Tracking Time (29 page)

D
avid and Brandy walked west on Sixtieth. David was trying to think things out. A detective had been to his house. By now his dad would know that. His mother and father never agreed about anything, but they would agree about this. If they found out he'd skipped his shrink, they'd punish him big time. If they found out about the car, they'd freak out completely. He didn't want to get in trouble, but he didn't care anymore. By now he and Brandy had long ago missed the six o'clock news on TV. He needed a drink or a joint, something to chill so he wouldn't worry so much. They hit Park Avenue. David's stomach stabbed him with killing force. His ulcer was killing him. He could almost feel it begin to seep blood. The pressure to do something really bad on his own was tremendous. Something without Brandy nagging at him and getting in the way. He felt like killing the girl in the cave his own way. That should be his job alone. He could do it the way he wanted. Then he could tell Brandy about it later. That was the best way. Two of them together never got the job done right. She'd forgotten the finger. That was pretty irresponsible. He wouldn't have done that.

They stopped on the corner. Brandy looked up. The wind was kicking up, and the sky had completely clouded over. He used that as an excuse.

"It's going to rain, maybe you better go home," he said.

"I don't want to. I want to stay with you." She took his arm.

He pulled away from her. "Look, Brandy, it would be better if I handled this myself." He started walking faster. He'd made up his mind.

Brandy followed him a few steps. "David, don't you love me?"

"Sure, I love you."

"If you love me, why didn't you buy me a gift?"

"What are you talking about?" He wasn't in the mood for this.

"You didn't buy me a gift. You're supposed to do that," she complained.

"Jesus, Brandy, I've got stuff to do. How about I bring you a gift? A human sacrifice. Would that do it?"

"Maybe. But I want a Prada bag, too."

He snorted. Prada bag. "Go home, Brandy."

She skipped to catch up. "Maybe I don't want to."

"It's not yours to choose. I'm the boss here. That's the way it has to be."

"Who says so?" Defiantly, she put her hand on his arm.

He took her fingers and bent them back until she squealed. "Ow, that hurts. Let go."

"Who's the master?"

"You are, now let go."

He let go and backed away.

"You hurt me," she said with tears in her eyes.

"I did not. You forced me to do it. Now go home and behave yourself."

She rubbed her wrist. "Will you meet me later?"

"Yeah, sure." He was thinking about the girl in the cave and what he could do to her.

"Call me on my cell?"

"Sure."

"Will you buy me a Prada bag?"

"Whatever. You're my girlfriend, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I need taxi money."

He gave her a twenty and hailed a cab going north on Park.

"You love me, don't you?" she said as she got in.

"I said you're my girlfriend." He slammed the car door and walked west. He hit Madison, then Fifth. He was wearing his Nike Airs and felt good to be alone. He crossed Fifth Avenue and saw the horse and buggies lined up across from the Plaza Hotel, where his parents used to take him for lunch at the Palm Court on Sundays when he was a little boy. He paused for a moment to take two Maalox. He saw two cops standing around outside the hotel. They didn't look his way. He crossed Fifth Avenue and entered the park on Fifty-ninth Street. He started walking northwest with his hands in his pockets, glad Brandy was gone. The evening was cool and damp, and for a few precious moments he was free of everyone.

As he stumped along, it occurred to him that he could double back and come out at Sixty-fifth Street, or Seventy-second, then walk home and the game would be over. But the unfinished business gnawed at him. He wanted to get on top of that girl and squeeze the life out of her with his bare hands. He kept to the same course toward Sheep Meadow and the West Side. When he was deeper in the park, he started jogging. He never saw any cops in police jackets or Zumech in his orange SAR suit. He was coming from the opposite direction and missed their operation a mile away.

He slowed his pace when he reached the lake. At nine-thirty people were still walking on the paths. He crossed the little bridge over the reeds where there used to be water and dove into the brush on the Central Park West Side. The path ended at the bridge, and the wild foliage and the grass took over. He plunged through the grass and found the gravel of the old lake bed. Here the grass was at its end-of-the-year highest, way over his head. Just as he hit the lake bed, it started to rain.

M
aslow was dripping with sweat. He had been working for hours without a break, hoping to dig and pry his way out before all the light was gone and he could see no more. A rock on the outside wedged the heavy gate in place. When he could not open it from the inside, he tried to lift it high enough to move Dylan's foot from under it. But there was not enough room above. He could lift the bottom only a little before the top edge struck against the roof.

