by Judith Gould
Duncan was relying on gut instinct, not conscious thought. And instinct made him turn now. “Hold on,” he told Billie grimly, simultaneously twisting the wheel, and downshifting so madly the Ferrari went into a broadside skid that brought it, tires screeching, two entire lanes over. When the car came to a stop, it was angled across Sixth Avenue, its rakish hood pointing westward into Twenty-ninth Street.
Duncan didn’t waste a second. Speed-shifting as fast as his hand allowed, he stomped on the accelerator. With another squeal of its tires, the Ferrari left Sixth Avenue behind in a cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber and shot crosstown on Twenty-ninth as though powered by rocket fuel.
Billie felt herself pushed back in her seat by the force of the takeoff. After a moment, she twisted around and looked back through the rear window.
A cry caught in her throat. Snake’s big Harley was just banking around the corner.
He was practically on them! They didn’t stand a chance in hell of losing him, not in city traffic where, for all the Ferrari’s speed, maneuverability stood in the biker’s favor.
“Doc . . .” she warned haltingly.
“I see him,” Duncan said tightly. “Just sit back and hold on.”
She grabbed hold of the dashboard with both hands, but even so, she wasn’t prepared for the way he threw the car into a sharp left at the intersection at Seventh Avenue. It was more like flying than driving.
They burst downtown for three short blocks, then made an even sharper left onto Twenty-sixth Street.
A serious mistake.
“Damn!” Duncan growled as he was forced to slow down. Up ahead, a car and a van were waiting at a red light. There was no way he could tadpole the Ferrari past. “We’re stuck.”
As if to prove that point, Snake at that very moment pulled past the driver’s side of the car, his left hand holding the bike steady. Raising his right hand high, he swung a length of heavy chain.
Billie threw her arms protectively up over her face, but Duncan was too busy doing fancy hand- and footwork to think of self-protection. Clenching his teeth, he slammed the car in reverse.
The Ferrari virtually flew backward. The heavy chain links, intended for the windshield, missed and glanced off the hood instead. Metal crashed against metal and a shower of sparks burst up into the night air. Then Snake was past, his engine roar diminishing, his taillight brightening as he applied the brakes.
After the initial shock of the attack, Billie lowered her arms from her face. “Your poor car,” she said, leaning forward to survey the damage in the sickly glow of the streetlights. Her hair fell forward, hiding her profile from him. “It’s all my fault,” she murmured, turning a white, scared face toward him. “I’m sorry, Doc.”
“Keep quiet and keep down,” Duncan advised her grimly, already in the process of backing the car to Seventh Avenue as fast as it would go. He was hoping to make a getaway in reverse, but as though conspiring with Snake, two cabs turned into the street, hemming him in from behind.
Duncan couldn’t back up any further. Cursing, he applied the brakes.
Now he was in trouble. Big trouble. He ground his teeth savagely. He and Billie were trapped. Between the vehicles up ahead and those behind, he had maybe a hundred feet of maneuverability, max. And those hundred feet were all in front of him. Desperately he shifted back into first gear. But that was as far as he got. He had to shield his eyes with his hand.
The Harley’s blinding high beam was racing right at them—on a collision course!
“Doc!” Billie’s hand dug into his arm like a steel claw.
“He wouldn’t,” Duncan said with more certainty than he felt.
Then, just as they braced themselves against the inevitable crash, Snake swerved neatly sideways and roared past the passenger side with bare inches to spare. His chain struck Billie Dawn’s damaged side window, sending a shower of glass erupting into the car’s interior.
Billie let out a scream, not so much of fear as of fury.
“Are you hurt?” were the first words out of Duncan’s mouth.
“I . . . I don’t think so,” she said, furiously shaking glass out of her hair. She shook her head and added, “The chain missed me.”
“Thank God!” he said fervently. Hearing brakes squealing, they both twisted around in their seats and glanced back. Already, Snake had braked and was turning the bike around to make another run at them.
“Je-sus!” Duncan said incredulously. “Doesn’t he ever give up?”
