“Oh, there’s one more thing, another name—Hanna Jaffrey, a U of Pennsylvania student. Could you try to find something on her too?”
“There’s someone else? It’s beginning to sound like you’ve got the whole world mad at you.”
Seventeen
After saying goodbye to Corinne and retrieving the chip I hailed a cab and soon reached the area Tomas had mentioned at theextreme west end of Thirty-fourth Street. It was a bleak terrain, a dark little corner piece in the glittering jigsaw of Manhattan.
I asked the driver to slow to a crawl. On my left the wide plain of the West Side rail yards stretched into the distance. Opposite it was a church with a red brick facade, a Romanesque arch in white limestone, and a gothic window above that, closed up with cement blocks. This wasn’t a commercial building, but I asked the driver to stop for a minute anyway—I could see the Hudson from here so we had to be close. A sign by the doorway read ST. MICHAEL’S CHURCH, WORSHIPING IN THE ROMAN CATHOLIC TRADITION SINCE 1857.
A statue of Jesus stood outside the church. Full-size, encased in clear Plexiglas like a see-through coffin, he stood on a pedestal, gazing down on the passersby. He was fashioned entirely of white plaster, one hand outstretched, the other touching a large gilt filigree over which was superimposed a golden cross and a white human heart. Above the case, in Roman capitals, were the words “Come to me all you that labour and are burdened. I will give you rest.”
It could have been written for me.
In the next block I found it, a nondescript stucco building about five stories high. At street level was a chalky blue door of wooden slats that appeared not to have been used for years, and farther on, a ribbed metal square the size of a garage door. Beside that I saw the five planetary symbols etched on a simple brass plate affixed to the wall.
The driver spoke up. “If we go any farther we’re going to hit the highway. What do you want to do?”
“I’ve seen enough. Take me to the Port Authority.”
He growled what I took to be an assent, jerked his vehicle around, and sped off.
He dropped me off at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where sidewalk vendors still had their wares out— used books, women’s purses, fragrant oils. One of them uncorked a bottle and held it toward me. A faint scent of jasmine floated through the air, colliding with the odors of sidewalk blight.
A homeless guy approached me with his hand held out. He had on a pair of torn gym shorts, Nike sneakers, and a baseball cap crowning long dreadlocks. His pale eyes centered on me. His smile revealed the rotting teeth of a meth head. I handed him a couple of quarters. He doffed his cap as I moved on.
The last time bus travel resembled anything close to upscale had to have been between the two world wars. No matter what the city, all bus terminals had that same sad, left-behind look. The Port Authority was a champion of the breed. A skin of sludge-brown ceramic tile surfaced the floor, walls, and massive square pillars. There seemed to be a conspiracy to keep the light as dim and forbidding as possible. The exception was a giant artwork of glittering aluminum and multi-colored facets on the south wall. It hung there like a beautiful child abandoned in a public washroom.
I made my way to a ticket counter, thinking I could save cash by test-driving Samuel’s credit card. The agent gave me a baleful stare. “Can I help you?”
This was the standard phrase taught to all sales reps before they got ready to skin you alive.
“A ticket for the next bus to Philadelphia, please.”
“One way or return?”
“One way.”
“That’ll be twenty-three dollars.”
I thrust Samuel’s American Express through the wicket. The woman swiped the card and waited. Making slits out of her eyes, she peered at her screen. She turned back to me. “I’m sorry, sir, this card’s no good. Says the cardholder’s deceased.” She eyed me. “You don’t look too bad for all that.”
I mumbled an apology and asked where the bus bays were located. She rolled her eyes and pointed to a cluster of signs. “That’s what the signs are for. Read that over there.”
My idea had been to leave the tracking device somewhere on a bus so that my pursuers would think I’d left town. I never got the chance. On the way to the bus bays I spotted the man I’d seen ogling Laurel in Washington Square Park—a sharp-featured guy with skin white as a cadaver and jet-black hair, a red tattoo on his left wrist. Not a coincidence to see him here now.
He came after me. The bus bays suddenly seemed deserted and no Port Authority police were around. I charged out of the building and sprinted down Forty-second. At Tenth Avenue I caught the tail end of a yellow light. By the time the jester reached the intersection, the light had turned red and traffic surged in front of him. When I reached the West Side Highway I headed north before turning up Forty-fourth, gasping for air, knowing I couldn’t keep this pace up much longer.
Where the street breached the West Side tracks a band of jagged black rock fringed the steep banks, creating a man-made gorge for the railway. The sheer drop of about twenty feet to the rail lines and the solid- block wall of buildings across the street reduced my options. Barbed wire enclosing a truck storage lot gave me no opportunities either. Behind me, the
My insides threatened to burst from racing so hard. Seeing the jester turn the corner, I searched for some way to get off the street. It was a minor miracle I’d kept ahead of him this far. To my left was an area with broken and bent sections of fencing. I squeezed through a gap and tried to lose him in the thicket of trucks. The wire bit through my shirt, slashing my shoulder as I passed through. I wove between vehicles, trying to dodge him.
The sound of his pursuit stopped abruptly as if he’d suddenly taken flight. Was he circling around or had I lost him? I emerged onto Forty-fifth, down the street from a white low-rise. The building’s cavernous entrance gaped open. I whipped inside. It was, of all things, a stable, stinking of damp, manure, and old oil. Off to one side I could hear the rustle of hooves and the swish of tails. Rows of ornate white and brightly colored carriages stood empty. It looked like a gypsy convention with all the drivers on lunch break. The carriages they use in Central Park, I thought, that must be what they were.
I crouched behind the fourth in a row of five carriages on the greasy floor, breathing in the straw dust, listening to the soft nicker of the horses. I couldn’t risk using my cell. If he’d tracked me inside, he’d hear my voice immediately and know my exact location. A new sound alerted me. Footsteps moving among the carts. I pulled in my breath, hoping he’d wander in another direction, but the tromp of his boots came from only two carriages away. I ran for it.
A heavyset guy with big wet patches staining the armpits of his work shirt looked up in amazement as I bolted out from behind the carriage. Not the jester after all. My luck held.
Once on Tenth Avenue, I checked to make sure he was nowhere in sight, hugging the little storefronts to be less noticeable. Right before I reached an outdoor cafe filled with people socializing on the warm summer night, something that felt like the butt end of a screwdriver jammed into the small of my back. One black-sleeved arm gripped me.
“I thought you’d pull some dumb shit like that, Madison.”
I tried to yank myself away. He pushed me against the glass window of a bakery. None of the passersby took any notice.
“You’re going to shoot me right here? In front of all these people?”
“No, we’re going across the street to the deli where my car’s parked.”
“And what if I won’t?”
“You ever been shot?”
“No.”
“I have. At first you can’t feel anything. Just a punch. Like someone took a shovel and rammed it into your back. Then you get a weird burning sensation. After that, your legs won’t hold you up any longer.”
