9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev

by Unknown

  Then he turned and walked jauntily across the lobby to the exit. He let himself out of the building, rubbing the powdered finger onto the door handle as he did so, and headed into the city.

  * * * * *

  A few blocks away from the bank, Diane Heidler came across a small park with one corner devoted to a children’s play area. She entered and sat on a bench just inside the entrance. The park was edged with trees that would in summer provide leafy shade from the dry heat of the day. Now the trees stood forlorn and skeletal beneath a gloomy December sky. It hadn’t rained for a few days. That might soon change, Diane thought. It probably explained why nobody else was in the park.

  She knew what the canister contained and didn’t want to be opening it in rain. She pulled the knapsack onto her lap and opened the zip. The canister lay within, nestling on crisp dollar bills. She stood it upright, keeping it within the knapsack to shield it from the light breeze, and held it tight with her left hand while she unscrewed the lid with her right.

  With a slight hiss, the lid came away and she allowed it to drop to one side, though it remained attached by a black plastic strip. She quickly unscrewed the disc that covered the neck of the canister. With another small exhalation of air, the disc came free. Tapping it on the rim to shake off any clinging dust, she removed it and placed it on the bench by her side. Like Bishop had done a couple of hours earlier on the opposite side of the globe, she dipped her index finger into the canister, then withdrew it and held it up for inspection.

  The powder covered the top half of her finger like cement, except that this powder wasn’t grey. In the daylight, it seemed almost colourless, translucent as water. In strong sunlight, it would be all but invisible. She turned her finger this way and that, seeing the occasional flake lift away and be immediately lost on the breeze. Most of the powder, however, remained on her finger, clinging to it as pollen to a bee’s leg. It had been designed this way.

  Diane moved her hand back to the top of the canister and rubbed at her index finger with her thumb. Although the powder could not be easily dislodged by moving air, it readily dropped away under the friction of her thumb. She nodded, satisfied.

  She changed grips, using her right hand to grip the canister, and lowered her left hand towards the opening.

  Anyone describing Diane’s physical appearance would use words like “dainty” and “petite.” Her hands were no exception. Fine-boned and narrow, they, like the rest of her, showed no signs of her age.

  By pulling her left thumb in towards her little finger, bringing all five digits together in a tight cluster, she was able to comfortably lower her entire hand into the body of the canister. She thrust it down, deep into the powder, wiggling her fingers a little, covering her hand to the wrist. As she withdrew it, she continued to wiggle her fingers to dislodge any excess.

  Avoiding touching anything with her left hand, she placed the canister between her left arm and chest. Clutching it tightly under her arm, she used her right hand to replace the disc and lid. Happy that the canister’s contents were secure, she dropped the silvery flask back into the knapsack and rezipped it. Still only using her right hand, she shrugged the knapsack over her right shoulder.

  One corner of the park was taken up with the children’s play area. A slide, two sets of swings, a merry-go-round made of wood with a running board and steel arms for clinging onto while it whirled around.

  Diane walked over to the play area, stopping first by the merry-go-round. She stretched out her left hand and touched one of the cold steel arms. The mechanism was well-maintained and the merry-go-round began to turn easily. She moved her hand to the next steel arm and touched that, too, making the ride turn a little faster. She repeated the process, touching each arm with her left hand, before allowing the ride to ease gently to a standstill.

  Glancing around to make sure she was still alone, she peered closely at one of the steel arms. She could see smears of the powder where her fingers had brushed the metal, but only because she knew it was there. It was faint and almost transparent even in this gloomy light. She doubted that anybody else would notice it; even if they did, she doubted whether it would cause any concern. Not yet, anyway.

  Next she walked to the slide and ran the back of her left hand over the metal handrails that children used to help them climb the steps. Again, the powdery residue that she smeared on the metal was barely discernible to a casual glance.

