background.
“Mya, are you there? What’s going on?” Then she was back, her voice distracted.
“Oh, sorry, Hen. I’m just in the middle of breakfast.” Her voice seemed remarkably calm. It unnerved me.
“Anyway, I need to come over. I need somewhere to stay for a bit until I figure things out. What the papers say, that’s not what happened last night. Your father could…”
“I can’t do that, Henry, I told you.”
“Dammit, Mya,” I said, starting to lose it. I didn’t care if anyone was watching. “This is my life! You can’t just shut me out.”
“I don’t want to, Henry. I don’t have a choice.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
Joe Mauser pinched his thumb and forefinger together and pulled them apart. He mouthed the words, “Keep stringing him along.”
Mya nodded, her face grim. Denton was on his cell phone as he waited for the line to be traced. He held up three fingers. After a moment, two fingers.
“Twenty seconds,” Denton mouthed.
Mya nodded. Mauser had to give the girl credit. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and she was biting her lip so hard he could see white where the blood was being forced out, but she was remarkably composed. Sitting next to her on the bed, hearing Parker’s faint voice through the earpiece, it took all of Mauser’s patience not to grab the phone and tear it to pieces.
Denton dropped one finger, then held up ten. Slowly counting down.
“Nine…eight…seven…six…” Denton mouthed. Mya watched him. She shut her eyes, squeezing out several drops that spattered onto the comforter.
Joe’s heart fluttered. Just a few seconds and they’d have him.
“Four…three…two…”
Suddenly Mya yelled, “Henry, run!”
She bolted off the bed, the cell phone still in her hand. Denton lunged for her, catching the cuff of her jeans. She wriggled free and ran to the other end of the apartment. A door slammed shut and a latch clicked. She’d locked herself in the bathroom.
Mya screamed again, then Joe heard a beep as she severed the connection.
“God damn it!” Joe shouted. “Len, tell me we got something.”
Denton ran for the door, signaling Mauser to follow.
“Parker’s at a pay phone two goddamn blocks east from here. NYPD’s on the way.” Mauser thought he saw a disappointed look on Denton’s face as he threw the door open and raced into the stairwell.
Denton said, “Joe, we gotta find this kid before anyone else does.”
Mauser looked over his shoulder and smiled as he felt the reassuring weight of his Glock against his ribs. “Tell the NYPD to throw a fucking vise on this entire city. If anyone lays a goddamn finger on Parker before I fucking find him, I’ll be bringing two bodies to the morgue today.”
12
I shouted into the phone, “Mya? Mya? What happened?” Run, she’d said.
Not a simple Please go, Henry. She was pleading with me, warning me.
I stepped away from the phone booth like it had contracted the plague. My cheeks felt hot. I looked left and right, saw nothing out of the ordinary, only the familiar sounds of traffic horns and pedestrian conversation.
Run.
It didn’t make sense. What had made Mya so afraid? A rumbling in my gut said I needed to get out of there. I’d come uptown with the hope of seeing Mya, but I also had a backup plan in case she couldn’t help. Now I’d have to scrap them both. I wasn’t safe. Unease swept over me like a frigid wave.
Then I heard a sound that froze my blood. Footsteps. Not just the pitter-patter of feet stepping in tune to their bodies’ rhythm, but the hard pounding of sprinting strides. I listened closer. There was more than one set of feet.
I spun around, and to my horror saw two men running toward me, less than a block away, their eyes deadlocked on mine. One of them held a gun. Light glinted off another object that I instinctively knew was a badge.
Run.
“Henry Parker!” the taller, thinner one yelled. “Don’t you move a fucking muscle!”
My feet moved before I could think, and suddenly I was sprinting east down 116th Street, cutting between two lanes of traffic. The honking of horns filled my ears, drivers cursing at me in foreign languages. A car’s bumper sideswiped my leg, knocking me off balance. I pulled myself together, saw a turbaned man in a taxi giving me the finger.
I darted to the other side of the street, rounded a corner, then wound my way through stunned pedestrians. Heads turned in unison as I sprinted past. My lungs felt ready to explode, the wind ripping at my face. I had no concept of how close the cops were, the pounding in my ears as loud as thunder.
Suddenly an arm shot out and grabbed me, tearing a large hole in the fabric below my armpit. I managed to spin away as a muscular man in a sweatshirt yelled, “That’s Henry Parker! Stop, you fucking cop killer!”
My only salvation was the subway. No chance I could make it anywhere on foot. I had to get out of New York. People had begun to recognize me. Even if I could outrun the two cops, I couldn’t outrun an entire city.
I dodged a line of garbage cans on the corner of 115th and Madison. Bracing myself, I shoved the cans one by one, sending them rolling down the street, littering the sidewalk with foul-smelling debris, creating a makeshift rolling barricade.
“Parker! Stop where you are!” a voice shouted. It was close; too close. I weaved in and out of traffic, my body a strange mixture of burning heat from the sweat and cold from the wind and fear. Every nerve in my body was on fire.
I beat the next traffic light, running as fast as I could, legs churning, my bruised ribs throbbing.
“Parker!”
“Henry!”
I made out two distinct voices. Both angry, vigilant. They weren’t going to stop.
Between Lexington and Park, I finally reached the entrance to the downtown 6 train, my sides aching, ready to collapse.
Then a terrifying crash ruptured the air, like lightning on a clear day, and pedestrians around me ducked for cover. I felt something pinch my leg, like a bee sting.
Jesus… what was that?
I leapt down the stairs three at a time, knocking over a Hispanic woman who called me horrible names. No time for apologies.
I slowed down as I entered the station, reached for my wallet. Jumping the turnstile would draw unwanted attention. The station manager would see me, call the transit cops. Finally my slippery fingers ripped the MetroCard out and ran it through the scanner.
“Please swipe card again.”
Oh, God. Not now.
I swiped it again, and a beep confirmed the fare was paid.
Breathing hard, I walked quickly to the end of the platform, trying to stay inconspicuous to strangers buried in newspapers and paperback books.
I went to the far end of the platform and ducked behind a column, my lungs heaving. I leaned over the yellow line and peered into the dark tunnel. Two bright lights were visible, and they were drawing closer. The train couldn’t get here fast enough. I looked at my thigh, saw the hole in my jeans, my blood reddening the blue cloth. There was
