Lieberman's soft shoulders. 'Tell me what this Hassid looked like.'
'Big, like I told you. About your age, maybe older, maybe younger. Full red beard, glasses. Big grin, like a politician. Let me see, what else-'
Daniel's grip tightened. 'Which way did they go?'
The grocer winced. 'That way. 'Pointing north.'She's okay, isn't she?'
Daniel let go of him and raced toward the Escort.
No! Please God. Pleasegod, pleasegod.
I should haves, I could haves. Prayers shrieked through a deafening nightmare storm. His right leg pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard; his hands were welded to the steering wheel.
Not my baby, my first baby, my little mongrel.
Precious, precious. No, not her. Anyone else.
Unreal. But too real.
Nightmares, the nightmare machine.
Silence it!
Tears flowed from his eyes like blood from a mortal wound. He forced himself to stop crying, keep his head clear.
Keep speeding, stretch the minutes.
Please, God.
A red light came on at the King David intersection; the boulevard was congested with traffic. Opposing traffic beginning to move, turning directly in his path.
He leaned on the horn. No one moved. Steered the
Escort onto the sidewalk, swerving to avoid hitting terrified pedestrians. Waddling tourists in peacock clothes. A mother and a baby carriage.
Out of the way.
Got to save my baby!
Whistles and screams, a fury of horns. Hitting the rim of the central island, then over the curb and on it.
Scraping the underside of the Escort, ripping metal, hubcaps spring loose..
More screams. Maniac! Asshole!
Off the island, skidding, swinging left, dodging cursing motorists. Filthy-mouthed taxi drivers.
Fuck you-not your baby on the altar.
A shouting, gesticulating traffic officer near the King David Hotel tried to block his passage.
Move or die, idiot.
Not your baby.
The idiot moved at the last moment.
Please God, please God.
Speed.
Making deals with the Almighty:
I'll be a better person. Better husband daddy Jew human being.
Let her be-
More traffic, endless ribbons of it, a plague of metal locusts.
Can't slow down.
Weaving through it, around it, up sidewalks, off, knocking trash baskets into the streets.
Brake squeals. More curses.
Careering, wrestling with a wild animal steering wheel.
Fighting for control.
No time to put on the magnetic flasher.
No time to phone for backup-he wouldn't do it even if there were.
Another fuck-up: Sorry, Pakad, we lost him.
Not with my baby.
Oh, God, no.
He emptied his mind, chilled it, shut out time, space, everything. Even God.
The city a glacial wasteland. Speeding through layers of dirty ice, the Escort a power-sled.
