Empathy

by John Richmond

  Bilko took the coffee. “Thank you.” They grimaced simultaneously. “Jesus, that’s worse than ours,” she said.

  “But it’s got nine essential vitamins and minerals.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Charlie, you’re up to speed on the Phobia Killer case.”

  “You catch him yet or what?”

  “We’re still having trouble on that. You’re aware that he’s already killed one officer and abducted another.”

  Charlie nodded over the rim of his coffee cup.

  “Well, it gets better. There’s been a new development concerning your friend, Emily Burton.”

  “Emily?” He sat up. “What?”

  “She’s completely okay. We have her at the station in protective custody with her friend,” she squinted at a PDA, “Aaron Samuels.” Charlie noticed dark circles under the cop’s eyes. “They were both confronted by Fine in Central Park not an hour ago. Apparently, she attempted to contact you on your mobile phone first but couldn’t get through.”

  “Some hospitals got jammers. Cell phones can mess with some of the wireless tech we have. Used to just ask visitors to turn the damn things off, but people ignored us so they installed the jammers. It would’ve gone through at Sinai. Just not here.”

  “Jeez, it’s getting to be like Star Wars all over the place, isn’t it?” She held up the PDA. “I still don’t know half the stuff this thing can do.”

  “Why didn’t she just call the front desk?” Charlie said, then answered his own question. “Because I didn’t tell her which hospital I was at today.”

  “Correct. We had to call your agency to track you down.”

  “So, not that it’s not wonderful to see you again, Detective, but I’m wondering why you’re here. Why not just call or send a uniform?”

  “This is probably something you’re not going to like very much, Mr. Dunbar.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Charlie. Yeah, okay, look: Miss Burton is convinced that Fine is after her now. She won’t say why, but she’s certain about it and so is Mr. Samuels. I believe them and I don’t think it’s just trauma from dealing with that sick fucker in the park. Pardon my language.”

  “Not a fucking problem.”

  Bilko almost smiled. “Emily’s also convinced that Fine’s going to come after you to get to her. In fact, she thinks that he was able to find her in the first place because he had your address.”

  “How’d he get my address?”

  “She wouldn’t go into that.” Bilko sighed and sat back into the couch cushions. For a moment, she just closed her eyes and breathed. Charlie thought she might be asleep, but then she said, “She’s holding something back, but I don’t think it’s a bad. I think she’s afraid and doesn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

  “But you think she’s got information that can help you get Fine?”

  “No,” she opened her eyes. “No, I don’t think that. I think she would tell me if she knew something like that. She’s just scared of something.”

  “Maybe she’ll tell me when I see her?”

  “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Sorry? Is she in trouble?”

  “No, no. She can leave whenever she likes. She knows she’s safe with us. She’s just hanging out with her friend Samuels and entertaining the uniforms.”

  “Her dad was a cop.” He laughed. “She’s probably juggling bullets or something.”

  “Ah.” Bilko smiled and the smile faded. “There’s no nice way to say this. We want to use you as bait for Fine.”

  “You really think he’s going to come after me? Won’t he figure out that Emily’s smart enough to have gone to you guys?”

  “I think that’s true, yes. I also think that if he really does want her, but can’t get her, he’ll come after the next best thing: You.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Just sit on a hook like a good little nightcrawler until he makes a grab?”

  “Pretty much. We want you to finish your shift as normal. We’ve already got plain-clothes officers stationed all around the hospital. If he makes a play, we’ll grab him.”

  Charlie felt a bead of sweat itch and sting its way out of his armpit. “I’m, uh, I’m not really sure. I mean, shit, what if he doesn’t do anything here and then tries to get me at home? I’d love to help you get this guy, but—”

  “We’ll have officers stationed outside your apartment as well. He’s not going to be able to get anywhere near you. We just want you to flush him into the open. When he’s visible, we’ll throw the net.” She was quiet a moment, letting him think. “He’s still got that officer he abducted earlier. We don’t know if she’s alive or not, but her kids would like some resolution one way or another on that one.”

  Charlie stared at her. “Now, I have to fucking say ‘yes’, right? Fuck.”