With another roar, Snake came at them from behind, the chain ready to swing again. This time it crashed down on the Ferrari’s roof.
The whole car shook under the impact. It sounded like a giant with cleated boots had stomped on it.
“That ape’s going to kill us!” Billie whispered.
Duncan’s features hardened. “Oh no, he won’t,” he declared from between clenched teeth as, just ahead, Snake was once again turning the bike for another charge.
But Duncan Cooper was fighting mad now. He wasn’t going to wait for the light to change like a cornered duck; above all, he wasn’t going to allow that fiend to beat the shit out of Billie or himself—or his prized car any longer.
Abruptly stepping on the gas and twisting the wheel, Duncan threw the Ferrari into a sharp left and, leaning on the horn, jumped it up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. A few yards further on, the right fender plowed into a trashcan and sent debris flying. Just yards ahead, some New York pedestrians, that hardiest and most self-protective of species, were clustered around a sidewalk jobber hawking yo-yos that glowed poisonously green in the dark. The moment they were bathed in the Ferrari’s headlights, the crowd virtually flew aside. All but the vendor. He was standing behind his folding table and simply flattened himself against the building’s grimy brick wall.
The Ferrari plowed into the table and flung it aside. Glowing yo-yos went flying, and rained down like giant green hailstones.
Duncan jumped the Ferrari back off the curb, joined the traffic pouring up Sixth Avenue, and fought his way into the right-most lane.
Billie twisted around in her seat. Behind them, the vendor had jumped into the street and was gesticulating wildly and screaming obscenities after them. But he, too, was apparently possessed of that special urban streak of self-preservation. Hearing the Harley bearing down on him from behind, he dived across the hood of a parked car just in the nick of time.
The chase was back on. And Snake, like a driven demon, was just three cars behind the Ferrari.
Duncan knew his only chance to shake him was to find empty streets and rely purely on speed. But empty Manhattan streets were few and far between, especially above Twenty-third Street. So what was left?
Without warning, he threw the car into another sharp right at Twenty-eighth Street.
So far, so good. This street was blessedly clear of traffic. Duncan opened up all the way, slowed and burned the red light, creating automotive pandemonium in the intersection of Fifth Avenue. Each time he looked in the mirror, the single high beam of the Harley blinded him.
He made another sudden turn, a left, on Park Avenue South. By now, the roller-coaster turns were making Billie nauseated. Her stomach heaved. Fear and fury only added to the bilious churning inside her.
Then suddenly her nausea was forgotten. Other, more pressing problems were at hand. Park Avenue South was clogged with cars and cabs and trucks.
Duncan jumped lanes, squeezing aggressively into any available opening.
Twenty-ninth Street was left behind.
Thirtieth was coming up. Snake was now only one car behind, and was beginning to pass on the right.
Three blocks ahead, the two center lanes, one northbound and one southbound, dipped into the tunnel underneath Park Avenue. A yellow sign above it read CLEARANCE 9 FT 2 IN, and flashing amber lights warned unwary motorists of its maw.
Duncan kept in the lane to the right of the one leading down into the tunnel, as though intending to head up the avenue above g
round. Then, at the last possible moment, he cramped the wheel to the left, cutting off a tailgating cab, and veered toward the tunnel entrance.
The Ferrari dived into it. The Harley, for all its maneuverability, was blocked by the cab Duncan had cut off. In fact, it was all Snake could do to avoid being sideswiped and getting a bad case of asphalt rash.
“He’s gone,” Billie said with relief, inching her head up over the seat and looking back.
But the biker wasn’t finished. Braking, he made a U-turn, headed fearlessly against the one-way traffic and, ignoring the blaring of horns, wove his way past the oncoming cars and backtracked to the entrance. A few deft twists and turns later, he was in the tunnel.
“Don’t be so sure,” Duncan said, glancing into the rearview mirror. He caught sight of a single wobbly headlight.
Snake was in a rage. His tawny eyes blazed with a crazed light and he roared curses into the wind. The killing fever that gripped him in a chokehold was blinding; revenge was all that mattered. Right now, nothing else existed.