  Finally she moved to the swings and ran the fingers of her left hand along the guard rails that younger children would cling to as they swung, allowing the chains of the swings for older children to slide between her fingers, removing the powder that lay in the gaps. She stopped at the last swing and sat, setting it in motion with graceful movements of her slim legs before allowing the swing to slow of its own accord. She stared out at the city, barely aware of the noise of traffic and distant cries of children in some school yard.

  The breeze freshened and she clutched her jacket more tightly to her. A light shower should have little effect on her handiwork. More persistent rain or a heavy downpour may undo it, but it rarely rained heavily in L.A., even in December.

  A young woman entered the park, clutching the hand of a young child of about three or four. The child was clad in a padded green anorak and matching woolly hat with ear flaps secured by a ribbon tied beneath his chin. He tugged at his mother’s hand, eager to reach the slide.

  Diane watched as the child ascended the steps to the top of the slide under the alert eye of the woman, tightly gripping the handrail as he climbed. He reached the top and clambered awkwardly—as though he wasn’t accustomed to being hampered by an anorak—onto his bottom. Before he pushed off, the boy wiped the palm of his hand across his nose.

  “Jarod!” the woman called sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t use your hands to wipe your nose.”

  Jarod pushed himself off and swooped down the slide, almost shooting off the end but managing to arrest his forward motion just in time by planting his legs either side of the chute. He staggered to a halt in a series of short, stuttering steps. He turned a flushed, happy face towards his mother who was by his side in an instant, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief. Then she wiped his hands before allowing him to toddle back to the steps for another go. Before replacing the handkerchief in the pocket of her coat, the woman wiped her own nose briefly.

  Diane stood and left the park without a backward glance at the mother and child. She turned to the north, towards Hollywood.

  She kept as far as possible to the more populated areas: pedestrian thoroughfares, shopping malls, parks. As she walked, she’d stretch out a hand from time to time and let it trail along handrails or across handles to doorways. She entered shops selling trinkets and browsed for a few minutes, picking items up and replacing them. She made purchases, extracting notes from her knapsack, fingering them as though deliberating whether or not to proceed, before handing them over. Her purchases she deposited into the next litter bin she passed.

  Occasionally she’d stop and rummage in her knapsack, thrusting her hands deep inside, fiddling with something before continuing on her way. She passed a homeless beggar and paused to deposit some coins into his outstretched fingers.

  It took her a couple of hours to reach Hollywood. After visiting the Chinese Theatre, she stopped in a bistro to eat, borrowing the salt cellar from an adjoining table and returning it to be used by the family of diners seated there. She made sure she used the pepper pot that was on her table, though she disliked the flavour of pepper. Again she paid with well-handled cash.

  A light shower started when she left the bistro. It didn’t daunt her. She turned west, towards Beverly Hills. She looked forward to leaving her mark there.

  * * * * *

  The air in Central Park was cold and crisp. Milandra’s breath billowed from her mouth as she walked. She breathed easily, in spite of her bulk and the frosty air. She didn’t intend going far, but she felt the need to take in the winter
air and feel the sun, however weak, on her head before the Deputies arrived. She didn’t think they would allow her to leave the apartment for the next few weeks.

  She strolled south in that peculiar rolling gait, like a ship in a heavy swell, past Strawberry Fields, and chose a bench within sight of the park entrance where the horse and carts were plying their trade to the never-ending streams of tourists. Tourists that would likely be leaving within a day or two or three, returning to their homes all over the world.

  It was mid morning and the park was, as always, busy. Only heavy, drenching rain or extreme sub-zero temperatures seemed to discourage visitors to the park and even then the occasional hardy soul could be seen braving the conditions. Central Park had that magnetic effect, drawing visitors and natives alike.

  A group of Japanese tourists walked past her bench, cameras at the ready. Milandra looked away, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye and be asked to take a group photograph. Ordinarily, she would have been happy to oblige, but not today, despite it being the last chance she would have to interact with ordinary people. Or perhaps because of it.

