Tracking Time

by Leslie Glass

  April smelled the delicate aromas of soft-shelled crab bathed in sweet ginger sauce, the spicy lamb and scallions, the fried rice with just a touch of oyster sauce for flavor; and she thought: more like a hundred and fifty dollars. She played with the chopsticks, wishing she hadn't been so hard on Mike on the phone.

  "Hey, no good worm, ni ting (listen you). Too much trouble, bring home on subway. Just for bu hao daughter. Eat."

  "Oh, Ma, I can't eat. I had a bad day."

  "Had good day. Lose bad yellow ghost. Now find China ghost. No cry," she commanded in Chinese.

  "You don't know anything, Ma." Mike is a good man. Just too trusting.

  "I know Spanish gui, bu hao."

  April sighed. The daughter was no good-nothing better than a worm. The Spanish ghost was no good. By Skinny's estimation nobody was any good. The Dragon tapped her head to show her knowledge lay beneath the awful dyed hair.

  "Don't call him Spanish. His name is Mike. He's a good man." With a soft heart that sometimes got him in trouble. But April didn't want to debate the matter with her mother.

  "Eat," Skinny demanded. "You feel better." April knew her mother meant well. She started eating to shut her up. As she ate, she was reminded what a good cook her father was. The crab was still delicious even after the trip on the subway, only a few stops to Astoria, not that far. She chewed on a yummy crab leg, weighing her options. She'd put in a number of years with Mike. He'd been her supervisor, but had acted more like a partner, teaching her how to think and how to operate with different kinds of people. Before she'd worked the Two-O, she hadn't personally known anybody who lived in buildings with staff to open the doors and announce visitors and take out the garbage and fix the toilets when they didn't work. She'd never known that apartments could be bigger than houses, or known people who wore suits and coats that cost more than she earned in a month. She'd never had a sip of white wine in her entire life until she'd had it with Jason and Emma just before baby April was born. She'd never had sangria or a margarita until she had it with Mike last winter. Her heart did a little dance as she thought of how giddy she got when she had only a little bit to drink and how funny Mike thought she was when she lost her inhibitions. She didn't like to think how he'd been with Carla when he lost his.

  He was the opposite of her in every way. She was reserved, nervous about everything, and quiet. He was expressive, not worried about much of anything, and occasionally wild. She had no doubt that he would come over and make a scene. He'd come in the middle of the night. He'd insist on being let in. She'd feel like shooting him dead but wouldn't do it because killing a cop was a big no-no for career development. He'd be sweet and cajole her into letting him in. He'd tell her how much he loved her. April knew just how the scenario would go. She'd let him in to show her mother who was boss and, even more important, to prevent Mike from losing face with her family. And whatever he said, she'd go with the flow. She'd already lost face by running away from an unpleasant scene. That had been weak. Now she had to restore her face and his by listening to what he had to say.

  While she waited for Mike to turn up, she went to bed. But neither Mike nor sleep came. She started brooding about Maslow and the mistakes she'd made in the case. She wished she could start all over again. After a few minutes, she got up and went into the living room for her important address book that contained the names of all the sources she'd ever used. John Zumech was the very last name in her book. She dialed his number. It was way after midnight, and he took four rings to pick up.

  "Zumech," he said in a deep gravelly voice. "Hi, John, it's April Woo. I'm sorry to call so late." "It's okay. I wasn't sleeping."

  "How's that dog of yours?" April came into the subject sideways.

  "Peachy's great. What's up?"

  "How are you, John?"

  "I'm great, too. How about you?"

  "I have a teeny problem."

  "You need me?"

  "I do. In normal circumstances I wouldn't be calling so late. Missing p. Last seen heading into Central Park in jogging shorts."

  "You know I'm not going out at night on a cold lead."

  "Oh yeah, I know."

  "You got a missing doctor. I saw you on TV. What can I do that my friends in K-9 can't?"

  "Yes, well, you always told me that Sid Slocum was an idiot."

  "Did I say that?" John laughed. "Yeah, you always told me you gotta trust your dog. Slocum didn't seem to get what his dog was doing."

