his inscrutable offerings, but this time Corley understood that it sought to measure, and test, and possibly even define what they were to each other.
“Yes,” Corley replied.
Geiger slowly nodded, his eyes softening a little. “Good-bye, Martin.”
20
Mitch’s surveillance gaze was on full power, toggling back and forth from the building’s entrance on Central Park West to the side door around the corner on Eighty-eighth Street. While he waited for Geiger to make his next move, Mitch listened to a show on talk radio that always got his juices flowing.
“And so here we go again,” the host said. “Have you seen these photos of the supposed ‘torture chamber’ in Cairo? It looks like a dirty basement to me, but the so-called enlightened liberals-otherwise known as morons-are at it again, whining about human rights and due process for terrorists. And on this day of days, July Fourth, let me ask you something: do you think they have loved ones fighting to protect their freedom in Iraq and Afghanistan? Well, forgive me if I answer my own question. No! They don’t! And that’s why they can’t understand what democracy really means-because to understand that you have to sacrifice something meaningful, maybe even lose something precious and dear-and I don’t mean having the waiter tell you they’re out of your favorite sushi!”
Mitch pounded the steering wheel. “Right on, dude! That’s the Independence Day spirit talking!”
Mitch’s attention turned to a garbage truck that was pulling up alongside a line of parked cars on Eighty- eighth Street. The truck’s street-side door opened and a man in a DSNY jumpsuit hopped down. He walked to the heap of black plastic bags at the curb, but he took his time about it. Even with the sun low on the horizon, it was still hot.
Mitch took a moment to watch the guy as he started grabbing bags and heaving them into the mouth of the truck.
“Poor sonofabitch. Gotta be a hundred inside that suit.”
In the building’s garage, Corley stood a couple of feet away as Harry turned the ignition of the old Chevy Suburban. The engine hacked a few times before catching and achieving a rumbling idle. Ezra, violin case on his lap, sat in the second row; Lily sat next to him, her head on the boy’s shoulder. Geiger sat utterly still in the last row, eyes shut, hands clasped in his lap.
Corley came closer and spoke to Harry through the open window. “It hesitates when you give it a lot of gas, so be careful about passing somebody on the highway.”
“Gotcha,” said Harry.
“And the radio and air-conditioning don’t work.”
“Not a problem.”
Corley poked his head inside. “Everybody all right?”
“I’m good,” said Ezra.
“Geiger?”
There was no answer.
“I think maybe he’s asleep,” said Ezra.
Corley sighed and straightened up. He had never felt so old, or so useless.
“Take care, Harry.”
“Thanks, Doc-for everything.”
“And bring him back safe.”
“That’s the plan.” Harry turned and smiled up at Corley.“You okay, Doc?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, okay then. Here we go.”
Harry shifted into drive, and as soon as the car began to move Corley turned and headed for the elevator. He didn’t look back.
The clouds that had been gathering for the past couple of hours were teases, refusing to let loose and rain. Every few seconds, a couple of drops hit the windshield, but Mitch didn’t bother with the wipers. As his eyes went from mark to mark, he registered the fact that the building’s garage door was opening, and he saw an old Suburban begin to pull out. But at first he didn’t flag it as a significant event.
Meanwhile, the talk-show host was on a roll. “You know when debating interrogation techniques became irrelevant, my friends, if not absurd?”
“On 9/11, dipstick,” Mitch answered.
“September eleventh, 2001, when Islamo-fascists slit the throats of eight American pilots and proceeded to murder over three thousand American civilians- that’s when!”
Mitch eyed the Suburban again, and this time he gave it his full attention. It was hard to get a good look at the driver through the car’s windshield, but something about the silhouette seemed familiar.
Harry pulled out across the sidewalk and stopped. A garbage truck was blocking his way. He eyed the remaining garbage bags and sighed. “We’re going to be here all night.”
He watched the garbageman for a minute. Aware that he had an audience now, the guy began mixing in some pretty slick dance moves as he worked. Harry laughed, then stuck his head out the window.
“Hey, man,” Harry called out. “I need a favor. Could you back it up maybe five feet so we can get by?”
Mitch’s eyes were locked on Harry now, and as the garbage truck began backing up, he punched in Hall’s number.
“Yeah?” Hall answered.
“We got movement. Old Chevy Suburban. Harry’s driving.”
“Harry?”
“And-bingo-Geiger, the kid, and Harry’s sister are all with him. Where are you?”
“Ninety-eighth Street. Follow them-and run the plates so we know whose car it is. Call back with your loke and I’ll catch up.”
“Okay.”
With the garbage truck clear of the driveway, the Suburban pulled out into the street and drove west.
“All this crap about waterboarding and wall slamming?” the talk-show host continued. “Tsk tsk, oh my-and let’s be sure Abdul gets due process, too. Habeas damn corpus, my ass!”
“You got that right, dude,” said Mitch, and turned off the radio. He pulled a laptop out from beneath his seat, placed it on the passenger seat, and gently hit the gas.
An hour north of the city, Hall was driving up the Saw Mill River Parkway past woods broken up by sheer gray walls of rock. The holiday traffic wasn’t bad going in this direction.
Mitch came back on the speakerphone. “Okay, I got the car’s owner. Martin Corley, MD. Lives in the building. Divorced. No kids.”
“Do a cross-ref-maybe he’s got a place north of the city. Check property, electric, and phone records. Where are you now?”
“Route Nine, coming up on the Bear Mountain State Parkway.”
“I’m near Ossining, so not far behind you.”
Looking across the parkway’s divider, Hall saw the American Dream creeping south, bumper to bumper. Cars with families on their way home from a day in the country-radios blaring, dogs with their heads out the window, bicycles on racks, sleepy children in backseats with sunburned cheeks and taffy melting in their pockets. What a country: fifty thousand miles of highway helping people find a little peace somewhere.
Hall put the cell on mute and turned on the radio. He wondered what peace would feel like to him after all this time, and thought he knew the answer. It would be a moment where he wasn’t thinking three moves ahead-
