“Who are you working for?”
Still whimpering he said in a childlike voice: “You shot me!”
“Yes, I know. Who are you working for?”
“Go to hell.”
Myron got down on his haunches. He pressed the barrel of the gun against the man’s other knee. “I really don’t have much time.”
“Please,” he said, his voice going up too many octaves. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Your name. Never mind. I’ll call you Goatee. Here’s what’s going to happen, Goatee. I’m going to shoot your other knee now. Then I’ll move to the elbows.”
Goatee was crying. “Please.”
“Eventually you’ll tell me.”
“I don’t know! I swear.”
Someone in the park had probably heard the gunshot. Neck Tattoo might come back with reinforcements. Either way, Myron had very little time here. He had to show he meant business. With a small sigh, Myron began to pull the trigger—he was that far gone—when a moment of common sense pushed through. Even if he could do it—even if he could shoot an unarmed, helpless man—the result of the shot would probably backfire on him. The pain would more likely make Goatee pass out or go into shock than get him to open up.
Still Myron wasn’t sure what he would do when he said, “Last chance . . .”
Goatee came to the rescue. “His name is Bert! That’s all I know. Bert!”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know! Kevin set it up.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
“The guy who just left me here, man.”
“And what did Bert want you to do?”
“We followed you, man. From the hospital. He said you’d lead us to Kitty Bolitar.”
Man, now Myron really knew that he was slipping. These two numb nuts had been behind him this whole time and Myron never spotted the tail? Pathetic. “And when you found Kitty, what were you supposed to do?”
Goatee started crying again. “Please.”
Myron put the gun against the man’s head. “Look at my eyes.”
“Please.”
“Stop crying and look at my eyes.”
He finally did. He was sniffling, trying to hold it together. His knee was a mess. Myron knew that he would probably never walk again without a limp. One day, that might bother Myron, but he doubted it.
“Tell me the truth and this is all over. You probably won’t even have to go to jail. Lie to me and I shoot you in the head, so there’s no witness. Do you understand?”
He kept his eyes surprisingly steady. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“No, I’m not. You know why? Because I’m still the good guy here. I want to stay that way. So just tell me the truth and save us: What were you supposed to do when you found Kitty?”
And then, with sirens signaling the approach of police cars, Goatee gave Myron the answer he expected: “We were supposed to kill you both.”
Myron opened the trailer door. The sirens were louder now.
There was no time for Myron to get to his car. He ran left, away from the Glendale Estates entrance, as two police cars came into the trailer park. A powerful beacon of light from one of the cop cars hit him.
“Stop! Police!”
Myron didn’t listen. The cops gave chase—or at least Myron assumed they did. He never turned around, just kept running. People came out of their trailers to see what the commotion was about, but no one got in his way. Myron had tucked his gun back into his waistband. There was no way he’d take it out and give the cops an excuse to open fire. As long as he wasn’t a physical threat, they wouldn’t shoot.
Right?
The squad car’s loudspeaker came out with a crackle: “This is the police. Stop and put your hands in the air.”
For a moment he almost did it. He could explain. But it would take hours, maybe days, and he simply didn’t have that kind of time. Win had found a way to get them to Adiona Island. Somehow Myron knew that it was going to come back to that place, back to the reclusive Gabriel Wire, and he wasn’t about to give him the chance to slip away.
The trailer park dead-ended into a wooded brush. Myron found a path and started on it. The police called for him to stop again. He darted to the left and kept going. Behind him he could hear movement in the bush. The cops were giving chase into the woods. He picked up his speed, trying to gain some distance. He debated hiding against a boulder or tree while they ran by, but what good would that do him? He needed to get out and free and up to Teterboro Airport.
He heard more shouts, but they were farther back now. He risked a glance behind him. Someone had a flashlight, but they were pretty far away. Fine. Still moving, Myron managed to dig his Bluetooth out of his pocket and jam it into his ear.
He hit the speed dial for Win.
“Articulate.”
“I need a ride,” Myron said.
He quickly explained. Win listened without interrupting. Myron didn’t need to give his location. The GPS in his BlackBerry would help Win track him down. He just needed to stay out of sight until that happened. When he finished, Win said, “You’re about a hundred yards west of Highway One. Start north on the highway and you’ll run into a fair amount of retail. Find a place to hide or blend. I’ll hire a limousine service to pick you up and get you to the airport.”
28
Myron found an open Panera Bread. The rich smell of pastry reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in forever. He ordered a coffee and bear claw. He sat near a window by a side door in case he needed to make a quick exit. From this vantage point he could see any and all cars pulling into the lot. If one ended up being a squad car, he could get out and be off for the woods in no time flat. He sipped the coffee and inhaled the bear claw. He started thinking about his dad. His dad always ate too fast. On Saturday mornings way back when, Dad would take him and Brad to Seymour’s Luncheonette on Livingston Avenue for a milk shake, French fries, and maybe a pack of baseball cards. Myron and Brad would sit on stools and twirl them. Dad would stand next to them, always, as if that was what a man did. When the fries came, he’d lean against the counter and wolf them down. Dad was never fat, but he was always on the wrong side of the “healthy weight” line.
Was that part of this? What if Dad had eaten better? What if Dad had worked out more or had a less stressful job or had a son who didn’t get into jams that kept him up at night? What if his father hadn’t come flying out of the house to defend that same son?