  "What was she doing?"

  "Looking for a place to take a dump. How do I know? I'm no tracker. Anyway, I met some friends of yours. They suggested Slocum was an idiot, too." "Really, who?"

  "Couple of kids. Brandy Fabman and David Owen."

  "No kidding, I used to know those two pretty well. They're camp friends of my daughter. What are they up to?"

  "Guess what, they turned up this afternoon and talked their way into the park. Seems they saw the search from the girl's apartment and wanted to offer some advice on tracking."

  John made a honking laugh. "Those kids! Ha ha. City rats. I never saw kids so turned on to tracking. I did some exhibitions up at their camp two years ago. They were so excited they came out to visit us during the winter. A couple of weekends, they came out for a day, helped me do some training." He chuckled some more.

  "One time I took them out to the beach at Montauk. God, you wouldn't believe how much those kids were into it. How are they?"

  "Well, they're into something else now."

  "Oh, yeah?" Zumech's voice became a shade less hearty.

  "They were high as kites, John."

  His tone sobered. "That's too bad. They were good kids. Are you sure, April?"

  "Yeah, John, I'm sure."

  He was silent for a moment. "Well, what can I do for you?"

  "I'd like you to try again, with Peachy."

  Long silence. "Why?"

  "The missing man is a friend of a friend. I'm afraid we might have overlooked something."

  "What could you overlook? I saw clips of people mucking around in the rowboat lake. It's not very deep. If he was in there, you'd have found him. We're not talking great wilderness tract here. If he were somewhere in the bushes, any dog, even Slocum's, would have found him."

  "I know, that's what Sid said, but I want to try again anyway."

  "Ridiculous. The scent's been scattered by now. Hundreds of people have contaminated that area. You know the facts of life on tracking, April. A good dog can do a lot if you get going in a few hours, up to ten. But this guy went missing-when?"

  Facts. April didn't want to hear any more facts of life tonight. "Last night. That's not so long."

  "April, this is a city. Millions of people."

  "So what?"

  "There's nothing left of your guy for Peachy to smell."

  "Unless he's dead," April argued.

  John sighed. "What makes you think he's dead?"

  "It's just a possibility, is all. We have a mental patient on the loose. Come on, help me out." She was exaggerating about Allegra, but it worked.

  "A mental patient?" John whistled. "I didn't hear anything about that."

  "It's not out yet." April didn't want to say more.

  "You have anything with his scent on it?" he asked. She could hear him getting interested.

  "Hers."

  "Hers? A girl mental patient?"

  "Yeah, and we don't have her scent. What are you doing tomorrow?"

  John sighed again. "Fine, I'll give it a try. But no cars, no buses, no media, no people on CPW. Can you swing that?"

  "Of course," she told him. A big lie since she was off duty and off the case. They set a time and a meeting place. Then, for the fifth time, she called the number Allegra had given her. Again no answer, just as Jason had predicted. Thank God for Woody's camera. They'd make up a wanted poster of the girl and circulate it tomorrow. They'd put it on TV if they had to. She had a family, people who knew her. They'd find her. April fell asleep waiting for Mike, but he n
ever came.

  Thirty-three

  Pee Wee smelled corpse smell. He'd known that smell all his life. He knew it from the flood that took his brother and his dog when he was nine, and the tornado that flattened the barn and killed all the animals he'd tended. He knew it from ' Nam. He must have killed fifty people there. And he'd killed one or two more defending his territory since. Accidents.

  He was sitting on the ground with his head in his hands, wondering what it was that he'd forgotten to do. Oh, that smell was strong. He shook himself, like a dog shaking off the hurt. Then he saw the girl and stumbled toward her. He'd lost track of time and thought it was the cop from the fight a while ago when everybody was yelling at him.

  "Don't follow me," he raved angrily at the girl. "Why are you following me. I didn't hit nobody." We waved his arm, shooing her away. The scene spun out of control. Ants the size of fat caterpillars marched across his face. Other insects swarmed in front of his eyes, blurring his vision. A spider monkey swung down from the tree next to him and poked him in the chest, almost knocking him over.

