The Deed (45 page)

The impossible gravity of the moment slowed time to a crawl. On some level, Jason was aware that his brain was operating in some rarefied synaptic hyperdrive. He’d seen enough cop shows to know that if you gave the bad guys what they wanted, you always lost in the end. Was this man really capable of such violence? He talked a good game, and maybe it was a bluff—but hell, who knew? He turned his head slowly and the lights of the city left ghostly white trails, like a time-lapse photograph. Looking hopefully out over the edge of the off-ramp for help, down at the mostly empty street, he realized that stalling was pointless. He was in this thing alone.

“…two…”

His primal impulse was to run, to find a way to escape and defer this thing to another day. It meant leaving Amanda behind and that was unthinkable. But of course they wouldn’t
really
harm her—she was their only bargaining chip, as surely as the deed was his. They’d still have her and he’d still have the document, and they’d be in the same predicament, but maybe he could buy time to think of a solution, or find a way to get the police involved. The alternative, to simply hand over the bag, was to entrust her safety—and his, for that matter—to the mercy of mobsters…mobsters who’d been recognized. It would be a pointless squandering of his one asset. No, the smart move was to take the money and run—nobody shoots a woman on a bridge in broad daylight—and find a smart way to buy her safety later on. What would it take to get these goons to let her go? A million? Ten million? He had it, now; there was no way they’d risk killing a golden goose like that, now that they apparently knew what was at stake.

“…three…”

And then he saw Amanda’s terrified face, a veneer of defiance speedily coming unglued, and he knew he couldn’t possibly leave her, knew that no amount of pragmatic reasoning could possibly hold up in the face of her raw need. He had no free will at all, really, only the tantalizing illusion of choice. In her dark eyes he saw everything that mattered, and knew instantly that he would hand over the goods even though it was no guarantee of her safety, even though it demonstrably imperiled them even further. His only option was unconditional surrender, and he opened his mind to it.

Then, just as he changed his grip on the bag, preparing to toss it over, he heard the rumble, rolling toward him like an angry storm front.

It was a strangely familiar noise, and yet somehow, in the cocoon of the here and now, truly transcendental. Even as he turned north to face the wave, felt the wind of its coming on his cheek, he recognized the sound, and smiled.

It was the footsteps of a god.

“…four…”

Manahata rolled noisily into view, and the mundane incarnation he’d chosen did nothing to dissuade Jason of the belief that he was staring into the face of the godhead. And suddenly his choice was clear, and everything was okay. He smiled.

And as his hand cocked back to toss away the briefcase at last, Jason felt a deep serenity wash over him, a carefree security he hadn’t known since childhood. Suddenly he was fourteen and free, with his parents’ death and all the pain and stress of life far ahead of him. Dawn was breaking and he was racing his mud-caked Huffy down a narrow alleyway, skidding to a diagonal halt at the end of Mission Lane. Turning into the wind, he checked his watch. The instant the second hand dragged its lazy ass across the twelve, he released the hand brake and the race was on. His feet pedaled furiously and his long hair streaked back from his face and out of his eyes; pimple trauma and the slights of teenage bitches scattered before the fury of his ride.

The first house was the toughest, a slim four feet of porch set far back from the road, with windows on both sides. This called for strength and skill; you practically had to land it on the mat. Come on, Jason, he cheered himself. You’ve done this a hundred times before. One hand on the handlebars, one eye on the sidewalk…He took aim and launched the newspaper, watching it arc gently end over end over end…

“…five…” said Freddie reflexively, but he was already watching the briefcase in flight.

The garbage truck trundled slowly down Pearl Street, scooting under the Brooklyn Bridge and continuing its moderate downtown amble, quite oblivious to its new passenger.

“Oh, you little fuck!” said Vinnie, looking over the edge.

“Go get it,” said Freddie, releasing Amanda’s hand and aiming the gun at Jason. “Not smart. You sit down.” Jason backed away from the stairs and sat down.

But Vinnie was pointing over the edge, even as he jogged for the stairs. “Freddie, it went in the truck!”

“What?”

“That garbage truck! Come on, it’s going slow, we can catch it!” Vinnie squealed, clambering down the stairs.

“Stay
here,
” Freddie hissed, but Vinnie had dropped below the level of the bridge. Freddie looked back and forth between Jason and Amanda, undecided.

Gunshots sounded from the street below.

“Fuck!” screamed Freddie, kicking a sizable dent in the side of the car. He took off toward the stairs, still training the gun on Jason. Jason stared into the barrel, seated and motionless, a semi-serene Buddha trying to save his life by not smiling.

“I oughtta cap your fuckin’ ass anyway,” hissed Freddie, dripping with malice. And for an agonizing second, it appeared he was going to, then another shot rang out from below, and he was off and down the stairs at a dead run. “Stay where you are!” he shouted back.

“Sure thing, pal,” muttered Jason, clambering to his feet as Amanda sprinted toward him.

“You idiot!” she said. “Did you think they were really gonna shoot me?”

“You want to be saved or not?” he said absently. His eyes were still over the bridge, entranced by the scene below.

“My hero,” she said wryly, tugging at him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Run the light, run the light, run the light.”

“What?”

“I’m talking to my truck.”

The men had closed the distance to ten or fifteen yards, and the traffic light went yellow, half a block ahead. Vinnie fired another shot in the air.

“Stop shooting, you asshole!” they could hear Freddie yell.

“For Christ’s sake, please run that light,” said Jason again.

The light turned red, but the truck driver, spooked either by the shots themselves or the reflected view of two gunmen racing toward his side mirror, kicked it into gear and sped through the light, horn blaring like a wounded animal.

“Kiss me,” said Amanda.

“Are you nuts?” he said, turning his attention to her at last. “First we escape, then we kiss.”

“Come on,” she said. “You’ll never have another moment like this in your life.”

He knew she was right, and so he kissed her, for as long as he dared. They looked down over the railing to see the gangsters jogging purposefully back toward them, still a block away.