Still whimpering he said in a childlike voice: “You shot me!”
“Yes, I know. Who are you working for?”
“Go to hell.”
Myron got down on his haunches. He pressed the barrel of the gun against the man’s other knee. “I really don’t have much time.”
“Please,” he said, his voice going up too many octaves. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Your name. Never mind. I’ll call you Goatee. Here’s what’s going to happen, Goatee. I’m going to shoot your other knee now. Then I’ll move to the elbows.”
Goatee was crying. “Please.”
“Eventually you’ll tell me.”
“I don’t know! I swear.”
Someone in the park had probably heard the gunshot. Neck Tattoo might come back with reinforcements. Either way, Myron had very little time here. He had to show he meant business. With a small sigh, Myron began to pull the trigger—he was that far gone—when a moment of common sense pushed through. Even if he could do it—even if he could shoot an unarmed, helpless man—the result of the shot would probably backfire on him. The pain would more likely make Goatee pass out or go into shock than get him to open up.
Still Myron wasn’t sure what he would do when he said, “Last chance . . .”
Goatee came to the rescue. “His name is Bert! That’s all I know. Bert!”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know! Kevin set it up.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
“The guy who just left me here, man.”
“And what did Bert want you to do?”
“We followed you, man. From the hospital. He said you’d lead us to Kitty Bolitar.”
Man, now Myron really knew that he was slipping. These two numb nuts had been behind him this whole time and Myron never spotted the tail? Pathetic. “And when you found Kitty, what were you supposed to do?”
Goatee started crying again. “Please.”
Myron put the gun against the man’s head. “Look at my eyes.”
“Please.”
“Stop crying and look at my eyes.”
He finally did. He was sniffling, trying to hold it together. His knee was a mess. Myron knew that he would probably never walk again without a limp. One day, that might bother Myron, but he doubted it.
“Tell me the truth and this is all over. You probably won’t even have to go to jail. Lie to me and I shoot you in the head, so there’s no witness. Do you understand?”
He kept his eyes surprisingly steady. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“No, I’m not. You know why? Because I’m still the good guy here. I want to stay that way. So just tell me the truth and save us: What were you supposed to do when you found Kitty?”
And then, with sirens signaling the approach of police cars, Goatee gave Myron the answer he expected: “We were supposed to kill you both.”
Myron opened the trailer door. The sirens were louder now.
There was no time for Myron to get to his car. He ran left, away from the Glendale Estates entrance, as two police cars came into the trailer park. A powerful beacon of light from one of the cop cars hit him.
“Stop! Police!”
Myron didn’t listen. The cops gave chase—or at least Myron assumed they did. He never turned around, just kept running. People came out of their trailers to see what the commotion was about, but no one got in his way. Myron had tucked his gun back into his waistband. There was no way he’d take it out and give the cops an excuse to open fire. As long as he wasn’t a physical threat, they wouldn’t shoot.
Right?
The squad car’s loudspeaker came out with a crackle: “This is the police. Stop and put your hands in the air.”
For a moment he almost did it. He could explain. But it would take hours, maybe days, and he simply didn’t have that kind of time. Win had found a way to get them to Adiona Island. Somehow Myron knew that it was going to come back to that place, back to the reclusive Gabriel Wire, and he wasn’t about to give him the chance to slip away.
The trailer park dead-ended into a wooded brush. Myron found a path and started on it. The police called for him to stop again. He darted to the left and kept going. Behind him he could hear movement in the bush. The cops were giving chase into the woods. He picked up his speed, trying to gain some distance. He debated hiding against a boulder or tree while they ran by, but what good would that do him? He needed to get out and free and up to Teterboro Airport.
He heard more shouts, but they were farther back now. He risked a glance behind him. Someone had a flashlight, but they were pretty far away. Fine. Still moving, Myron managed to dig his Bluetooth out of his pocket and jam it into his ear.
He hit the speed dial for Win.
“Articulate.”
“I need a ride,” Myron said.
He quickly explained. Win listened without interrupting. Myron didn’t need to give his location. The GPS in his BlackBerry would help Win track him down. He just needed to stay out of sight until that happened. When he finished, Win said, “You’re about a hundred yards west of Highway One. Start north on the highway and you’ll run into a fair amount of retail. Find a place to hide or blend. I’ll hire a limousine service to pick you up and get you to the airport.”
28
Myron found an open Panera Bread. The rich smell of pastry reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in forever. He ordered a coffee and bear claw. He sat near a window by a side door in case he needed to make a quick exit. From this vantage point he could see any and all cars pulling into the lot. If one ended up being a squad car, he could get out and be off for the woods in no time flat. He sipped the coffee and inhaled the bear claw. He started thinking about his dad. His dad always ate too fast. On Saturday mornings way back when, Dad would take him and Brad to Seymour’s Luncheonette on Livingston Avenue for a milk shake, French fries, and maybe a pack of baseball cards. Myron and Brad would sit on stools and twirl them. Dad would stand next to them, always, as if that was what a man did. When the fries came, he’d lean against the counter and wolf them down. Dad was never fat, but he was always on the wrong side of the “healthy weight” line.
Was that part of this? What if Dad had eaten better? What if Dad had worked out more or had a less stressful job or had a son who didn’t get into jams that kept him up at night? What if his father hadn’t come flying out of the house to defend that same son?