Only Shirl and some rich asshole in a spaghetti burner.
The tunnel’s confines amplified the roar of the Harley’s engine to a shattering crescendo, and as he shot ahead in fourth gear, the orangey lights lining the curved tile walls became a blur. The oncoming lane was empty, and there was only one uptown-bound car ahead.
The red Ferrari.
“Got ya, cocksuckers!” Snake snarled, banking into the empty lane and opening the throttle all the way.
Billie said, “If we couldn’t shake him already, what are we going to do once we’re out of the tunnel and stuck back in traffic?”
“I’ll think of something,” Duncan said with an expressionless smile, and reached for the door handle. He kept his left hand on it.
He knew what he would do if he was forced to: if the bike passed for another attack, he would open his door at the very last second— and the bike would plow right into it. The Ferrari would lose a door—the biker might lose his life.
Don’t make me do it, Duncan prayed silently, his eyes flickering constantly to the rearview mirror. I’m a doctor, for crying out loud!
But there was no time to debate the ethics of his defensive actions. Sitting up straight, Duncan suddenly feathered the brakes, careful not to go into a skid.
Snake’s snarling grin turned into a frown as the Ferrari’s brake lights suddenly lit up like twin Christmas trees. “What the hell?” he muttered to himself. Why was that yuppie fuckface slowing down? Did he want a trashed car?
Then he grinned again.
All right, you assholes! Say bye-bye to that pretty red car. And to your thick-headed skulls while you’re at it!
“What is it?” Billie Dawn wanted to know as they slowed down. “Doc, why are you braking?”
“That,” Duncan said grimly, and further explanation was unnecessary as they hit a big oil slick that almost, but not quite, reached from one wall of the tunnel to the other. Some truck or car passing through recently had obviously blown some gaskets—or worse.
Despite his caution and driving skills, Duncan could feel the wheels skating, and then the car whipped this way and that. Twenty feet later, when the tires gripped asphalt once again and he had the car back under control, he immediately gave it gas.
They’d lost precious lead time by slowing down and skidding, and Duncan feared Snake could now easily catch up with them: with only two thin tires to contend with, the biker could easily skirt the oil slick altogether by simply riding along the extreme edge of the left lane.
Snake did no such thing. He didn’t see the oil slick coming up. He was too caught up in the closeness of his quarry. Now only ten feet separated him from the Ferrari, and his face filled with a perverse joy. Any moment now, they would be at his mercy.
The distance between bike and car closed with each passing half-second. Nine feet, eight feet . . . six . . . four . . .
Snake lifted the chain high and thought: You fuckers are never gonna be able to look at yourselves in a mirror again!
And then, like a rocket, the Harley hurtled into the black oil slick.
There was nothing Snake could do. Too late, he saw the Ferrari fishtailing; too late, he saw the shiny black surface gleaming iridescently with squiggly rainbows; far, far too late to take evasive action, he realized his folly. One moment his tires were biting asphalt; the next, they were useless. The bike might as well have been on skates. The Harley skimmed across the oil as if it had a mind of its own, then went into a lethal broadside skid.
Snake saw it in slow motion: the broadside slide . . . the tiled tunnel wall angling drunkenly in front of him instead of rushing past him in a blur . . . the momentum of the skid listing the bike to the left, first to a forty-five-degree angle, then down to ninety degrees. He threw all his weight in the opposite direction for counterbalance, but to no avail. And then his eyes filled with sudden comprehending terror. The gears in his mind ground and grated and shrieked discordantly. He was going down!
Then everything sped up again.
The fork jammed to the extreme left, the front tire tried to lunge up the curved tunnel wall in a climb, and after a yard or so the bike bounced back off the wall and did a series of end-over-end flips. Snake was unceremoniously tossed off, and he somersaulted twice before sliding sixty-odd feet on the seat of his pants. His boot cleats, drive-chain belt, and the length of chain he still clutched in his hand sent a spectacular comet’s tail of sparks flying behind him.
