The Illusionist by Dinitia Smith

Author:Dinitia Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

CHAPTER 18

MELANIE

As soon as the cops took Dean away, I pulled my jeans on under my nightie, then my sweatshirt, and my sneakers without socks, my leather coat—and I ran. I ran along Route 7, the icy rain falling like tiny glass splinters on my skin, washing away the snow, the cars passing by me spraying slush on my body. There were no sidewalks on Route 7, no one ever walked here. I could feel the cars slowing down beside me, keeping pace with me, the drivers leaning across their seats to peer out at me. They were not used to seeing a girl running like this on the highway in the middle of winter with her coat flying out, her nightie on over her jeans. But I ignored them, and I kept on running, oblivious.

Along Route 7. My chest began to hurt, the pain filled my lungs, my throat grew raw from the cold. I could feel the pain in my chest expand. But something carried me along, beyond hurt. O my sweetheart . . . ice water was seeping through the seams in my sneakers, the air slicing my lungs, but I didn’t care.

At the park I made a left, then a right down Washington, past the red brick buildings with their false fronts. A few solitary souls out in the morning cold passed me on the sidewalk, their heads down, their bodies sunk into their coats, they didn’t even see me. They wanted to get where they were going as fast as they could.

O my sweetheart . . . Down Washington, past the antique stores, left onto Court.

Before me, Courthouse Square, and the courthouse itself, the huge, gray building with columns, the park with the gazebo, the big houses lining the square, their windows dark. Across from the courthouse, the red brick police station with the American flag hanging down over the entrance.

I stormed in through the double doors of the police station. The air was thick, stale. Behind the desk a cop stood, a black man with shiny, blue-black skin like silk. Next to him, a police radio squawked.

“I’m looking for Dean Lily.” I was panting for breath. “Have you seen him? Is he here?”

A second’s hesitation. No expression on the cop’s face. “Has he been arrested?”

“An hour ago! At my house.”

“Well, if he’s been arrested, miss, you can’t see him till he’s been arraigned.” Slow as he could be, with finality.

“But is he here? Where is he?”

“Can’t help you, miss. Have to wait till the arraignment.”

Like a teacher. He was playing by the rules, he had all the power, he wouldn’t tell me, just because I was young.

I turned away, paced the room. There were rows of plastic chairs linked by metal bars, all vacant, and wanted posters on the walls, hollow-cheeked youths with stringy hair, beefy men with stubble on their cheeks and circles under their eyes. They looked like they hadn’t slept for days.

Then, I sprang loose again. I ran back out into the square, across the park, and behind the courthouse, to the jail.

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