Dylan screamed each time the gate shifted a little, but he gained a few precious inches by stuffing his running shoes into the gap. In the hours after that, he dug frantically around and under her pinned limb, using both hands and the sharp edge of a rock to create a depression, a trench deep enough to ease the pressure of the gate on what he could now tell was a jagged piece of bone. Dylan's body was flung at such an awkward angle that her own weight, slight as it was, worked against them. The leg continued to swell, filling all the space he created.

The extraordinary closeness of the situation created an even greater anxiety in Maslow. In his world, he was forbidden to talk to a patient outside office hours much less sit with her in a coffee shop. Touching even her hand would be the greatest violation of all. Now he was taking her pulse and manipulating her limbs and talking to her with love and the intent to convey it. He was caught in an upside-down world where the lines between evil and good could no longer be drawn. A child was his enemy. A former patient was his sister, never to be a patient again. The sand was shifting, and he had no certain place.

As night fell, the only hope of saving Dylan was for Maslow to get help. He switched tactics and began grinding away at a spoke of the once-stout barrier. He could not squeeze out with only one spoke missing, but with two gone he thought he might have a chance. He started with the weakest one, so badly rusted it chipped and splintered into spiny fragments in his fingers. He sawed at it with a rock and his bare hands, oblivious to the cuts the stone and rust made on his palms.

Dylan had a high fever and was hallucinating now. The things she mumbled made no sense, just like Maslow's whole life and what he'd thought was his history. Nothing made sense anymore. Outside all he could hear was the bark of a city dog and the steady rumble of the subway. Inside his head was a throbbing that wouldn't ease. His back and legs trembled with his efforts to break the spoke free. He was frantic. Beside him, a second sister was dying. This one was even more precious because she came as an unexpected gift when he'd thought he was all alone. Even worse than that, she was dying for the sole reason that she had wanted to be with him. No one else had ever cared for him that much. "You're doing well," he told her. "Very well. Just a little while more. Hang in there with me."

"No, no. The elephant is broken," she muttered.

"I fix elephants," he told her.

For Maslow, nothing had ever mattered to him but being a doctor. He'd worked all his life for the two magic letters after his name and the meaning they gave his existence. There was no reason in what was happening to them. She was going to die right in front of him, and there was nothing he could do to keep her alive.

It was pitch-black now. He stopped his sawing to scream again for help, but before the yell was out of his mouth, a crack of thunder struck so loud he thought it was an exploding bomb.

"Mommy," Dylan whimpered. He reached over and took her hand for a moment.

Then he returned to the spoke, jerking it with all his weight. This time it cracked at the top. Another clap of thunder split the sky. Maslow pried the spoke toward him with bleeding fingers. It hardly budged. He picked up the rock and used it as a wrench, braced his bare feet against the base of the gate and worked the rock toward him.

The spoke broke free in his hand and he fell back, panting. Just then the clouds let go, and rain hurled down out of the sky. A flash of lightning reached into the dark. Maslow stretched his hand through the space. His arm and one shoulder fit through, but his chest stuck. He could feel drops of rain wash his hand.

"Stay with me. I'll have you out soon," he murmured to Dylan. One more spoke and they would taste freedom. He would have them out before their captor returned. He was sure of it.

P
eachy surprised April by traveling five blocks south. She crossed Strawberry Fields, sniffing the hard-packed end-of-summer grass in a state of deep concentration, oblivious to her trainer grasping the end of her leather leash and the detectives following fifty yards behind. Strawberry Fields was separated from Sheep Meadow by the Seventy-second Street transverse. Just before she came to the crosstown road, lightly trafficked at this hour, she suddenly swerved east toward the lake. There, she traveled around the bottom finger, the southernmost tip of the lake north to Wagner Cove, stopping once to raise her head and sniff the air.

Trotting along behind them, April felt a little lightheaded in the cool evening air. She knew that whenever John went on a search and rescue with the dog, he always took several thick meat sandwiches and Snickers bars with him for energy. The dog didn't need more than a few handfuls of dry dog food and a whole lot of water a day. And, of course, her treats for incentive. People running four, five, ten miles in a few hours, however, needed much more than that.

In the station house April had thought of the flashlights, the vests, radios, telephones, Velcro restraints, plastic cuffs, but she'd never considered the need for food at all. It was a common failing of hers. She didn't like eating the pizza and sweet, high-fat foods the other detectives and officers were always eating on the job.