  “Try to understand: If we position you out front, we’re in control of the set-up and we have the initiative. If we just keep chasing him on his terms… Look, he killed one armed officer and abducted another. We need your help here, Charlie.”

  “I can practically feel the fishhook up my ass.”

  Bilko nodded and took another sip of coffee. “God-damn that’s bad.”

  * * *

  THE REST OF the day rolled by about fast as congealed blood. Charlie knew the two undercovers were around, but for the most part he never saw them. Once, he’d caught a flash of the one with the red hair—very inconspicuous, that one. Bilko had introduced both of them before she’d left, but Charlie had yet to lay eyes on the Asian one since. He was good. Detective Kimata was on-loan from D.C. Homicide: some kind of exchange program. The redhead was Reeves and would look like he was fourteen until he was a hundred and fourteen.

  Charlie checked his watch against the pulse of a young woman walk-in complaining of shortness of breath. A plastic clothespin pinched her finger, sending data to a monitor that measured both pulse and oxygen levels, but he didn’t trust the machine.

  “My chest be all tight,” she said, left hand flapping around her breast bone. Her eyes went wide, white. “You think the terrorists be gassing again?”

  Charlie dropped her wrist gently. He had the count at three BPM slower than the monitor, but it wasn’t enough to matter. She was talking about that strange incident on Fifth the other day. “You mean that thing with all those people having infarctions at the same time.”

  “What you mean infractions? Newspaper say they all had heart attacks.”

  Charlie rolled up her sleeve and slipped a blood pressure cuff around her arm. She had a tattoo of a bunny with “Lil’ Boo” inked on her biceps. It looked like cheap work. He made a mental note to recommend the lab check for Hep-C.

  “Same thing. Infarction is a kind of heart attack.” He squeezed the bulb and the cuff inflated around her arm. “Just don’t move a sec’.” He checked his watch again, counting beats and noticing that he was off in another few minutes. “There,” he said, releasing the cuff with a hiss. “You’re good. One-ten over seventy-five is great.”

  “I feel okay now,” she said. “I don’t know what was up with my stuff earlier.”

  “What happened just before you came in?”

  “I was rolling up East Ninth and I just started wheezing, you know? I was running to catch a number three bus.”

  Charlie gave her an easy smile. He’d seen hard days too. “Ended up catching an ambulance instead.”

  She returned it, sheepish. He was cute for a short white boy. “Yeah. Guess I did. Stupid job kept me late.”

  “I get that.” Charlie said, glancing at her chart. “You got asthma, Tisha?”

  “Sometimes, but not like I use one of them puffer things.” She double-pumped the air with her thumb and forefinger. “My cousin, Raymond? He use one.”

  “Well, today was a bad air quality day and sometimes asthma gets worse as you get older. A lot of the time actually. When the doc comes over, you tell him about your c
ousin, okay? Tell him about running, too.”

  “You leaving?”

  He smiled and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Yeah, sugar, I got to go. My day’s over. You okay now? I don’t need to get the de-fib paddles for you?”

  “The what?”

  Charlie put his fists against his chest and jerked. “Clear!”

  She smiled and waved him off. “No need, no need. I be all right.”

  “Stay that way now.” He smiled and walked off.

  Ten minutes later Charlie stood in his blue scrubs on the corner of Fulton and Anne, waiting for the light to turn. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The leaves on the little sidewalk trees in front of the hospital looked like rags, the sky was a lead sheet over the Hudson. A sear in the wavering air marked the sun behind the soup. The city’s breath stank of car exhaust, garbage and urine. It was the first really disgusting day of summer and it was only going to get worse. He’d said as much earlier, making small talk with his two new undercover shadows. Kimata had laughed and said something about D.C. and real heat.

  The light flipped and Charlie surged across the sticky asphalt in a small crowd of working stiffs. One of them had red hair and clumped along in what could only be described as “cop shoes”. Charlie scanned the crowd for Kimata, but the D.C. exchange cop was nowhere he could see. Probably off getting a doughnut, or—Bang!—a jogger brushed past. He muttered, “Sorry, man. Sorry,” and padded up the block. Just as he took the corner, the jogger threw Charlie a sliver of eye contact. Kimata. Charlie tried not to smile. He cast a glance over at Reeves. Kid hadn’t even noticed.

