He could see, in his peripheral vision, movement on the other side of the fence, heard a door open and then close. One of the guys was out of the vehicle, and maybe he had a gun — a safe guess.
But somehow Tanner had to move.
Again he tried to shove the door open, but it was wedged tightly.
He hit the button to roll down the window, and as soon as it was all the way down, he maneuvered his legs out of the well of the driver’s seat, flipped himself around, and thrust his legs out the open window. He scrabbled his legs over and out and down, then wriggled his body along the windowsill until he was able to grab onto the steering wheel and shove himself all the way out. He dropped, almost tumbled, out of the car. He stumbled against the pavement, jumped to his feet, and reached back into the car, the passenger side, and grabbed his gym bag.
He glanced at the fence behind him and saw that the driver of the Suburban had abandoned the vehicle on the shoulder of the road and had taken off, by foot, no doubt in search of another open gate. And he saw that the metal skin of the Fiat had buckled and warped at the sides.
He turned. Directly ahead of him was Harvard Stadium, the big old concrete coliseum, built a hundred years ago. He raced toward it, toward the nearest gate, a tall arched portal. More wrought-iron fencing here, the gate closed. He pushed at it, and it came open. He ran into the darkness.
He had a rough idea of what was located where in the stadium, because some years ago, in a short-lived fit of self-improvement, he used to “run stadiums,” which meant running up and down the concrete steps until he couldn’t take it anymore, when his legs had turned into spaghetti. A brutal workout. The Steps of Death, people called it.
He paused for a moment. Up the stairs to the stadium, then down to the football field, and out?
He wondered how much time he had before the Suburban driver came after him. Because he had a feeling the driver was more than a driver. The Suburban was stuck outside the wrought-iron fence. Even if the driver jumped out of the vehicle to pursue Tanner on foot, he might not find another open pedestrian gate. Not close by. Though maybe, down the block, another gate would be open.
Either way, he had about a minute on his pursuer. Maybe two. He kept in decent shape, worked out almost every day, though he hadn’t in the chaotic last several days. And he was a natural athlete.
But he was an amateur, and his adversary was probably a pro. Even if Tanner could outrun his pursuers, which seemed probable, backup was likely to show soon.
He had an idea.
He turned to the right. He could hear loud buzzing from high-voltage power lines and could just make out a sign: STADIUM HIGH-VOLTAGE ROOM. He had a vague memory of once turning the wrong way, looking for a restroom here, and coming upon a dark area under the concrete steps where the floor was earthen.
He passed through a narrow space between the high-voltage room and an array of wall-mounted fuse boxes, and then the pavement gave way to gravel and dirt. He could feel the ground yield underfoot. His shoes crunched on the gravel. There was enough clearance between the ground and the underside of the concrete steps for him to stand up.
Moonlight filtered in through the gaps in the stadium overhead, so that he could make his way over to a large sheet of plywood leaning against a concrete support beam. It was wide enough to stand behind. To hide. He set down the gym bag quietly.
His pursuer would run into the stadium, because he’d seen Tanner enter. But then he’d face the same choices as his quarry. He would surely assume that Tanner would race through the stadium and immediately out. Because no one would be stupid enough to stay here.
Which is exactly what he would do: stay here, concealed behind the four-by-eight sheet of plywood, in the shadows in a hidden area beneath the stadium steps.
And wait.
46
He waited and listened.
The buzz of the high-voltage room. The whoosh of a car passing by. He listened for footsteps, running.
But he heard nothing else.
Then a distant voice, a shout coming from far off.
The driver and the backup?
He stood still, controlled his breathing, kept it as quiet as possible. And listened.
After two or three minutes, he heard rapid footsteps: someone running nearby. Whether passing by or approaching, he couldn’t tell. He could smell freshly cut lumber from the plywood.
The sound of footsteps ceased. He breathed in and out slowly, steadily, quietly. Still no more footsteps. He knew that if someone thought to check underneath the steps where he was, he would hear them enter, hear the crunch of gravel.
What he would do then, though — he had no idea. Probably surrender. Or maybe try to run. He didn’t know, actually, what he’d do. He’d decide if and when it came to that.
For now he just listened.
A minute went by without the sound of footsteps. He heard that distant shout again.
The snarl of the high-voltage room. That was all.
Somehow he managed to stand there for close to an hour. He thought. He kept his guard up. He didn’t cough. His thoughts raced, about Tanner Roast and all that was going on with that, and about the damned laptop and how it had turned his life into some sort of hell.
Finally, he picked up the gym bag. He peered around the plywood panel and saw no shapes, no shadows moving. He sidled out from behind it, walked slowly across the gravel, trying to keep the crunch underfoot to a minimum.
And still he heard no footsteps.
He walked up the gravel slope, returning to the pavement of the public area of the stadium. When he reached the high-voltage room, he stood still, the buzzing loud in his ears. He realized that the sound, this close, made it impossible to hear most other sounds. So he was at a disadvantage.
He peered around the high-voltage room and saw nobody. Slowly, quietly, he walked through the shadows of the stadium, parallel to the street. When he came to the next arched gateway, he was able to see out to the street. The Suburban was gone.
What did that mean?
Would it be waiting for him at the next street exit out of the athletic complex?
Or was it gone — and the driver had given up?
Tanner was hyperaware of how visible he now was, walking past the stadium, past the parking lot turnstile. He passed a couple of empty side lots.
No Suburban passing by.
He kept walking. A car shooshed by and kept going.
He came to a low chain-link fence, maybe three or four feet high, protecting a running track that surrounded a soccer field. Try to vault it? He scrambled over the fence, lifted himself, swung his feet. Crossed the track and field. Scrambled over the next fence, and walked, didn’t run, to the outside fence, also chain-link, around the whole complex. On the other side was Western Avenue, a few cars passing by in either direction.
Slinging the gym bag over his shoulder onto his back, he climbed the chain-link fence, maybe seven feet high here, went up and over, and landed softly on the sidewalk.
After walking for about twenty minutes, Tanner was able to hail a cab, which took him the rest of the way there. Pale sunlight glimmered on the horizon by the time he reached Brimmer Street in Chestnut Hill and the Georgian mansion where he was going to sleep for a night or two. He began to follow the same procedure as before, punching in the code to release the padlock on the front door, when he realized that the padlock was already unlocked, its hasp open.
Strange, he thought. Maybe a real estate agent forgot to lock it.
Was that possible?
Possible.
The other possibility was that someone was inside, waiting for him.