No matter what the conditions, she always relied on her body to sustain her until there was time to locate food worthy of her palate. It wasn't always a wise policy. Last night around one a.m. she'd eaten very well. This morning and today, she'd had practically nothing. Around one, someone had handed her a donut, the official food of the Department. Then she'd drunk strong tea without milk and sucked an Altoid late in the afternoon. Now it was after nine. Her mouth felt furry and her stomach cried for food, but she wasn't thinking of food. She was thinking of Maslow Atkins, the missing man.

She started off at a brisk pace, power walking, and pumped for the hunt. John's SAR suit and Peachy's orange necklace radiated a ghostly glow in the darker patches of park between lampposts. With a storm coming and almost no one around, the park felt huge. Eight hundred and forty-three acres. Mike paced along beside her. Neither had anything to say, but the energy between them was electric. They had their rhythm now. Hunting together, they could walk all night if they had to. April could hear Woody a few paces back, unused to using his feet, breathing hard through his mouth.

Suddenly Peachy stopped. John stopped, and they stopped. The beautiful terrace of Bethesda Fountain was to their right. The east bank of the lake was to their left. The dog lifted her large head, sniffing the air as if lost. Her body was tense, uncertain. John opened the scent bag and let her bury her head in the pillowcase. When she was finished rooting around in it, she dropped her head and charged up Cherry Hill to Bow Bridge.

They were now mid park at Seventy-second Street. Above them was thirty miles of woodland Ramble, Belvedere Castle, and two more bridges. To the east was Center Drive and Literary Walk. If they stayed in the mid section of the park, between the east and west sides, and traveled south, they would skirt Wollman skating rink. But Peachy headed north across the Bow Bridge into the Ramble. She followed the path as it veered up the slope. Immediately between the path and undulating rock was a stand of trees. Lampost #7413. April's heartbeat accelerated. Six months ago just north of the castle, a mentally ill homeless woman had been found strangled to death. She didn't want to discover Maslow had suffered a similar fate.

After ten more minutes Peachy faltered, lost again. She stopped, turned around three times, sniffing the air. Then, keeping the lake on her left, she found lamppost #7523, another block north. There, a large tree with a double trunk that split off again to form a third trunk held her interest for a while. She stuck her head close to the deeply grooved bark. The tree bordered the water and was surrounded by hard-packed ground. April wanted to approach, but Zumech waved her back.

"How are you doing,
querida?"
Mike spoke suddenly.

"Okay. I'm thinking we should have more people out here."

"How about we give the dog a few more minutes?"

The wind had picked up, agitating the leaves all around them and snaking April's hope. They had no real hint of where Brandy and David had gone. They could be anywhere. The dog looked confused, and now April doubted their brilliant idea of coming here. Peachy had brought them many blocks east of the place where they'd found Pee Wee this morning. It now seemed that working the tracker at night with a storm kicking up and David's scent as their guide-when they were really searching for Maslow-might be the stupidest idea she ever had. She didn't want to say that to Mike, however. They stood in the dark while the weather deteriorated around them and the dog sniffed the tree.

After what seemed like an eternity, Peachy lost interest in the tree and plunged south again. She retraced her own steps to Bow Bridge, crossed it, and this time took the east path toward Bethesda Terrace. It was better lighted here. April moved her feet, worrying about the time and thinking in her heart they'd made a big mistake. The wind was blowing like crazy, whipping branches around. The park was empty, and now April could see the presence of CP officers, safe and dry in their vehicles. On the park roads and off the roads, unmarked units had begun to cruise, on the lookout for Brandy and David. But the Ramble was deep and thirty miles long; people hid in the foliage there all the time. They'd have to get out of their units if they wanted to help. April put the thought out of her mind.

Ahead of them Peachy was traveling dead east now. She crossed the Bethesda Terrace, jogged around the fountain, and ran up the stairs to the Seventy-second Street crosstown drive. They had done a thirty-five-minute detour. Now she was hurrying toward Fifth Avenue and the East Side. This was way out of the way, far from where the cars were parked and where April and Woody had responded to the 911 call two nights ago. If Peachy had the scent, it now looked as if David might be headed home. He lived on Sixty-fifth Street and Park Avenue. Brandy lived on Seventy-fifth and Park Avenue. Maybe the two kids had come out, then gone home again when the weather worsened.

April checked her watch. They'd been out over an hour. It felt like four hours. She was sweating now, was tired and beginning to despair. Suddenly Peachy veered south once again, toward Fifty-ninth Street. She picked up her pace and ran down the Mall toward Literary Walk, then took the Center Drive south. In twelve minutes at a dead run, they neared Fifty-ninth Street and April could hear the comfortable clack of horseshoes on the pavement as a line of buggies headed home before the storm. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. It looked as though they'd lost him.