  "You're drunk, get away," the girl said.

  The scene spun back into focus. Pee Wee remembered this wasn't the cop, this was the one who promised to give him that twenty to keep the secret about the guy they pushed into the cave. This one was here to give him that twenty so he could have a dog.

  "I wan my tweny. Member my tweny?" he said hopefully.

  "I said, get lost." She waved a tree branch at him.

  The leaves on it looked like snakes, shaking their heads at him. Not so funny. He lumbered toward her. She smelled like a corpse. For a second he was back in ' Nam with the smell of the dead all around him.

  The boy came up. He started talking to the girl. He told the girl to go for a walk. She wouldn't go away. He gave her a shake but she wouldn't leave.

  "Don't do that… nice girl," Pee Wee mumbled.

  "You scumbag!" The boy hissed at Pee Wee. He let go of the girl and came toward him.

  "You gonna gimme that tweny?" Pee Wee said

  "Yeah, sure I'll give it to you. Come over here."

  Pee Wee moved toward him. The girl shook the branch at him, confusing him.

  The boy told the girl to go away. She said she didn't want to. They started arguing. Pee Wee became confused again. He wanted to break up the fight. He put his hand up to protect the girl.

  Suddenly the boy punched him. He fell to the ground groaning. "Wha-?"

  He must have gone out for a moment. The next thing he felt was someone rolling him over. He saw blood on the sidewalk. He thought he was in the police station, having a shower. He didn't know what was happening. His sequences were all off. He felt drunk, but not good drunk. He pulled himself to his feet. The girl with the snakes was saying something. She wanted a trophy. He struggled to figure out what she was talking about.

  The boy was trying to shut her up. He put his hand on her mouth. Pee Wee lunged to save the girl.

  The girl shook the tree branch, hitting him with it. "Get out of here, you're drunk."

  "Oh, no, ah'm not drunk. Yur drunk," he said angrily.

  The big guy was coming after him, threatening him with a broken bottle. "No, you don't. No, no, no."

  "No one needs scum like you."

  The words galvanized Pee Wee. Nobody called him scum and lived to tell about it. "I'll fucking kill you," he cried at the tree branch full of snakes.

  The girl swung at him with the branch. He plunged into the fight, grappling with three or four of them. He was fighting a whole army. A big guy came at him. Pee Wee felt all blurry and confused with all the screaming and yelling in his head and the smell of the dead. He thought he was in the war again. Hot liquid ran down into his eyes. It was blood. He was hit. He went down. Then, a second later he was up again, swinging. His hands were shaking. He fell over before he connected.

  The big guy grabbed his hand to help him up. Pee Wee lunged at the girl. She hit him with the tree again. Then the guy was punching him hard. The last thing he saw was a knife.

  "Whaaa?" He was confused by the knife.

  He was caught between the guy hitting him, the tree branch with snakes, and the knife in his face. His vision failed and he went down. His eyes furred over for the last time. He never knew that the knife was there to cut off his finger.

  Thirty-four

  Deepest dark now, and the panic was back. Coarse sand crusted Maslow's mouth and eyes. He was afraid that soon he would be covered with dirt. He scrabbled away at the gravel on either side of him. Dirt fell on him from above. His tongue worked constantly trying to clear his mouth and he had to restrain himself from using all his water to rinse it clean. He was terrified that the bank of packed sand over his head would fall, and he wouldn't make it through the night.

  He could feel his hips, but his legs didn't seem to be part of him, and he didn't have the energy to shift toward his feet. He prayed for someone to come. As he listened to the muted city night sounds, he slipped into the far past and was assaulted by childhood memories again. A ferrous smell of disintegrating iron, the source of which he could not see, reminded him of the corrosion that had so irritated his father in the garden chairs and the grates over the basement wells at the house in Massachusetts.

