Native Son - Richard Wright [118]
“Jerry!”
He looked out from behind the chimney. The hole was still empty. But the next time the voice came he knew that the man was coming out, for he could feel the tremor of the voice, as though it were next to him.
“Jerry!”
Then he saw the man’s face come through; it was stuck like a piece of white pasteboard above the top of the hole and when the man’s voice sounded again Bigger knew that he had seen his partner in the snow.
“Jerry! Say!”
Bigger lifted his gun and waited.
“Jerry…”
The man came out of the hole and stood over his partner, then scrambled in again, screaming:
“Say! Say!”
Yes; the man would spread the word. Ought he to run? Suppose he went down into the trapdoor of another roof? Naw! There would be people standing in the hallways and they would be afraid; they would scream at the sight of him and he would be caught. They would be glad to give him up and put an end to this terror. It would be better to run farther over the roofs. He rose; then, just as he was about to run, he saw a head bob up in the hole. Another man came through and stood over Jerry. He was tall and he stooped over Jerry’s form and seemed to be putting his hand upon his face. Then another came through. One of the men centered his flashlight on Jerry’s body and Bigger saw one bend and roll the body over. The spotlight lit Jerry’s face. One of the men ran to the sheer edge of the roof, overlooking the street; his hand went to his mouth and Bigger heard the sound of a whistle, sharp, thin. The roar in the street died; the siren stopped; but the circling columns of yellow continued to whirl. In the peace and quiet of the sudden calm, the man yelled,
“Surround the block!”
Bigger heard an answering shout.
“You got a line on ’im?”
“I think he’s round here!”
A wild yell went up. Yes; they felt that they were near him now. He heard the man’s shrill whistle sounding again. It got quiet, but not so quiet as before. There were shouts of wild joy floating up.
“Send up a stretcher and a detail of men!”
“O.K.!”
The man turned and went back to Jerry lying in the snow. Bigger heard snatches of talk.
“…how do you suppose it happened?”
“Looks like he was hit….”
“…maybe he’s about….”
“Quick! Take a look over the roof!”
He saw one of the men rise and flash a light. The circling beams lit the roof to a daylight brightness and he could see that one man held a gun. He would have to cross to other roofs before this man or others came upon him. They were suspicious and would comb every inch of space on top of these houses. On all fours, he scrambled to the next ledge and then turned and looked back; the man was still standing, throwing the spot of yellow about over the snow. Bigger grabbed the icy ledge, hoisted himself flat upon it, and slid over. He did not think now of how much strength was needed to climb and run; the fear of capture made him forget even the cold, forget even that he had no strength left. From somewhere in him, out of the depths of flesh and blood and bone, he called up energy to run and dodge with but one impulse: he had to elude these men. He was crawling to the other ledge, over the snow, on his hands and knees, when he heard the man yell,
“There he is!”
The three words made him stop; he had been listening for them all night and when they came he seemed to feel the sky crashing soundlessly about him. What was the use of running? Would it not be better to stop, stand up, and lift his hands high above his head in surrender? Hell, naw! He continued to crawl.
“Stop, you!”
A shot rang out, whining past his head. He rose and ran to the ledge, leaped over; ran to the next ledge, leaped over it. He darted among the chimneys so that no one could see him long enough to shoot. He looked ahead and saw something huge and round and white looming up in the dark: a bulk rising up sheer from the snow of the roof and swelling in the night, glittering in the glare of the searching knives of light. Soon he would not be able to go much farther, for he would reach that point where the roof ended and dropped to the street below. He wove among the chimneys, his feet slipping and sliding over snow, keeping in mind that white looming bulk which he had glimpsed ahead of him. Was it something that would help him? Could he get upon it, or behind it, and hold them off? He was listening and expecting more shots as he ran, but none came.