Tracking Time

by Leslie Glass

  Above April, the sun filtered through the trees, dappling the light and warming her face. The temperature must be up to seventy-eight already, and the heat felt good. Please let Maslow Atkins not be a mystery, she prayed. Anything but a mystery. Cops hated mysteries.

  She unbuttoned her light jacket and inhaled. After the rain of yesterday, the park smelled fresh and green. Nannies and mothers wheeled strollers piled high with park toys toward the playground. She prayed some more to the Chinese gods. Please, ghosts and dragons that make so much trouble for humans, back off, let me find Jason's friend alive and well. She and Woody moved deeper into the park. Automatically, their two pairs of feet took them downtown, toward Seventy-seventh Street, where they'd seen the rat. They followed the route that skirted the rowboat lake. At Eightieth Street, they were north of the water. At Seventy-ninth Street a steep hill, almost deep enough to qualify as a ravine, led down to a wide shoreline, swampy and so thick with fallen trees and high grasses that the ground was completely obscured. If someone had been thrown down there, the body might stay hidden until the corpse decomposed and began to stink. That wouldn't take too long in this mild weather. April shivered suddenly in the heat. They could see the water now, skirted east, scanning the base of the boulders and the spaces between rock and bushes.

  This was the famous Frederick Law Olmsted triumph, the park he designed more than a hundred years ago that was still so wild in places that if one ignored the skyline at its perimeter, a city person could imagine the country. Just over a mile to the south, Midtown North waited for their return. The park ended at Fifty-ninth Street, where her own precinct boundary began, and the stunning city skyline spread out on the southern horizon. They were looking for signs of a disturbance, but they didn't see any.

  They were silent as they retraced their steps to the place near Seventy-seventh Street, where they'd entered the park last night. The tire prints of the 4x4 and hoofprints of the mounted officer's horse were still there, embedded in the grass, telling the story of their convocation. April slid down the bank to the water's edge, wetting her feet in the marshy ground.

  "Damn."

  "Something?" Woody asked, sticking to dry ground.

  Stuck on a branch, the tail of a condom snaked gently with the current. Next to it, nestled in the mud, was a brown beer bottle bottom, showing the jagged edges of a broken neck. Half the label turned out giving the name, New Amsterdam. At a couple of dollars a bottle, it would hardly be the first choice of a vagrant.

  "Just my new shoes."

  "Whatchu looking for, Detective Woo?"

  April was startled by the sound of a gravelly voice. "Who's there?" she called.

  A balding man dressed in khaki pants and a blue parka who smelled of human waste crawled out of a space between two boulders. April recognized him immediately from the old days when she'd worked the Two-O.

  "Pee Wee, what are you doing here? I thought you'd cleaned up your act and joined the Doe people."

  "I tried it, didn't like them blue suits. All those rules."

  He looked drunk and dazed, not fit for any kind of structure, certainly not the Doe Fund that put homeless men to work cleaning the streets, gave them food, a salary, and a place to live, but also required them to wear bright blue jumpsuits, not so different from the ones worn by prison inmates.

  "And my people out here missed me too much. I help out here, keep the peace, you know that, Detective." Pee Wee tried to focus his swimming eyes. "Ain't seen you around for a while. You been on vacation or something?"

  "I've been promoted. I'm a sergeant now, and I don't work in this area."

  "Whatchu doin' here, then?"

  "Got a 911 call last night, Pee Wee; know anything about it?"

  "Yeah, I saw you," he said, nodding.

  "You saw me?" She gave him a surprised look.

  "Yeah and him, and 'nother cop on a horse, and two in a jeep."

  "No kidding." Now Woody was interested.

  "Yeah. A guy got whacked. Too bad." Pee Wee shook his head. "One of those running guys. You here about that?"

  "Where?" The news was like a punch in the belly. April's blood beat in her temple.

  Pee Wee scratched his whiskers. "I'm real hungry," he said.

