The Fugitive Part 1

I walked into my apartment sweating. That happens when you run from the scene of your fiancé's murder. The apartment was a mess and no not the usual mess the kind of mess that says someone has been here. But the folder was spread across my desk and the file was gone along with the device. Someone knew what there were looking for.

My name is Jonathan Bomer and in about two minutes I'm going to be arrested. Or am I? I opened my apartment door and saw to pretty official guys at the front desk where Mrs. O'Riley was.

"Excuse me maim?" quarried the older of the two men. "We're looking for a Mr. Jonathan Bomer."

"He lives here!" yelled Mrs. O'Riley. She was an old woman who's sweet but her lack of hearing could get to you mostly because she didn't have a hearing aid. Hell I don't think she even knew what a hearing aid was and even if she did I don't think she would want one.

"Maim, can get us into his apartment?" said the other man probably the older ones partner.

"Who's?!"

"Jonathan Bomer's!"

"He lives here!"

"We know that maim, can you get us into his apartment?"

"Who's?!"

"Jonathan Bomer's!!"

Did I forget to mention that Mrs. O'Riley had a tendency to experience short term memory loss? Good thing for me. I ran to the dresser and opened the small underwear drawer and threw all the underwear out of it. I removed the wooden bottom to reveal the hidden compartment where I kept my "emergency" gun. Lately I had been using my "emergency" items more often but you know everyone needs a little emergen-C in there diet…or is that vitamin-C. I put my gun in the back of my pants as I checked on how my two "friends" were doing with Mrs. O'Riley. Apparently they finally got the idea that Mrs. O'Riley wasn't going to help them and they were coming up the stairs to my third story apartment.

I had to act fast so I ran to the window and looked through the shades and looked below. There was a canopy maybe a few feet to the right of the window. Then there was a knock on the door.

"Mr. Bomer, open up!" yelled the older man banging on the door.

"What the fuck are you doing out here!" yelled Mrs. Smith. She was about as old as Mrs. O'Riley only she wasn't deaf. But if you knew her you'd wish she was. Any little noise or funny smell and she would let your know about it. If you put your television volume higher than about 5 she would come knocking on your door complaining or say cooked some exotic food she would be hollering. One time a fella moved into the adjacent apartment. The man was a newly rising chef in a little restaurant on Sana Monica Boulevard. I believe it was Italian or maybe French. Anyway one night he was cooking in a skillet and she blew up. She even called the cops. He moved a month later. Point made, she is never someone you want on your bad side.

"FBI, maim." said the partner.

"FBI? Good that man has been playing his television way too high. It goes full blast all day." Now this I know was bull shit because I rarely watch television and even when I do it's usually a pretty quite show.

"We'll tell him that, maim."

"Mr. Bomer!" yelled the older man still knocking on the door. "Ready, Stevenson!"

"Yes, sir!" said the other.

"One, two, THREE!" the two of them bust open my door.

And to their surprise there was no one in the apartment. Go figure?

"No one sir."

"I can see that Stevenson!" the older man noticed the folder on the desk and then he saw the compartment. "What the?"

I swear if it had not been windy that day I would have been in the clear. But it just wasn't my day. The wind blew the shades in and they knocked on the window frame. The older man looked out the window and there I was running down the street.

"Shit!" said the older man running out the door, "Call for back up, Stevenson, I'm going to pursue."

By then it was apparent to me that I had been spotted being that I heard the older man hollering behind me. I went down an alleyway and jumped a fence, hoping to elude him, but for a man of his age he was pretty fit. But he was still lagging behind. Soon I was 2, maybe 3 blocks ahead of him. I spotted a nice camero and hotwired it. How do I know how to do that? Well let's just say I grew up knowing a lot of stuff. Off I zoomed down the street as the man arrives gasping for breath.

"Stevenson, where's that back up?" the man said through his walkie-talkie still gasping for breath.

"On the way, Ted," Stevenson replied.

"Don't bother he's already out of range."

"What do we do now?"

The old man looked at the ground where I had dropped a photo of me and my brother at our ranch.

"We're going to Arizona…"