  The first whiff of rust made him think he must be under a grate with the fresh air and freedom above him. But he knew that could not be. He had not fallen down into something. He was stretched out straight, lying on a bed of pebbles and sand. Both air and sound were coming in from the direction of his feet It was possible that his legs were pinned, and that was the reason he could not move them. His explorations with his hands indicated that his upper body at least was wedged in under a shelf of caked sand and crumbling stone. Some large rock might be above that, but he could not feel the dimensions of it. He was in a hollowed-out shallow place, like a grave. He could not have fallen in such a way.

  The air was cooling now, and the earth around him deeply chilled. The skin on his arms, his face, and his hands was so cold, in fact, that he wondered why he was not dead already. He was underground, buried alive. He made himself think of far colder places than this where people had survived horror. There was no heat in concentration camps. There had been no heat in the trenches in World War I. Soldiers in every war throughout history had survived worse conditions than this. Prisoners in the frozen gulags survived. Who else? Naked slaves in the holds of sailing ships crossing the ocean-starving, freezing, and seasick. Maslow made lists of survivors in his head. He thought of himself in a war, his enemy someone he'd trusted and tried to help. He thought of Chloe, only eleven years old, her whole body black-and-blue before she finally died. Her death was an atrocity. He'd survived that.

  Coming from the direction of his feet, Maslow smelled night and rusting iron and thought of his passion as a boy for how things worked. He'd wondered at the way rust consumed shiny paint, gnawing the color and strong metal away from the inside and crumbling it into reddish brown dust. Every year, before Chloe died and the house was sold, he'd helped sand the rust off those garden chairs and paint them a deep green, only to see the patches of decay revived over the winter by the salty sea air.

  He smelled something else-the chlorophyll in leaves, wet earth, and water. The smells reminded him of the sweet, fresh air of outdoor nights when Chloe and he used to catch fireflies and put them in a jar. Then, they'd sat side by side on the beach, watching the fireflies blink on and off and studying the stars. He'd never felt such companionship with anyone else since. Near death, he felt very close to Chloe now. The granola bar he clutched in his hand was the same as the ones they used to eat together as their snack in the afternoons. The granola bar had attracted an animal that scampered back and forth across his feet.

  The first time the animal jumped on his shoe Maslow felt the weight of it and pins and needles in his feet. Pie grunted with terror and beat on his chest and hips with the fanny pack. The animal scampered away. But now it was back, scratching around in the dark. M
aslow knew that as soon as he fell asleep, it would invade like a marauding army. It would chew its way into his fanny pack and eat his only food. If he was unconscious, it would eat him. In the slums rats gnawed on babies in their cribs. He'd seen the bites during his rotation in the ER. People had survived that, too. He hoped it wasn't a rat.

  He could hear himself moaning and praying to God to save him. He dreamed of his old daddy, the one who used to sleep at home when he was little. He dreamed of his mommy before they lost Chloe, the mommy he had before her smile died. He'd never been her favorite. She used to call him "Maslow the nose" because he could always tell when she'd changed perfumes, or ingredients in food. If an herb or spice was left out, he'd identify it. She seemed to like that about him. He had one real skill. But that was it.

  His father had a big nose that he despised. Maslow didn't like thinking his own nose would grow as prominent as the one his father disliked so much. He'd been hurt by his mother's nickname. But she told him his nose was a good thing. "Noses" were paid big money in perfume companies, at wineries, and all places where the palate counted.

  "You have a palate, Maslow. If all else fails, you can smell for a living." And she'd laughed, but not really in a mean way.

  The laughter and the name had hurt Maslow anyway. He'd wondered where one could smell for a living in America. Later he found out the nose played a role in the history of psychoanalysis. It was first thought by Freud and his best friend, Wilhem Fleiss, that sniffing cocaine could cure hysteria.

  Maslow was exercising his fingers and arms, and letting his mind wander around his sister's death, his mother's decline, his father's withdrawal from their lives. He heard the swish of someone walking through grass, the crunch of feet on stones. His heart started pounding loud as thunder again. Someone was coming. No one was calling his name, so it must be Allegra returning for him as he'd prayed she would.

  He closed his eyes. "Allegra?"