Free Seldom Seen in August by Kealan Patrick Burke

CHAPTER ONE
     
    Sirens wailed three blocks
away.
    Garden railings and high wooden fences
whipped past Wade as he ran, his feet pumping the earth hard enough
to send bone-jarring jolts through his legs. Frantic, he cast
desperate glances at the houses whose backyards let out on either
side of him. Each one seemed to be a carbon copy of the other,
their windows visible over the fences like the eyes of mischievous
children. They all appeared new too, which made sense to Wade.
After all, he’d lived in this city his whole life, knew its
highways and byways as if the veins on the back of his hand were a
topographical map, and couldn’t remember ever seeing a street
called Seldom Seen Drive before. He figured it had materialized
while he was in jail. Good thing he didn’t give a shit about
preserving Harperville’s historical assets or he might have taken
offense at the audacity of the city’s planners, because if memory
served, an old cathedral had once occupied the space where now
stood about sixty cookie cutter homes. Whoever had purchased the
lot had apparently done so without fear of divine retribution, and
though Wade appreciated that kind of balls-to-the-wall confidence,
he had no time to ponder it.
    As he ran, the gaps between the fences
made the neatly manicured lawns flicker like projections from a
vintage show reel. Here and there he saw brightly colored toys
scattered in the grass, or doghouses missing their dogs, the chains
snaking into the grass and ending in nothing, as if the animals had
burrowed down into the earth and died there.
    Breath like fire in his lungs, he
picked up the pace, sweat running freely down his back, dripping
from beneath his arms, slithering into his eyes in an effort to
blind him. The midday sun was a helicopter spotlight roasting the
skin on the nape of his neck. In a body that felt like it was
cresting a thousand degrees, the only cool spot was at the base of
his spine, where his revolver was tucked snugly into the waistband
of his jeans.
    All the gates appeared to be locked,
and all the locks looked the same. Wade wondered idly if the
community had a pre-approved list of merchants they dealt with for
such things, and thought he wouldn’t survive a minute in such an
anal-retentive neighborhood.
    The alley between the rows of houses
seemed endless, but the sirens kept him moving. Sooner or later it
would open out onto a larger street—Kendrick Avenue, if he
remembered correctly—and then he’d be even more exposed. And that
was not good, not when the cops were so goddamn close. He had to
find a place to hide, if only for a little while, just long enough
for the cops to expand the radius of their search somewhere other
than right up his ass.
    He was thinking clearly and that was
good, because the adrenaline was doing its best to disorientate
him, making him feel as if he was a cartoon character, fleeing for
miles past a looping, unchanging background.
    Sirens wailed two blocks
away.
    Dammit . Rather than quicken his
pace, he slowed to a jog. This was getting him nowhere, because
although he had kept himself in shape over the years and could
easily run for another ten miles if he had to, the reality of the
situation was this: He was on foot, the cops were in cruisers. How
long did he think it would take them to catch up? The only reason
they hadn’t already done so was because he suspected they weren’t
entirely sure where he’d gone, so for a brief time, the advantage
had been his. But it wouldn’t take much looking to spot him, thus,
whatever he was going to do would have to be done fast.
    You’ve got a gun, chief , he told
himself. Use it. You’re surrounded by houses. Houses with people in them. People who have cars and can be persuaded to transfer ownership.
    The jog became a trot that became
nothing. He stood still, the sirens sundering the hazy air around
him. He had maybe five minutes before those cruisers came tearing
through the alley. He looked at the nearest gate to