  "I'll get you some breakfast. Where's the dead guy?"

  Pee Wee looked down at them from where he stood higher up on the lake bank. He scratched his beard some more. "I don't know. Dincha see him?"

  "Where?" Woody demanded. "Where?"

  "Right here, I don't know." Pee Wee's voice slurred.

  "What kind of bullshit is this?" Woody barked.

  Pee Wee looked hurt. "Do I do bullshit, Detective? The detective here knows me. I keep the peace, I'm the one stops the fights, don't I? I tell you what's up, don't I?"

  "It's sergeant now," April said automatically. "Why didn't you say something when you saw us here last night?"

  He stood there, shaking his head as if he had a palsy.

  "Looks like you're an accessory."

  "No way." Pee Wee a.k.a. John Jasper James, an ex-sergeant in the U.S. Army and a Vietnam veteran, protested. "I didn't have nothing to do with it. I thought I saw a guy go down. Maybe I'm wrong. Who's gonna believe an old drunk's story anyway?"

  April could have called the detective squad commander of the Park Precinct to come and get Pee Wee James and take him in for questioning. She might have been instantly off the hook in the case and gone quietly on with her day. Any sane detective would have done that. But April wanted to clear up the mystery herself. Whatever mishap to Maslow Atkins occurred, it happened on her watch. And the missing man was Jason's student.

  This time April swerved off the straight and narrow and sealed her fate in the matter. She decided to take Pee Wee James into her own house for questioning, then make arrangements to get some uniforms and search dogs out to look for a body. She was on another commander's turf. She thought about calling Mike to discuss the matter before she went any further, but she was in a hurry and figured her notifications could wait.

  Nine

  Maslow's first awareness was the pain behind his eyes. His head swam, and so did the room. He was lying flat on his back, drenched. His fingers were in a puddle. He moved three fingers, as if over piano keys, and figured out they were in water. He didn't know how his fingers could be in water, too. And the back of his neck. What the-? The world was dark.

  His head hurt, he was blind and confused.

  "Chloe, open the door." His voice came out a croak. He was a seven-year-old locked in the linen closet the day the pipe from the bathroom cracked open.

  The family had been on Cape Cod. Outside a storm was raging. It was one of those terrible northeasters that rocked the coast for days, scaring him to death because it always seemed as if the rain would never end. His twin sister, Chloe, had been the one to discover the drying racks in the linen closet during a game of hide and seek.

  On the day of the storm, he'd gone in there to hide. He'd climbed up on one of the racks. Chloe had come by and closed the door hard, locking him in the closet. Then a pipe cracked open, splashing water on his face. The space was so tight he couldn't even get down off the rack to open the door. Now, over twenty years later, he whispered, "Chloe, come back."

  Maslow's head throbbed. He didn't know why Chloe had locked him in the closet. She knew he didn't like hide and seek.

  "Chloe." He struggled to move and found that he was stuck.

  He was terrified and wished he could be more like his sister. She could stay still for fifteen minutes or more. In the middle of a game she could leave her hiding place and find a new one, sneaking like a cat. Chloe wasn't afraid of anything.

  "Please don't leave me here, Chloe. I don't want to live without you," he whimpered.

  Chloe could sneak up on him anytime she wanted to. "Boo!" She scared him to death.

  "Chloe?"

  The smell was like the flats where they used to dig for clams at low tide on the Cape. It smelled like the house
the day it was opened for the first time in the summer. Once they found a dead bird in the fireplace. The lady who came to clean told them that a downdraft of the wind must have caught the bird and dragged it down the chimney where it couldn't get out. The idea of the bird trapped in the fireplace, beating itself to death against the bricks, upset the twins, and they had taken the small desiccated corpse outside for a proper burial in the sand.

  Mold and rot were the odors in his nose, like the space under the house where Chloe and he once hid to escape their second sailing lesson. He'd been eight and a terrible swimmer. The instructor had made them all capsize their little boats and tumble into the freezing choppy bay with all their clothes on. Maslow had panicked in the cold water even though the life jacket kept him bobbing on the surface.