  She could not shake the vague feeling of disquiet that had settled into her ancient bones since she had pressed the send button on her computer. It was not a feeling to which she was accustomed nor that she could afford. She bore a great responsibility on her shoulders and needed to remain steadfast for the sake of her remaining people. That responsibility would be relieved, perhaps even removed—she could only hope—when the others arrived, but that would not be for another five or six months. Until then, it was hers, and hers alone, to bear.

  So she cast her gaze upwards at the pale, almost colourless, sky or at the bare trees or towards the Plaza Hotel and Fifth Avenue. Anywhere other than at the passing people.

  The man approached from the north, from the direction of her apartment. She sensed him coming long before she could see him. She looked in that direction, waiting for him to come into sight. He could, she knew, sense her presence, too. When he came into view, walking briskly, arms swinging by his sides, he was scanning the path ahead, looking for her. He found her and their gazes locked. Neither made any sign of acknowledgement.

  Milandra watched him approach, wondering whether he would walk on by. As he drew nearer, she could see that he had a small knapsack on his back.

  The man slowed, as though debating whether to stop. Then he walked up to her and stopped before her. He did not sit.

  “Milandra?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  She did not require his permission, not in her position, but she sought it anyway. She probed gently, merely nudging the surface.

  The man nodded and she probed a little deeper, just far enough to see it. There! A small worm of doubt, mirroring her own that she was trying so hard to quell.

  Milandra withdrew and smiled up at him, a smile that hinted at shared grief.

  “Be strong,” she said. “We have to be strong.”

  The man nodded again.

  “I’ve come from Harlem,” he said. His tone was expressionless. “Going to work my way down through Midtown, then West Village and Greenwich. Battery Park by evening and on to Staten Island.”

  Milandra didn’t need to hear this—she knew without being told—but she let him continue.

  “Tomorrow Brooklyn and Queens,” he said. “Then a Greyhound to Albany.”

  She glanced down at his ungloved hands. His right hand glistened faintly in the weak sunlight, the only hint of its powdery coating.

  The man followed her gaze and held up his right hand self-consciously. His smile was almost embarrassed, sheepish.

  “The hand of God?” he muttered. He dropped his arm back to his side.

  “Well,” he said. “I guess I’d best be on my way.”

  “Yes,” said Milandra. “Me too. I’ve dallied here long enough. Good luck. We’ll meet again soon. At the airport.”

  “Yes,” said the man. “Till then.”

  He turned away and began to stride purposefully toward the park exit. Milandra watched him until he crossed the road and was lost to sight down Seventh Avenue, heading for Times Square.

  She turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes for a few moments. Then she stood and walked back to her apartment.

  Chapter Four

  It had gone four o’clock by the time Troy Bishop returned to his apartment, foot-sore but exultant. The first hint of dawn was streaking the sky as he let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him.

  He extracted the polythene bag from the pocket of his shorts. Almost a third of the powder remained, which pleased him. The way it gleamed faintly in the moonlight when he rubbed it onto things had caused him to christen the powder ‘Moondust’. He had already covered a large part of the city, jogging and pausing to touch things and jogging again, and would probably only use half of what remained in the bag in finishing Sydney off. That would leave him with a plentiful supply for the airport and the capital, Canberra, then every coastal settlement between Sydney and Melbourne.

  By the time he reached Melbourne, half the population of Sydney would likely already be dead and the other half dying.

  Bishop threw back his head and laughed long and hard. Tears of mirth squeezed helplessly from his eyes and rolled down his chiselled cheekbones. The fit of laughter became so prolonged that he had to sit on the bed until at last it passed, leaving him with an aching stomach and a general feeling of weakness that he didn’t like one bit and that drove away the last vestiges of humour.

  He needed to be in the sun.

  He began casting around the apartment, deciding what he would need on his journey, though he preferred to think of it more as a crusade. A giggle rose unbidden in his throat and he quickly banished it.