  Charlie trudged down the block not noticing the heat or the way the bottom of his sneakers stuck to the sidewalk. He didn’t notice the panhandlers. He didn’t catch the cloud of flies whining over an open trash can or the bars of cooler air in the shadows of skyscrapers. He thought about Fine. The Phobia Killer was out there. He was looking for him. He was going to hurt him to get to Emily. Jesus, he couldn’t believe this. Who had a life like this?

  Charlie walked by a storefront psychic and palm reader. The sign was a big hand surrounded by a mystic aura of flaking paint. Charlie thought about that MRI scan that Harlan had taken of Fine. It had been an awful lot like Emily’s.

  When Charlie had spoken to Bilko that afternoon, she’d said that Emily and Samuels were being moved to a safe location until the cops could get to Fine. Which was where Charlie rode in on his big fucking white horse. Jesus, what if Fine could do the same shit Emily could do? It’s not like he could have brought up that possibility with Bilko. But officer, what if Darth Phobia just yanks the door off its hinges and throws me out the window without even touching me? What? Why are you looking at me like that?

  God, he wished he could just talk to Em. They’d taken his cell phone—too easy to eavesdrop. Apparently, any jackass with twenty bucks and access to a Radio Shack could listen in. They couldn’t take the chance that Fine was any jackass. If he could just call her and find out what happened in the park with Samuels…

  Years ago, Charlie had spoiled himself with a trip to Jamaica and gone snorkeling in silty water. Floating alone—the sun streaming in bars past his head and dragging his sight line into the gloom—he’d felt eyes. Sharks, barracuda, moray eels—shadows in the deep. He’d hauled ass out of the water so fast, he’d bloodied his toes on some coral.

  Fine was out there, watching him, circling.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re fucking going.”

  Charlie looked into a red, sweaty face—just some mook on his way home that Charlie had almost run over. “S’cuse me.” He pushed past and kept going. Couldn’t blame the guy. It was hot as hell and Charlie hadn’t been paying attention. People, especially New Yorkers, got testy in the heat. Charlie hugged his arms and rubbed. He was fucking freezing.

  * * *

  DRUM SCENTED CHARLIE’S anxiety like a fine mist of blood on the air. No need to keep him in sight as long as he reeked of fear. Three blocks back and one block over, Drum loped slowly along, a plastic bag swinging at his side. His long gait matched Charlie’s shorter, quicker stride. An overhead spy camera would make them out as two ants scuttling in the same direction along staggered paths. Drum was aware of the cops as well. The young one tailed the nurse like a terrier barely in control of its own bladder, pissing excitement and self-importance all over the sidewalk. The Asian one was proving more difficult. Drum stretched out and tried to find him, frowned—he’d dropped off the radar. His feelings had been easy enough to latch onto at the hospital, all that false cool and world weariness covered a precision and respect for danger that Drum found unique. The increased distance smeared the Asian cop’s signature into the miasma of Mid-town sarcasm and edge.

  Drum had arrived at the hospital looking to take Charlie there, just as Bilko had hoped, but he wasn’t about to hand himself to them. The air in the place had been charged with anticipation and fear. He was powerful, but they had the advantage. He would take that back. Drum tightened his grip on the bag. At least his trip to the hospital hadn’t been a total waste. The facets of his plan were arranging themselves into a perfect matrix almost too easily. He would make sure Charlie went to his apartment and then allow the police to settle themselves. After that it was just one more stop off at the local drug store.

  A bounce romped into his step. In spite of the heat, he wanted to skip. In another two or three hours, the city would be roiling in panic. Soon after, he would summon the woman and taste it all. He did skip once and caught himself. He stood outside of the greatest theme park in the world and was the only little boy in line.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 24

  THE RADIO SQUAWKED, “What’s a five letter word for ‘surveil’ ending in ‘ch’.” Chris Kimata had the handset on the windowsill of his perch, a room in an ancient hotel that smelled of cabbage and a long line of former occupants. His mouth quirked under the giant insect eyes of a pair of binoculars. He grabbed the radio and pressed the send button, “Watch,” he said, and then returned his amplified sight back to the apartment window across the street.

