Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  Fortunately, I’ve got three lanes to work with, so I’m not too overly concerned. I just try to stay focused. I try not to think about how less than an hour ago I was minding my own business at the bookstore, paging through a book on Aztec and Mayan culture, while the Duke Ellington record spun and spun. I try not to think about how someone threatened to kill me. I try not to think about how my father is somehow still alive, despite the fact he had supposedly blown his brains out last week. I also try not to think about how there are people who are trying to kill my father, not to mention, well, me. But actually, no, I do have to think about those things, because otherwise what’s the point in running?

  The majority of the drivers headed my way think I’m an idiot. At least, that’s the impression I get from all the horns blasting the air. I check back over my shoulder, see that the sedan’s driver is crazier than I thought. He’s right behind me, still about a block back, his lights still flashing, swerving from one lane to another to avoid the oncoming traffic.

  I go up one more block and then take a left onto Bleecker, which is another one-way street. It’s also only one lane, which means this fucker doesn’t stand a chance.

  That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. He does—taking the corner hard enough that I can hear his tires squealing—but the cars here don’t have much room. I hop onto the sidewalk and pedal as hard as I can. I reach the next block up when I hear the sudden and deafening smack of metal rending metal.

  I pause just long enough to check back over my shoulder.

  The sedan, half up on the curb, lost to the front end of a UPS truck.

  I don’t stick around to see what happens next. I turn the corner and ride up two more blocks, then over one block, then up another block. I keep in mind that there are traffic cameras everywhere. Whoever these people are, they seem to have a lot of power, the kind that can easily tap into these cameras to find my location.

  Conscious of this, I duck into the nearest alleyway. I ditch the bike behind a dumpster. I feel bad doing it—I know just how much my bike means to me, especially as it’s part of my job—but there’s no way I’ll be able to return it to the delivery guy.

  There’s a door propped open back here. It leads into the kitchen of some restaurant. I walk inside like I’m supposed to be there. A few of the workers give me a look. Only one stops me, a big guy who is clearly the chef.

  “Who are you?”

  “New busboy.”

  “I didn’t hear about any new busboy.”

  “I just got hired yesterday.”

  The chef’s eye twitches as he frowns. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  “I have work clothes in my locker.”

  “We don’t have lockers.”

  “You know what,” I say, hurrying toward the front, “I don’t think I want the job anymore.”

  Pushing through the kitchen door, I enter the dining room. It’s mostly packed. Servers hustle here and there. I hurry toward the front, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. I dial Duncan’s number. It rings and rings, and as I step outside, I realize he’s dead. The people who are doing this entered the apartment while he was stoned or playing video games or stoned playing video games, and they’ve murdered him. All because he happened to be associated with me. And it isn’t even like we’re friends.

  But then he answers.

  “Yo, man, what’s up? Some people stopped by here earlier—I think they were reporters. The chick was really hot. They find you?”

  I pause, looking up and down the street, not sure what I’m looking for. “Yes, they did. What are you up to now?”

  “Not much. Just sitting here vegging.”

  I look toward the sky. Could these people have satellites watching me? Drones? Invisible cloud spying machines?

  “John”—Duncan’s voice goes all at once serious—“you okay, man? You, like, never call me about anything.”

  I take a deep breath. The last thing I want to do is drag Duncan into this, but right now I don’t have much choice. I just have to hope that wherever Eli and Ashley are, they’re safe.

  Then I realize something: my phone. These people could be tracking me via my cell phone. Or at the very least they could be listening in. Which means I need to dump this thing as soon as possible. Which also means I’ll need to be vague with Duncan and hope he figures it out.

  “Duncan, I need your help.”

  twenty-eight

  They had gone only two blocks when he asked, “Do you have any cash?”

  The question gave Ashley pause. First, after everything that just happened, this man was asking her for money? Second, she realized she didn’t have her purse. When she had lost it, she wasn’t sure—probably when running through the fire, though that was just a guess—but without her purse, it meant she didn’t have her cell phone or her wallet or anything.

  “Well?” he prompted, and she gave him a blank look, not sure what to say, all at once feeling small and cold and alone. Her body was still shaking, though not as much as before. It was the after effect, she figured, that buzz you get right after you almost die. She remembered feeling something quite similar after almost walking in front of a bus, too focused on her phone conversation to pay attention. If someone hadn’t pulled her out of the way, she would have been flattened. She’d felt that buzz for at least an hour afterward.

  Melissa’s father stared at her for several long seconds, then turned away and continued up the block. They were on the sidewalk, several blocks away from the coffee shop. So far, nobody had followed them—at least, Ashley didn’t think so. She had to keep reminding herself she was way out of her element here; she was an entertainment reporter—a gossip columnist, essentially—not a ... what exactly was this?