Further back, the bike was still flipping, bending, crumpling, and twisting itself into a tortured steel knot. Parts of it tore loose and flew off in every direction; a mirror popped off the contorted handlebars, bounced, and rolled away like a wheel.
Then the gas tank burst. An orange and yellow fireball roared and expanded, filling the tunnel from wall to wall.
The two lanes under Park Avenue became an underground inferno.
Duncan stopped the Ferrari just outside the tunnel exit, opened his door, and looked back. Even from this distance, the heat was unbearable.
Billie opened her door and recoiled. Despite their narrow escape from Snake, she couldn’t help feeling horror. She whispered, “Maybe . . . we should go back and try to help him?”
“He doesn’t seem to need our help,” Duncan said dryly. “See?”
Then she saw. Snake had escaped the explosion and raging fire. His sixty-foot-seat-of-the-pants slide might have sanded a good half inch of flesh off his buttocks, but amazingly enough, other than being momentarily dazed, he had come through it all relatively unscathed.
She couldn’t believe it. He really did have the luck of the devil.
She watched him struggle to his feet and stand there hunched forward, still in a daze. Then, noticing the Ferrari, he raised his head slowly and staggered forward, backlit by the boiling flames, a dark silhouette dragging the chain still clutched in his hand.
Duncan slammed his door shut, as did Billie Dawn. Nothing but trouble to be gained in sticking around, Duncan thought. Then he stepped on the gas. With a squeal of the tires, they sped off—from zero to sixty in eight seconds flat.
He couldn’t resist one last backward glance in the rearview mirror. He had to smile. It was a classic image of frustration—Snake tossing down the chain in fury, kicking at it, and doing an infuriated contortion of a dance.
Chapter 38
Snake lay on his stomach on the emergency-room bed.
He had singed hair, a raw and bloodied gluteus maximus, and an assortment of sprains and bruises. But what hurt him even more than his wounded macho pride was his irreparably trashed bike.
For Snake, the loss of his prized scoot was akin to the loss of both testicles for any other man. And, like so many true sadists, he was a baby at enduring pain of any kind himself.
“If you don’t keep still, it’s gonna hurt you twice as much,” the nurse warned. “You’re the worst patient I’ve ever seen, you know that?”
His body arched and spasmed each
time she tweezed a bit of pavement out of his butt. He cursed and ranted and raved. Rare tears rolled from his eyes.
“Shame on you,” she chided. “Big bruiser like you acting like a baby.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head.
Snake replied by breaking wind in her face.
Darleena Watson, R.N., did not suffer indignities gladly. In fact, she refused to suffer them at all. After sixteen years of nursing at Bellevue Hospital, she had a remedy for every occasion—and she had a remedy for this one too. Picking up a bottle of alcohol, she poured its contents liberally over Snake’s bleeding butt.
He screamed and nearly levitated.
“You fart in my face again, and you’re dead meat, boy,” Darleena declared, stabbing his raw backside particularly hard with the tweezers for good measure. “You hear?”
He heard.
When Duncan dropped her at home, Billie Dawn fled from the car with barely a good night and made a beeline for the elevators. She couldn’t wait to get upstairs and hole up quietly in her bedroom.
The shock of running into Snake and the violent chase had left her jittery and depleted. She needed peace and quiet and familiar surroundings in order to calm herself.
Rest and sleep, she thought as the elevator carried her swiftly upstairs. Those two magical cure-alls might—just might—bring her back to normal. Rest and sleep could wipe away horrors and ease jangling nerves. By tomorrow she should feel like a new person.
Rest was her hope, sleep her prayer.
But when she let herself into her sublet apartment, Obi Kuti, a model from one of the other agencies whom she’d befriended while they’d both worked on a Revlon shoot, called and said, “Joy Zatopekova’s been murdered. Is it okay with you if I stay at your place for a few days?”
Billie said it was fine.
Twenty minutes later, Carmen Toledo dropped Obi by. The bizarrely beautiful six-foot-tall black model was tearful and shattered. She was hugging a cat.
