Americanmade, bolted to the concrete above another floor drain. It wasn’t running and Stanley suspected that it kicked on automatically when there was an interruption in electrical service. He shined his light farther down the wall. There was a huge oil tank in the corner, probably diesel oil, he thought, to run the generator. “Christ, these guys don’t take any chances.”
He stood and played the light around, then moved across the room. Rising from the floor was an electric water-well pump, connected by a two-inch pipe to the water main overhead. The pump wasn’t running either, and Stanley guessed that it turned on if the generator did, or if the village water was shut off. Stanley scratched his head thoughtfully. “Food . . . fuel . . . electricity . . . water. . . . Real shitheads. . . . Ready for anything.” He began walking again.
He passed through an opening in a wooden wall and came to a room full of lawn furniture and gardening tools. He scanned the walls with his flashlight and finally spotted a set of stone steps leading up to an overhead door. “Okay, Stanley, time to go home.”
He unlatched the doors and pushed on the left-hand one. It opened with a squeak and he stepped up into the cool night air behind a stand of hemlock.
He found his last candy bar, an almond Cadbury, very expensive but his favorite. He chewed thoughtfully on the chocolate as he surveyed the hundred yards of brightly lit lawn. Beyond the lawn was a thick tree-line. He finished the chocolate, licked and wiped his mouth and fingers, and got into a four-point sprinter’s crouch. He waited, looked, listened, took a deep breath, and mumbled, “Okay, feet, do your thing.” He shot out of his stance, tearing at top speed across the open lawn toward the trees. He was less than five yards from the edge of the woods when he heard a dog bark, followed by a growl.
“Halt! Stop!”
“Sure—yeah—right.” He crashed through the undergrowth, into the woods. He came to a nearly vertical rise in the ground and took it in three long strides.
As he continued to run, the low-hanging branches of the maples whipped at his face and arms, and he felt a gash open above his right eye. A pine bough raked him across the mouth and he stifled a cry of pain. “Oh, screw this! Jesus Christ, never again . . . never. . . .”
One of Van Dorn’s Roman candles shot into the air and Stanley could see where it was fired from, so he changed course slightly and guided toward it.
There were easier ways out of the Russian estate, but Van Dorn’s place was his closest, and therefore best, chance. His only chance, really.
As he maneuvered through the woods, the maple and oak gave way to laurel and rhododendrons, and he knew he was approaching the borders of Russian territory. He ran into a coil of barbed wire and sliced his hand. “Jesus H. Christ!” He took his wire cutters and snipped out an opening, then passed carefully through. In the distance he thought he saw lights from the Van Dorn estate.
He could hear the Russians calling out behind him. And the dogs barking. A low stone wall suddenly rose up and he jumped it on the run, then slowed to catch his breath. He had technically crossed into neutral territory, an unused right-of-way that separated the two estates. No-man’s-land. He took a few steps toward Van Dorn’s place, but he found he was very shaky. A cold sweat covered his body and he was nauseous. He heaved and brought up some chocolate and acid. “Aaahh!” He took a few long breaths and began moving, half running, half walking.
Behind him he heard a sound like a shot and he ducked. Then the sky was lit with a parachute flare. The Russians had tripped one of their own flares, by accident or on purpose, but he was out of the circle of light and kept moving. He wondered if the flare would attract any friendly attention. But he didn’t want any attention, he just wanted to make it on his own and keep his rendezvous at Sal’s Pizza.
He