  The man began digging through the pockets of the jacket he had taken from the coffee shop and which he wore over his own jacket, first the outside and then the inside. His face lit up when his hand slipped into the inside pocket; a second later he pulled out a brown leather wallet.

  “Looks like our luck hasn’t run out completely,” he said, peering into the wallet. “There’s about a hundred dollars here.”

  “You’re not really going to steal that, are you?”

  He heard the disappointment in her voice and gave her a look. “Young lady, at this point it’s already stolen. Might as well not let it go to waste. Besides”—he glanced down at her bare feet—“you could use a pair of shoes.”

  Ashley closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “We need to go to the police.”

  “As I told John, that isn’t a viable option.”

  “I can call my boss at the paper.”

  “And what would he do?”

  “Whatever is going on here, it’s major news. He can get it out in front of millions of people. We don’t have to keep running.”

  He paused long enough to offer up a sad smile. “If only it were that easy.”

  “Then let me do it. I’ll go and speak with my boss. We can expose these people.”

  “Young lady,” he said, keeping his pace brisk, “what makes you think your boss isn’t already involved with these people? He may very well not be, but I’m certain someone in that organization is, and they won’t let any of the news come to light. In fact, there’s a distinct possibility they’ll kill you just like they killed my daughter and her family.”

  Ashley stopped abruptly, the words causing her to go cold. “That’s ... crazy.”

  Another smile, this one more wry than sad. “It is what it is. The fact is we are not safe right now. We need to get to Weehawken as soon as possible.”

  He turned away from her and hailed a taxi. Almost immediately one glided to a stop beside them. He opened the back door, motioned for her to climb in first. She didn’t move.

  “Come on, get in.”

  Ashley said, “Is your name really Eli?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “Melissa told me your name was Frank.”

  A look of unease passed over his face.
Swallowing, he said, “There was a lot my daughter didn’t know about me.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  The question caught him off guard. At first it didn’t look like he knew how to answer her. Then, his face hardening, his eyes filling with confidence, he said, “Yes, unless you stick with me.”

  twenty-nine

  By the time we leave the city, the day has waned into twilight.

  Duncan drives us in his Jaguar up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the George Washington Bridge. It’s a long detour, especially to where I want to be, but I keep thinking back to what those guys said in the SUV, how they didn’t want to get trapped in the tunnel, and while I don’t know much about what’s going on, getting trapped in a tunnel doesn’t sound like a good idea. Of course, it’s just as possible to get trapped on a bridge, but if that were to happen, at least you can jump off the side and hope the fall doesn’t kill you, and if it doesn’t, hope not to drown before swimming back to shore.

  Duncan does a good job of not asking too many questions. He tried when he first picked me up, all curious because I’ve never called him to pick me up before and why was I talking in code (“Like, I understand this is the bar we first met at when you came back to the States, but why didn’t you just say so?”), but after a while he gave up trying to understand the significance of my silence, and so he just drives, up the parkway, across the bridge, and then south down US 1.

  The traffic is heavy, so maybe a half hour passes by the time we reach Weehawken. Duncan doesn’t turn off the highway, though, because I never told him we were headed to Weehawken. Instead he takes us toward Hoboken, and I direct him to some side streets, checking the side mirror every half minute to make sure we’re not being followed. I eventually have him pull off and stop along the curb.

  “Thanks for doing this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. And the money, too—I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

  He waves a dismissive hand, shaking off the five hundred bucks in twenties he gave me and which are now folded snug in my jeans pocket.

  I reach for the door.

  “John, what’s really going on here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing is what’s making you act like someone’s out to kill you.”

  Am I really that obvious?

  “Look, Duncan, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me today, and for the past four years.”

  I reach for the door again but stop when Duncan asks, “Is this about your sister?”

  I pause, thinking it over. “I’m not sure. It’s about a lot of things.”

  “Whatever it is, man, whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m sure we can work it out. You need a lawyer? I can get you a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer isn’t going to fix this.”

  “I’m worried about you, John. You never know when to stop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when we went skydiving? I was scared out of my mind. But you, man, you looked like you had done it a hundred times before.”

  “It was my first time, too.”

  “I know it was. Just like when we went bungee jumping. Just like when we got into that shark cage. Every time you talked me into doing some crazy shit, I went along with it because I thought it would be fun, but I was always scared out of my mind. But you ... you almost seemed bored by it.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is you’ve always been living on the edge, man, always staring death in the face. I’d hate to see you finally embrace it.”

  Headlights from behind fill up the interior of the Jaguar momentarily before blinking out.

  I glance back over my shoulder and whisper, “Shit.”

  “What is it?” Duncan checks the rearview mirror, slumps down in his seat. “Fuck, man.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” I say, but I know that can’t be true. Bad luck has been following me all day. Of course, it could be a coincidence, but I don’t like those chances. I also don’t like that I’m stuck in Duncan’s car, that Duncan is stuck here, too, a sudden accomplice.

