The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description by Dale Wiley Page A
Authors: Dale Wiley
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me.
Chapter
----
Eight
I screamed, “Dah!” as the car
accelerated, moving across the center line and toward me and the parked cars on
the other side. I knew I had about five or six strides before the car would
catch up, and I tried to make the most of all of them, doing a goose-step
sprint toward the sidewalk. I jumped, looking as if I expected my body to do a
flip, which is a pretty damn funny expectation. My head was aimed directly at
the bumper of a Mazda, and I managed to roll enough that my left shoulder took
the blow instead, causing me to shriek as I landed.
By this time, the car had stopped, and some blond maniac in
a navy jogging suit had gotten out and was chasing me. I got up, my shoulder
throbbing, looked at my pursuer for a split second, and hightailed it toward
the Metro. I jumped the turnstiles, causing a guard to get up to yell at me,
and ran around to the escalators, throwing myself down the escalator median,
which was kind of like a big, bumpy, painful slide. The whole thing hurt my
balls a lot.
I landed on the same shoulder at the bottom, saw a train
marked New Carrolton just about to close its doors, and did another jump-roll
between them, once again—you guessed it—landing on the same shoulder.
It felt as if it were attached to my body by two painful
threads, and it pulsed like the rhythm track at a nightclub. I was sitting on
the floor, wincing, and making very awful, howl and screech-type noises, all of
which would have drawn considerable attention in many other venues. However,
this was the Washington, DC subway. Several people stared but not for long.
They averted their eyes as I rose and looked around, all dreadfully afraid that
I might do something to them.
Did I mention that my shoulder hurt like hell? If I didn’t,
then I should, and even if I did, I should probably emphasize it. Because it
was practically all I could think of. I could just feel the blood rushing into
it, but I didn’t want to examine it for fear that I might not like what I would
see. So I tried my best to focus enough to find a place to sit, breathing
laboriously and grimacing all the while.
I sat alone and told myself not to worry about what had just
happened. I would analyze it in time, but right then I needed to figure out
what to do next. Obviously, I wasn’t going to the police station—not now, at
least. Foggy Bottom, the station nearest the Watergate, was only a few stations
away, and I didn’t have a Metro ticket. The machine stamps your ticket on your
way in to know where you started and again when you stop to see how much money
it needs to remove. My ticket this morning only had enough money for one ride
and had been taken when I got off the Metro. Due to my rather unexpected trip,
I hadn’t had time to stop and get another, so I was SOL. I had never been a
fast—or even a moderately fast—runner, and now that all my adrenaline was gone,
I knew if I tried to jump the turnstiles again I’d probably get tangled up,
and, if that didn’t happen, I’d get about five feet and be apprehended.
Considering all of these things, I did the only thing I could.
There was a half-bald old lady, wearing a crocheted vest
over a wrinkled lavender shirt, sitting in the seat in front of me. She must
have been both deaf and blind because I was sure she was the only person in the
car who hadn’t looked over at me when I made my abrupt arrival. She was
evidently mesmerized by the whole process and was staring at the window, even
though there was nothing to see. Her ticket lay right next to her bag. When the
conductor called Foggy Bottom and several people started to move, I got up and
bumped into one of them, which hurt me and my poor shoulder greatly. I
positioned myself so I landed in her seat. It worked, and I quickly turned to
apologize to her, palmed her ticket, and walked quickly out of the car, hoping
no one else had noticed.
Now that I had stealing from the elderly on my conscience,
along with everything
Chapter
----
Eight
I screamed, “Dah!” as the car
accelerated, moving across the center line and toward me and the parked cars on
the other side. I knew I had about five or six strides before the car would
catch up, and I tried to make the most of all of them, doing a goose-step
sprint toward the sidewalk. I jumped, looking as if I expected my body to do a
flip, which is a pretty damn funny expectation. My head was aimed directly at
the bumper of a Mazda, and I managed to roll enough that my left shoulder took
the blow instead, causing me to shriek as I landed.
By this time, the car had stopped, and some blond maniac in
a navy jogging suit had gotten out and was chasing me. I got up, my shoulder
throbbing, looked at my pursuer for a split second, and hightailed it toward
the Metro. I jumped the turnstiles, causing a guard to get up to yell at me,
and ran around to the escalators, throwing myself down the escalator median,
which was kind of like a big, bumpy, painful slide. The whole thing hurt my
balls a lot.
I landed on the same shoulder at the bottom, saw a train
marked New Carrolton just about to close its doors, and did another jump-roll
between them, once again—you guessed it—landing on the same shoulder.
It felt as if it were attached to my body by two painful
threads, and it pulsed like the rhythm track at a nightclub. I was sitting on
the floor, wincing, and making very awful, howl and screech-type noises, all of
which would have drawn considerable attention in many other venues. However,
this was the Washington, DC subway. Several people stared but not for long.
They averted their eyes as I rose and looked around, all dreadfully afraid that
I might do something to them.
Did I mention that my shoulder hurt like hell? If I didn’t,
then I should, and even if I did, I should probably emphasize it. Because it
was practically all I could think of. I could just feel the blood rushing into
it, but I didn’t want to examine it for fear that I might not like what I would
see. So I tried my best to focus enough to find a place to sit, breathing
laboriously and grimacing all the while.
I sat alone and told myself not to worry about what had just
happened. I would analyze it in time, but right then I needed to figure out
what to do next. Obviously, I wasn’t going to the police station—not now, at
least. Foggy Bottom, the station nearest the Watergate, was only a few stations
away, and I didn’t have a Metro ticket. The machine stamps your ticket on your
way in to know where you started and again when you stop to see how much money
it needs to remove. My ticket this morning only had enough money for one ride
and had been taken when I got off the Metro. Due to my rather unexpected trip,
I hadn’t had time to stop and get another, so I was SOL. I had never been a
fast—or even a moderately fast—runner, and now that all my adrenaline was gone,
I knew if I tried to jump the turnstiles again I’d probably get tangled up,
and, if that didn’t happen, I’d get about five feet and be apprehended.
Considering all of these things, I did the only thing I could.
There was a half-bald old lady, wearing a crocheted vest
over a wrinkled lavender shirt, sitting in the seat in front of me. She must
have been both deaf and blind because I was sure she was the only person in the
car who hadn’t looked over at me when I made my abrupt arrival. She was
evidently mesmerized by the whole process and was staring at the window, even
though there was nothing to see. Her ticket lay right next to her bag. When the
conductor called Foggy Bottom and several people started to move, I got up and
bumped into one of them, which hurt me and my poor shoulder greatly. I
positioned myself so I landed in her seat. It worked, and I quickly turned to
apologize to her, palmed her ticket, and walked quickly out of the car, hoping
no one else had noticed.
Now that I had stealing from the elderly on my conscience,
along with everything
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