  When his father came up for the weekend, Maslow told him he didn't like sailing and didn't want to go out again. His father got so angry he hit him. Hit him really hard. After that Maslow started wetting his bed again.

  One morning his mother wrapped him in the wet sheet at breakfast and told him she'd send him to day camp just like that if he ever did it again. So he and Chloe hid under the porch. All morning they heard their parents fighting and looking for them. He'd always hated hide and seek.

  He lost consciousness thinking he was a bad boy hiding from life with his sister. Hours later, he woke up again. He still thought he was on the Cape even though the house had been sold soon after Chloe died.

  "Close the window, Chloe, it's raining on the bed." Maslow moved his lips. He felt like shit.

  A roar came and shook the earth. He couldn't get away from the sound. It came again and again. His mouth was crusted with dirt. Dirt was in his mouth, too. His mind wandered around his life. At one point he was telling the pretty blond doctor taking care of his sister that he'd rather die than Chloe.

  He still dreamed about the way the doctor ruffled his hair, and said, "You're a fine child, we don't want to lose you."

  He tried to explain that he was the boy, he should be the one. Boys were always picked first.

  But she shook her head. "We can't make the change. It doesn't work like that."

  Why not? They were twins. They had the same blood. Wasn't he supposed to get whatever she got?

  "You're the lucky one. It's not your fault. You just didn't get it."

  But would he get it later?

  "No," the doctor said. "No. You won't ever get it."

  But how could he know that? He wandered on through his life. He lost consciousness again. The next time he heard his own gasping breath he thought he was drunk at a loft party in SoHo.

  Ninth grade.

  The cool kids had gotten a couple of kegs of beer, marijuana, and some pills he later found out were Ecstasy. About seventy-five kids were there. His friend George had invited him. When Maslow told him he wasn't allowed to go to loft parties, George told him not to worry, it wasn't a real loft party. George had this car service. He said they could leave anytime they wanted. Maslow's father was away on a business trip, as usual, and his mother hadn't cared about anything for a long time. So he went in George's limo.

  George got them in the door. Then he gave Maslow some beer. Maslow took it even though he was nervous. It looked like a loft party to him. He drank some beer and started talking to this girl, Gloria. The beer made him feel less nervous. Gloria was very pretty. She asked him how old he was.

  He thought his answer over very carefully. Gloria looked pretty old to him, maybe as old as eighteen. She was wearing a tight dress, really short. He was afraid if he said sixteen, she might think he was too young.

  "Seventeen," he said.

  She made a face. "I'm only fifteen. You're too old for me." She was dancing alone to the music.

  Quickly, he changed his tune. "I was just kidding. I'm really only sixteen." He felt stupid; he couldn't even dance with her.

  "Why lie about something like that?" She walked away.

  He had another beer, and the beer made him feel it didn't matter. After a while he had two more. Then George passed him a bong and he had a few puffs. He'd seen bongs in the Village, but this was the first time he'd had one in his hand. He puffed and the pot smoke nearly took his head off.

  That was how he felt lying in a puddle unable to move now. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. There was dirt all over him. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be awake and remember his dead sister, about whom he did not think much anymore. It was very dark, the roar came and went, and the smell was like death.

  Ten

  Almost as soon as Jason had finished talking with April, he was sorry about involving the police in the Maslow situation before looking into it a little further himself. As the morning progressed, several explanations occurred to him. Maslow was on staff at Manhattan East, a psychiatric hospital. An emergency there-a suicide, or some other crisis, could easily have kept him busy all night. Maslow might well have been on call last night. Jason forgot to mention that to April, and later felt a little ashamed of himself for using a police detective as his own private investigator.

  Jason's anxiety about what he'd done was transmitted to his first three patients. He was supposed to maintain the highest level of interest in the most detailed of accounts of his patients' daily lives. As soon as his attention wavered, and the precious empathic bond was severed, his patients always retaliated. He understood this, but he was human and these comments often got to him despite all he knew.