  A police cruiser has pulled up behind us. Two cops are inside, and they’re both now stepping out of the car. We’re on a side street, a few cars going up and down, a few people out on the sidewalk. The light isn’t the greatest, so maybe that’s why the cops use their flashlights as they approach the car, shining the beams first in the backseat of the Jaguar, then into the front, at our faces.

  Duncan powers down his window. “Evening, Officer. What seems to be the problem?”

  The cop keeps shining his flashlight at Duncan’s face. “Is this your car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The cop recites a number and street name—our apartment. “Is that your address?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What brings you across the river tonight?”

  “Just meeting some friends for drinks. Did I do something wrong?”

  “Not you.” The cop leans down to look at me through the window. “Is he close by?”

  Duncan frowns at me. He says to the cop, “Excuse me, Officer?”

  The end of the cop’s flashlight connects with tip of Duncan’s nose, all with a snap of the wrist. It’s not a hard snap, but it’s effective, and blood immediately squirts everywhere.

  “Jesus,” the other cop says. “Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

  The cop keeps his gaze on me. It hasn’t wavered this entire time. “I’m going to ask you again, and this time I’m not going to be so nice to your friend. Is he close by?”

  When I don’t speak, the cop replaces the flashlight with a butterfly knife. It has a small handle, the kind that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand, and all at once the blade is open and plunging into Duncan’s throat.

  More blood squirts out, soaking Duncan’s shirt. Duncan jerks violently in his seat, his hands clawing at his neck, his safety belt keeping him in place.

  The other cop shouts, “What the fuck?”

  The cop on Duncan’s side leaves the knife where it is. He uses his free hand to unholster his sidearm, and uses the sidearm to shoot his partner in the face. He ducks back down to aim through the car window, but by that point I’ve already opened my door and dove out onto the sidewalk.

  “Where is he, John?” the cop yells.

  Others nearby have heard the shot. They’ve seen what the cop just did. One woman screams.

  The cop fires off a few more rounds in the direction of where the woman is standing.

  Glass shatters.

  A car alarm goes off.

  The woman screams again.

  “I’ll keep killing more people until you tell me where he is.”

  The cop starts around the car. I can see his shoes from where I am on the ground, trying to stay flat. It will only take him a few seconds before he reaches the sidewalk.

  More people scream and shout, and the cop fires off two more rounds.

  His partner lies dead only inches away from me. His sidearm is pointed at me, almost inviting. I grab it and tug but it doesn’t come at first. Then I realize it’s still snapped in its holster. I unsnap it and pull it free and aim it at the cop just as he circles the front of the car.

  “What,” he says, “you have the balls to shoot me? Go ahead, shoot me.”

  The gun leveled at the cop’s chest, I pull the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  “Forgot the safety, asshole.” The cop levels his own gun at me. “Now I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is he?”

  The Jaguar’s one headlight pops and shatters.

  The cop pauses. He turns his head toward the street, then begins to turn his entire body, raising the gun, as a series of gunshots sounds out. The cop fires off only one round, but by that point the shooter on the other side of the street has met his target.

  A bullet tears into the cop’s throat, then into his face.

  I don’t wait to see what happ
ens next.

  The dead cop’s gun in my hand, I scramble to my feet and run.

  thirty

  “Can you tell me about her?”

  Ashley stirred in the passenger seat, Eli’s sudden voice disrupting the calming silence.

  “Who?” she asked, though a beat later she knew exactly whom he meant.

  “Melissa. What was she like?”

  Ashley wasn’t quite sure how to answer this. She had known Melissa for so long, she knew so many different things about her, though she didn’t know where to start.

  “Did she ever talk about me?”

  The parking garage was dimly lit, casting shadows everywhere, especially in the Crown Vic which had been waiting for them once they finished with their circuitous route of taxi after taxi after taxi, a few subway trains thrown into the mix. All the money from the wallet had been used for a good cause, helping them escape Manhattan and sneak into New Jersey (not to mention also picking up a pair of sneakers from a sidewalk vendor for Ashley). The thought of what might have happened to the wallet’s owner—despite herself she kept thinking of all those crumpled motionless bodies in the coffee shop—was a heavy burden on her mind.

  Eli, sitting behind the wheel, tilted his face toward her. His eyes were almost completely drowned in shadows, though there was a slight twinkle, maybe tears.

  Ashley considered lying to the man, but in the end decided to tell the truth.

  “Not really. She did once, back in college. We had gone to a party and she had gotten drunk and some guy she liked blew her off. When we got back to our apartment, she kept drinking. And the more she drank, the angrier she got. Finally she mentioned you, which was something she had never done, so it made an impression. Something about how she had never really had a strong male role model in her life. How she almost never saw you, never talked to you. How occasionally she could actually get her mother on the phone, but never you. She said ... well, she said you were a horrible father.”