  His back was killing him: he’d sweated out half of a two liter bottle of water and the other half was trying to explode his bladder. The bathroom was just down the hall, but Kimata was the eyes for this little op. Reeves—playing lost tourist, scowling behind a map in the front seat of his unmarked on the street below—was the legs. If Kimata saw the target he would radio Reeves who would call in for back-up and pounce. It was a regular plan, square and simple. Chris sighed and shifted in his seat. It sucked. He couldn’t exactly say why, but it felt all kinds of bad. He hated feeling like this. Problem was he was usually right.

  “What’s a seven letter word for ‘basic’? Starts with ‘a’.” Reeves paused. “Basic? What the fuck are they talking about?”

  “Ammonia,” Kimata said. “Stop screwing around on the radio.” His bladder was a balloon in his gut, a bowling ball. Ammonia. The universe fucking hated him. Kimata panned the binocs to the living room window. Charlie was just sitting around watching television, a mostly un-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. Chris wanted a sandwich. He sighed and pressed the send button. “Reeves? My teeth are floating. Keep your eyes open for a minute, copy?”

  “Drainin’ the lizard, copy.”

  Kimata squinted at Charlie’s TV, someone in a suit and very square hair was talking about a little picture that floated off his left shoulder. Chris couldn’t tell what the little picture was. He put down the binocs and duck-walked into the hall. He opened the door and exchanged old cabbage for ancient sweat socks and cigarette smoke. The bathroom was at least unoccupied. Decorated in early Chainsaw Massacre: stark, dirty, harshly lit, but with an empty and functioning toilet. Chris unzipped and opened the mains, releasing a huge sigh. Something skittered in his peripheral vision, but the firehose stream tied him to the bowl. Probably nothing he wanted to see anyway. He used his foot to flush.

  Kimata floated back to the window in a state of Zen relief
and plopped into the squeaky desk chair his ass-cheeks were beginning to call home. He checked that Charlie was still riveted to the idiot box and picked up the radio. He was just thumbing the send button when it shrieked in his hand.

  “All units, all units-- Respond code 139, corner of 94th and Broadway. Code 139. Repeat all units—this is a code 139 at the corner of 94th and Broadway.”

  Kimata looked down at the street just as Reeves’s unmarked screamed away from the curb in a cloud of burnt rubber. He jumped up from the chair hard enough to knock it over and leaned out the window. 94th and Broad was just up the block from them. A crowd was boiling down the street away from the location of the all-units. The faces were as varied as multicolored river stones, but their wide, white eyes made them a single swarming species. Kimata squinted as Reeves’s big sedan slowed (just in time) to gently part the crowd and push toward the disturbance. Just beyond, Kimata could see the cause of their fear and of the code. A 139 meant a possible terrorist strike. A cloud of wispy gas the color of a smoker’s teeth billowed from the broken front window of a market.

  Kimata stared. “Oh, fuck me.”

  A flicker of motion in the peripheral turned his head in time to catch a foot, a man’s shoe, disappearing into the front entrance of Charlie’s apartment building as the swarm flowed past. Kimata sighed and looked at the ceiling. The paint was cracked and yellowed. He could hear the screams now over the radio’s repeated calls for all units to respond. Sirens began to answer in the distance. “Oh, fuck me,” Kimata repeated. “I hate being right.”

  * * *

  THE BOMB’S BEAUTY was its simplicity. Easy to construct, and the plans were even easier to find. It had taken Drum ten minutes and the cost of an overpriced cup of coffee at the Cyber Café five blocks away from the little nursey-nurse’s apartment to get the formula. He’d already known the ingredients for chlorine gas as any med school grad would.

  The challenge was the delivery system, but as always, Dr. Drummond Fine was able to count on the minds of the disturbed to see him through. And the disturbed just seemed to adore the World Wide Web. Clever little spiders, spinning anarchy. It wasn’t a question of finding a device, but which to choose. There were those that relied on timers, some electronic, some chemical. www.blowupyourmom.com recommended a cell phone detonator that appealed to the gadget-lover in Drum, but in the end he went with simplicity. Chuckling to himself and sipping on his double-shot latte with caramel whip, Drum chose a fan, a bucket of bleach, a container of ammonia and gravity.