  That morning, between nine and eleven, Jason took three direct hits from nuclear warheads. From his eight o'clock-a young woman who had a great job and many suitors but felt numb and hopeless inside-he learned that he was a cold and selfish man who used to be good-looking and well groomed but was now a depressing slug who would never have the love of anybody worthwhile. Like herself.

  "You remind me so much of a man I went out with, Tony Ramero, who was a premature ejaculator," she said.

  Jason's eight-forty-five patient, a bazillionaire who kept trying to pay Jason with his Centurion American Express card for the free air miles, was scornful of Jason's tendency to buy four identical blue and red ties for twenty-eight dollars from vendors on the street. "You're some cheap bastard. I bet you never go to a decent restaurant," he charged.

  Jason did go to decent restaurants and liked his ties. He didn't reply as he wanted to: We all have our money issues.

  At quarter to ten Jason called April Woo to tell her about Maslow's hospital job. She wasn't there. The thought that she might be looking for a man who was at work made him feel really guilty. He went next door to say hello to Emma and the other April. He played with his beautiful baby for a few minutes. She gurgled her baby secrets, drooling into his ear, then spit up on his shoulder when he kissed her good-bye. Jason's ten o'clock patient remarked that he smelled of throw-up again, then announced that he was sick and tired of Jason's hangovers.

  "You look like shit. Circles under your eyes, shirt coming out of your pants. A spot on your shirt. You're a mess. You should see somebody about this." This from a guy who made daily cocktails out of every prescription upper and downer known to man and considered a drug-free day one when all he did was smoke pot from morning to night.

  April Woo called just when he was on his way out to teach a class on transference to psychiatric residents at the medical school. He was in his office bathroom with the water on, scrubbing the spit-up out of his shirt. After drenching himself trying to get the water off in time to catch the phone, he launched into his apology.

  "Thanks for returning my call. I'm really sorry about bothering you with the Atkins thing. I've been thinking about it, and I forgot to tell you he may have been on call last night. If you haven't gotten to it yet-"

  "I'm on it now."

  April's deadpan voice jolted him. "What's up?"

  "It appears that your student, Atkins, went home around seven, changed his clothes, then went out for a jog. The doorman in his building says he met a young girl and they went into the par
k together. He didn't come back to his apartment last night."

  "Hmmm." Jason dabbed at his wet shirt with a towel.

  "Did he have a girlfriend, Jason? Maybe he had a change of clothes at her place."

  "Ah, I don't know."

  "Family?"

  "I don't know much about his private life."

  "I thought you were his supervisor," she said accusingly.

  "I am."

  "How do you supervise them if you don't know what their countertransference issues are?"

  "Jesus, April, how do you know about that?" Jason was stunned by the insight.

  "I'm a supervisor myself, Jason. You think you own psychology?"

  "Ah, this is different. Analytic candidates don't talk to their supervisors about their private lives. They talk to their training analysts about their private lives. They talk to me about their patients' lives."

  "Uh-huh, so this missing candidate of yours has two psychoanalysts, one for himself and one for his patients? Who's in charge of the two of them? Anybody know the whole story?"

  "No, it's complicated. His own analyst keeps to strict confidentiality-" Jason broke off, knowing it must sound a little strange.

  "So, what did you talk about with this guy, anything useful?" April herself sounded strange.

  "Where are you?"

  "In the park."

  "What are you doing there?"

  "It's complicated. What did you talk about with him, Jason? I have to know what was going on in his life. I need the basic facts," April said. "Everything he did in the last twenty-four hours and the rest of his life."

  "April, you're scaring me to death," Jason said. "What happened?"

  "We had a 911 of trouble in the area last night. We're thinking your friend might have been mugged. We have a vagrant who says he witnessed an assault on a jogger. There was no sign of him last night, though."