Page 85 of Nobody's Fool

“I saw his press conference on TV,” Ella says.

I still don’t reply.

“Tad was pretty convincing.”

“Psychopaths can be.”

“You think he’s still dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“To us?”

“Yes.”

That’s when I glance out the window, past our fire escape. And standing down on the street corner and leaning against a lamppost, staring straight up at me from two floors down with a smile on his face, is Scraggly Dude.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I don’t hesitate.

“Call you back,” I tell Ella and hang up. I throw open the window to the fire escape.

Molly stands. “Sami?”

“Stay here. I see him.”

“Wait,” Molly says.

I don’t. I am already scuttling onto the fire escape. Funny. I’ve never been out here before. For one thing, we’ve never had a fire. For another, the escape outside our window appears rusty, unstable, and uninviting. When my feet land on it, I find it is indeed all three of those things. The thing shakes to the point where I fear it might just peel away from the brick and send me plummeting. It doesn’t, of course.

“Sami?”

It’s Molly again. I get it. She wants me to stop. Scraggly Dude could be armed and dangerous. I am being impulsive, possibly reckless, and my history with acting this way is not good. I get all that, but I also can’t help it. I once read that we humans are irrational because we are not well described by the rational-agent model. We believe that we make our own decisions with free will, but we don’t. Never have.

So let’s blame that.

Scraggly Dude has already spotted me coming after him andturned to run. He has a head start. It will be difficult to catch him—and if I do, he has size over me. There is little point to what I am doing. I should have stayed where I was. I should have snapped a photo of him and texted it to Marty or called the cops to help. That would seem the rational thing to do.

But would the cops do anything anyway? Would they get here in time, or would he slip away again?

I release the fire escape ladder so it will reach the ground, but it gets stuck on the rusted track. I hop on it, figuring my weight will get it moving. It doesn’t budge. I don’t have time to play around. I half climb, half slide to the bottom, hang off the last rung, and drop to the ground. The drop is farther than I expected. I land hard, forcing me to roll rather than stand upright.

Scraggly Dude watches me for a few seconds, frozen perhaps in something like surprise, but he soon realizes what’s going on and turns to run. He is round and chubby, and when he runs, his arms move like those inflatable noodles in front of car dealerships. Again I should pull up, but when I think of those texts about what Molly’s wearing and about him scaring her—scaring my Molly—sorry, man, it would be irrational for menotto go after him with everything I have.

He made Molly feel unsafe. He made Molly call me for help.

You don’t let that pass.

This may not surprise anyone, but I’m not a great athlete. I’m not saying I was last picked for kickball or anything like that. I was decidedly middling. I do not have terrific hand-eye coordination, and my footwork could best be described as lacking, but I do have speed and stamina. For now, that’s all I need. I roll back to a stand and sprint after him.

Scraggly Dude has a block lead, but he is slow, lumbering, the noodle arms working like a drag rather than a propulsion. I swear I can feel grease coming off his long hair and spritzing my face as I getcloser. He tries to veer right, but takes the turn too fast and nearly loses his footing. He looks at me over his shoulder. His face is red, his chest heaving.

I’m closing in.

The blood in me is rising.

There are people on Rivington Street. A few turn and stare. Most don’t. I’m tempted to call out to stop him, that I’m police, but I’m not and I’m not sure how all that will play out.

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