dozen or so people stood or sat in the park known as the Corey Hill Outlook. With the trees bare of foliage, there was a striking view of some of downtown’s taller buildings, lit up against the dark spring sky. Three people sat on a curved stone bench, watching the first evening stars come out. A young boy stood on a large stone sundial laid into the grass, while his father explained how it would work if the sun was out.
I started with the people on the bench, showing them David’s picture, asking if they remembered seeing him in the area two weeks ago, or at any time. They held the photo closer to the lights that shined down from tall iron stands, but eventually shook their heads and said sorry. I went over to the sundial; standing next to it, I could see a small stone laid in the grass above the twelve like a grave marker, telling how to find the time in different seasons. The twelve had once been gold. Now the one was completely stripped down to grey and the two had only splotches of gilt left. The father told me he didn’t recognize David, either. “Who was that?” the boy asked as I walked away. “It doesn’t matter,” the father said.
A young couple holding hands, leaning into each other at the edge of the grass, thought David looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t place him at any specific time or place.
I tried a cyclist stretching his calves out against a tree, his bike lying on its side beside him. He took one look at the photo and scowled. “The rabbit,” he said.
“You recognize him?”
“Damn right I do.”
He was in his early twenties, tall and lean, dressed in Lycra pants and a long-sleeved shirt that was stained with sweat. Despite the low light of dusk I could see deep shadowed bruises under both eyes and a healing cut on the bridge of his nose.
“Why’d you call him a rabbit?” I asked.
“Because he ran like one.”
My heart started to race a little, the way it does when I know I’ve found something. “From what?”
He pointed to the bruises on his face. Pulled up his sleeves to show angry scrapes on both elbows. “I ride this hill every day, unless it snows,” he said. “Up one side and down the other, then back again. I’m trying out for Boston College track next fall.”
“When did you see him?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Could it have been a Thursday?”
“Probably was. That Wednesday it snowed, I think, and Friday a bunch of us went to New Hampshire for the weekend.”
“So what happened?”
“I’m coming up the hill, right? The steepest part back there. Killing my lungs, man. I can barely breathe. Then the road starts to straighten out and I reach back for a little extra, get the legs pumping. I hit the plateau and I pick up a little speed. I love to fly down the other side. You feel the wind in your face, drying the sweat-it’s nirvana, man. So here I come, picking up speed, and just as I’m getting ready to roll this asshole throws the door of his van open without looking.”
“Him?” I asked, pointing to David’s picture.
“No, another asshole. I slam into the door, I go ass over handlebars and do a face plant in the street.”
“Where was this man?”
“On the sidewalk. Him and another guy who came out the passenger side. The sliding door.”
“Wait. My guy here, David, he was walking along and these guys both opened their doors? Driver’s side and rear passenger.”
“Right.”
“Like they were waiting for him?”
“Could be. It didn’t strike me at the time. I was lying in the road, trying to figure out how bad I was hurt. There was blood gushing out of my nose and mouth and my arms were scraped to the bone.”
“Then what?”
“The passenger, he kind of grabs your guy, whatever, they start arguing about something.”
“Arguing?”
“Well, voices raised. Some physical contact. The driver, he’s totally ignoring me, he’s going to help his buddy. I start yelling at the top of my lungs, calling him an asshole, hoping the people in the park will hear me. Your guy twists away somehow, gets free and takes off like a scared rabbit. My only witness. I fucking needed him if I wanted to press charges against the driver but he just split on me.”
“Where?”
“Down the path.”
“What path?”
“Summit Path.” He pointed to a sign that was partly hidden behind the branches of a tree.
“Where does that go?”
“All the way down to Beacon Street. Only he wasn’t walking, he was flying.”
“What about the guys in the van, what did they do?”
“Got back in and took off.”
“Did you get a licence plate on the van?”
“I wish. I mean, I tried but it was covered with mud.”
“What kind of van was it, do you remember?”
“Old. Kind of grey. American, not Japanese, like a Safari or something.”
“Did you call the police?”
“What for? They were gone, my witness was gone. And no one gives a shit about cyclists in this town. Especially the BPD.”
“Isn’t this Brookline?”
“Huh? Oh, I guess. I don’t live here, I just ride the hill.”
“Get a good look at either guy?”
“Not the passenger, except to say he was white. The driver too. Tall, a little older than me, maybe thirty. Blond hair. Black leather jacket. That’s really all I took in at the time. I wanted to follow the van but what was I going to do if I caught it? Against two guys? I was fucked up enough already. I just got myself to the hospital, got my nose set. Got my arms cleaned up. Luckily my bike was okay. I don’t have the coin to get that fixed.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Freddy Macklin. Yours?”
“Jonah Geller. Listen, thanks, Freddy.”
“For what?”
“I think you might have saved David’s life.”
Summit Path might have been a path at one time but it was a staircase now, wide stone steps heading down with black wrought-iron railings on either side. I walked down the first flight to a gravel laneway and looked right and left. There didn’t seem to be anywhere there to run to or hide. Beyond them was the open space of the park opposite the lookout, not where a man on the run would want to be.
I kept going down another flight, which ran alongside an apartment building. Could he have run down into the parking lot, maybe to a doorway, hoping someone would buzz him in? I tried to put myself in his shoes. He’d been on his way home from work. Minding his own business. Two guys get out of a van, one of whom tries to grab him. Despite the fact that a cyclist is lying hurt in the street, he takes off. Why? Because he knows these guys are after him. He knows what they want. To abduct him or kill him. He gets free but he can’t be sure he’s not being followed. His heart is pounding, his feet flying. He’s not an athlete. He’s not used to this. No, I thought. He wouldn’t stop here. He could wind up trapped, pounding on doors, pushing buzzers, getting only silence in reply. I was sure he’d have kept going. I would have.
The third flight was narrower and ended at a street where cars rushed past going west. I swivelled around, taking in a 180-degree view, trying to see it as David would have. Beyond the street was one more shallow flight to Beacon Street. More options for him there. Maybe a cab, a cop car, pedestrians who might help out. And halfway across the boulevard a trolley stop where a green-and-white car sat as passengers got on at both the front and rear exits. Think, Jonah. What would you do? If there’s a cab, I flag it, whether I have the fare or not. I could always get the cabbie to drive past a bank machine. If there’s a cop car-big if-I throw myself at it, unless there are things I
