes in my backpack I kept for emergencies, like when it was raining or snowing. I took off the pair I was wearing and put the other ones on. Then I checked the trash container beside the bench. There was a newspaper someone had thrown away. I took it out, wrapped the bloody shoe in one section, its mate in another, and stuffed them deep down under the rest of the trash.
Cadeaux
-- Cadeau
reçu État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone