She faced a whole new set of risks outside. There was the dash across the open lawn, then navigating through the woods in darkness, praying for a car to stop once she was on the highway, but the worst of it was simply getting out. Once she accomplished, that, Joy figured she would stand a fairly decent chance.
And if not, this wasn’t living anyway, so what the hell.
When she was finished with the lock, she cracked the door a bare half inch, enough to listen for the sound of anyone outside. No footsteps, voices, nothing. It was clear, unless they had somebody waiting just outside the door, prepared to pounce the moment she revealed herself. In that case, Joy was done before she started, and she might as well just forge ahead.
Two inches, and a wedge-shaped section, of the corridor was visible. No lurking shadows fell within her line of sight.
She stuck her head out, checked both ways and then ducked back again. Her heart was pounding, and she felt the baby move, as if her own raw desperation was communicated somehow, through the blood.
Hang on.
Seven months, and Joy was barely showing. Slender to a fault, she still had speed on her side, nothing like the nausea and weakness some girls suffered around the clock. Another reason for proceeding now, while she was still in shape to run—or fight, if necessary, to protect herself.
She left the room and closed the door behind her. For the last time, God, please let it be! No noise to tip the others off, if anyone was listening.
Joy moved along the corridor on tiptoes, scarcely breathing, terrified of making any sound that might betray her. The orderlies made scheduled rounds, at least in theory, but you never really knew when one of them would deviate from the routine and double back to give one of the floors a second look. More often, though, the night shift took it easy, kicking back, secure in the knowledge that Ideal Maternity had never suffered an escape.
Until tonight.
She reached the stairs and paused again, ears straining for the sound of voices, footsteps, the rustling of clothing. When Joy was satisfied, she scurried down the staircase, almost tripping in her haste. She caught the banister and saved herself from tumbling down, knowing, the baby was well cushioned from simple jolts.
Maternal instinct was a killer, regardless of the circumstances. This time last year, Joy would have belittled anyone who said she had the instinct locked inside her, waiting to assert itself, but she knew better now. She was escaping for her child as much as for herself.
The ground floor seemed deserted. That was an illusion, but she took advantage of the moment, slipping to her left along a shadowed hallway, past the silent dining room and kitchen to the pantry, where another flight of stairs gave access to the basement. There was no lock on the door, and Joy was grateful for the darkness, even though she had to feel her way downstairs, afraid of falling, breaking something, getting caught.
It seemed to take forever, but she reached the basement’s concrete floor and felt her way in the direction of the washer-dryer combo on the eastern wall. She climbed up on the Maytag washer, peered out through the window, praying there would be no guards outside. The empty lawn invited her to take a shot at it.
She slid the window open, gave the burglar bars a solid straight-arm shove and watched them fall away. It was a little awkward, crawling through the window, but she made it, wound up belly-down on damp, cool grass. She pushed off in a flash, broke for the tree line sixty yards away.
She almost made it.
Ten or fifteen paces from the trees and safety a flashlight blazed in front of her, the white beam blinding, painful.
“Where the hell you think you’re going?”
Shit!
Joy recognized the voice. It was Mahoney, probably the worst of the orderlies, a thirty-something lech who liked to catch the girls undressing. Mahoney’s conversation ran toward reasons why the girls should “try a real man on for size.” What could it hurt, he often asked, since they were pregnant anyway?
“You blew it, babe.”
A second voice. It sounded like Gutierrez, but she wasn’t sure. What difference did it make? They had her. She was busted. Any chance she had of getting out was dead and gone.
“You know we’ll have to write this up for Matron,” said Mahoney. “No harm done, but rules is rules. Unless…”
“Forget it, asshole.”
“Suit yourself, bitch. Let’s go see what Matron has to say about your little moonlight stroll.”
Remo thought his eyes were playing tricks on him at first, the basement window opening, a pale arm punching out the burglar bars. He stood and watched as a young woman crawled through the window, scrambled to her feet and ran across the lawn, apparently intent on getting to the woods. And she was almost close enough to taste it when a light flashed in her face and two men stepped out of the shadows to intercept her.
Remo was moving; as the woman stood her ground, the two men separating, flanking her. They both wore khaki uniforms that could have worked as well for rent-a-cops. or janitors. The flashlight seemed to be their only weapon, but they shouldn’t need one to control a girl this age, this size. Remo assumed she must be pregnant, though her bulky clothes concealed the fact. He could be wrong, of course, but it wasn’t important. All that counted for the moment was that he had found an inmate who was apparently intent on getting out.
“You know we’ll have to write this up for Matron,” said the taller sentry. “No harm done, but rules is rules. Unless…”
“Forget it, asshole.” There was spunk there, and defiance.
“Suit yourself, bitch. Let’s go see what Matron has to say about your little moonlight stroll.”
The woman bolted, running straight toward Remo, even though she had no way of knowing he was there. The surprised guards were after her a heartbeat later, cursing bitterly.
“You little bitch. I’m gonna kick your ass!”
All three of them stopped short as Remo stepped out of the dark. Defeat was written on the woman’s face until the taller of the sentries spoke from behind her.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Her look changed, then. Not hopeful, but alert and watchful.
“The Sandman,” Remo told him. “Time for you to say good-night.”
“You think so, smart-ass?”
Remo drifted to his left, and the two goons shifted with him, losing focus on the woman. She was free to run now if she wanted to, but something kept her rooted where she stood.
“This here is private property,” the short Latino said. “You’re trespassing.”
“You’d better make a citizen’s arrest,” said Remo.
“Think we can’t?”
“I don’t think you can find your dick without a road map,” Remo told him, putting on a grin.
The woman laughed at that, a high-pitched sound, almost hysterical. The taller of the goons shot her a warning glance and shook a fist in her direction.
“Watch it, bitch!” he snapped. “This prick a friend of yours?”
“I’m new in town,” said Remo, forcing both of them to focus on himself. “You guys could use some manners, if you want to keep on working for the welcome committee.”