  A few changes of clothes went into a suitcase—he may have limited opportunity to buy more as he travelled. He paused at his dressing table, eyeing his collection of gold jewellery. Monetary value would soon become meaningless, but he liked the weight of the bracelet on his wrist and the pendant around his neck. Shrugging, he put them on. Gathering the rings and watches (by Cartier, Rolex and Hublot) and chains, all gold, all satisfyingly heavy, he chucked them into the case on top of the clothes.

  Into another case he packed bottles of water and foodstuff, mainly tinned and dried. The suitcases were small—his car was built for speed, not storage—but they held sufficient for his needs.

  Finally, he retrieved a small holdall from the top shelf of his walk-in wardrobe. Into this went a couple more bottles of water, a few thousand dollars in cash and the silvery metallic canister. From the drawer of his bedside table, he removed a black automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. The handle of the pistol was smooth and gleamed as though well-handled. The pistol and box of cartridges went into the bag, too, alongside the canister. The polythene bag went back into the pocket of his shorts.

  He attached the shoulder strap to the holdall and hoisted it over his right shoulder. At the door, he looked back at his apartment. He liked this apartment; loved this city, despite its people. He had every intention of one day returning. Even if he couldn’t, he did not want anybody else intruding on his space.

  He unlocked the door, thrust it wide and moved the suitcases into the corridor. He locked the door, listening to the satisfying clunk of the deadlocks engaging.

  Hefting a suitcase in each hand, he headed for the basement car park.

  * * * * *

  The telephone began to ring as Tom let himself into his house. He knew who it was; she was the only person who ever rang on the landline and the only reason he bothered to keep a handset plugged into it. He dropped his bag in the hallway and hurried through to the living room to answer it.

  “Hi, Mam,” he said.

  “Tom? Tom? Is that you?”

  “Who else calls you ‘Mam’?”

  “Well, no-one. You’re an only child.”

  Tom tried manfully to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Exactly.”
r />   “I’m ringing to see if you’re still coming to tea.”

  “Yes, Mam. I told you last night I’m coming.”

  “Oh, good. I’m making your favourite. Sausages and mash with baked beans.”

  “Mmm,” said Tom. He felt it impolitic to mention that this had been his favourite meal twenty years ago and his tastes had grown a little more sophisticated. “Look, I’ve just got in from work. I’ll have a quick change and then I’ll be on my way. Be with you within the hour, all right? By six at the latest.”

  “All right, love. Drive carefully.”

  “Yes, Mam.”

  Tom replaced the handset and sighed. He felt like collapsing in front of the television with a takeaway and bottle of wine, and that in turn made him feel guilty.

  Years of working underground in the coal mines had eventually caught up with his father six months ago. His mother had still not grown used to not having her husband around—she had relied on him for virtually everything from taking care of their finances to gardening and jobs around the house. Tom had helped her as much as he could: showing her how to reconcile her monthly bank statements, mowing her lawns, arranging to pay her bills by direct debits so she wouldn’t have to remember to pay them. It never seemed to be enough and he sometimes resented the unspoken demands she made of him. And he then hated himself for feeling that resentment.

  Tom removed his coat and went upstairs to change. Ten minutes later, he was back in his car heading towards Swansea.

  His mother lived in a terraced property on the outskirts of the city. As usual, Tom had to hunt for a parking space and ended up leaving his car almost half a mile away. It was just turning six when he reached his mother’s front door. He had a key and could have let himself in, but part of him refused to acknowledge that he and his mother were that trusting of each other. He knocked.

  She answered the door in her apron, wiping her hands in a teatowel.

  “Tom! There you are,” she said. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

  Tom stepped forward and kissed her cheek, bending a little. Every time he saw her, she seemed to have shrunk a bit more, somehow diminishing before his eyes. But some things never changed: she still smelled of apples and lavender and wintergreen, though overlaid by the aroma of fried food.