by Leslie Glass
Dylan screamed each time the gate shifted a little, but he gained a few precious inches by stuffing his running shoes into the gap. In the hours after that, he dug frantically around and under her pinned limb, using both hands and the sharp edge of a rock to create a depression, a trench deep enough to ease the pressure of the gate on what he could now tell was a jagged piece of bone. Dylan's body was flung at such an awkward angle that her own weight, slight as it was, worked against them. The leg continued to swell, filling all the space he created.
The extraordinary closeness of the situation created an even greater anxiety in Maslow. In his world, he was forbidden to talk to a patient outside office hours much less sit with her in a coffee shop. Touching even her hand would be the greatest violation of all. Now he was taking her pulse and manipulating her limbs and talking to her with love and the intent to convey it. He was caught in an upside-down world where the lines between evil and good could no longer be drawn. A child was his enemy. A former patient was his sister, never to be a patient again. The sand was shifting, and he had no certain place.
As night fell, the only hope of saving Dylan was for Maslow to get help. He switched tactics and began grinding away at a spoke of the once-stout barrier. He could not squeeze out with only one spoke missing, but with two gone he thought he might have a chance. He started with the weakest one, so badly rusted it chipped and splintered into spiny fragments in his fingers. He sawed at it with a rock and his bare hands, oblivious to the cuts the stone and rust made on his palms.
Dylan had a high fever and was hallucinating now. The things she mumbled made no sense, just like Maslow's whole life and what he'd thought was his history. Nothing made sense anymore. Outside all he could hear was the bark of a city dog and the steady rumble of the subway. Inside his head was a throbbing that wouldn't ease. His back and legs trembled with his efforts to break the spoke free. He was frantic. Beside him, a second sister was dying. This one was even more precious because she came as an unexpected gift when he'd thought he was all alone. Even worse than that, she was dying for the sole reason that she had wanted to be with him. No one else had ever cared for him that much. "You're doing well," he told her. "Very well. Just a little while more. Hang in there with me."
"No, no. The elephant is broken," she muttered.
"I fix elephants," he told her.
For Maslow, nothing had ever mattered to him but being a doctor. He'd worked all his life for the two magic letters after his name and the meaning they gave his existence. There was no reason in what was happening to them. She was going to die right in front of him, and there was nothing he could do to keep her alive.
It was pitch-black now. He stopped his sawing to scream again for help, but before the yell was out of his mouth, a crack of thunder struck so loud he thought it was an exploding bomb.
"Mommy," Dylan whimpered. He reached over and took her hand for a moment.
Then he returned to the spoke, jerking it with all his weight. This time it cracked at the top. Another clap of thunder split the sky. Maslow pried the spoke toward him with bleeding fingers. It hardly budged. He picked up the rock and used it as a wrench, braced his bare feet against the base of the gate and worked the rock toward him.
The spoke broke free in his hand and he fell back, panting. Just then the clouds let go, and rain hurled down out of the sky. A flash of lightning reached into the dark. Maslow stretched his hand through the space. His arm and one shoulder fit through, but his chest stuck. He could feel drops of rain wash his hand.
"Stay with me. I'll have you out soon," he murmured to Dylan. One more spoke and they would taste freedom. He would have them out before their captor returned. He was sure of it.
Sixty-two
Peachy surprised April by traveling five blocks south. She crossed Strawberry Fields, sniffing the hard-packed end-of-summer grass in a state of deep concentration, oblivious to her trainer grasping the end of her leather leash and the detectives following fifty yards behind. Strawberry Fields was separated from Sheep Meadow by the Seventy-second Street transverse. Just before she came to the crosstown road, lightly trafficked at this hour, she suddenly swerved east toward the lake. There, she traveled around the bottom finger, the southernmost tip of the lake north to Wagner Cove, stopping once to raise her head and sniff the air.
Trotting along behind them, April felt a little lightheaded in the cool evening air. She knew that whenever John went on a search and rescue with the dog, he always took several thick meat sandwiches and Snickers bars with him for energy. The dog didn't need more than a few handfuls of dry dog food and a whole lot of water a day. And, of course, her treats for incentive. People running four, five, ten miles in a few hours, however, needed much more than that.
In the station house April had thought of the flashlights, the vests, radios, telephones, Velcro restraints, plastic cuffs, but she'd never considered the need for food at all. It was a common failing of hers. She didn't like eating the pizza and sweet, high-fat foods the other detectives and officers were always eating on the job.
No matter what the conditions, she always relied on her body to sustain her until there was time to locate food worthy of her palate. It wasn't always a wise policy. Last night around one a.m. she'd eaten very well. This morning and today, she'd had practically nothing. Around one, someone had handed her a donut, the official food of the Department. Then she'd drunk strong tea without milk and sucked an Altoid late in the afternoon. Now it was after nine. Her mouth felt furry and her stomach cried for food, but she wasn't thinking of food. She was thinking of Maslow Atkins, the missing man.
She started off at a brisk pace, power walking, and pumped for the hunt. John's SAR suit and Peachy's orange necklace radiated a ghostly glow in the darker patches of park between lampposts. With a storm coming and almost no one around, the park felt huge. Eight hundred and forty-three acres. Mike paced along beside her. Neither had anything to say, but the energy between them was electric. They had their rhythm now. Hunting together, they could walk all night if they had to. April could hear Woody a few paces back, unused to using his feet, breathing hard through his mouth.
Suddenly Peachy stopped. John stopped, and they stopped. The beautiful terrace of Bethesda Fountain was to their right. The east bank of the lake was to their left. The dog lifted her large head, sniffing the air as if lost. Her body was tense, uncertain. John opened the scent bag and let her bury her head in the pillowcase. When she was finished rooting around in it, she dropped her head and charged up Cherry Hill to Bow Bridge.
They were now mid park at Seventy-second Street. Above them was thirty miles of woodland Ramble, Belvedere Castle, and two more bridges. To the east was Center Drive and Literary Walk. If they stayed in the mid section of the park, between the east and west sides, and traveled south, they would skirt Wollman skating rink. But Peachy headed north across the Bow Bridge into the Ramble. She followed the path as it veered up the slope. Immediately between the path and undulating rock was a stand of trees. Lampost #7413. April's heartbeat accelerated. Six months ago just north of the castle, a mentally ill homeless woman had been found strangled to death. She didn't want to discover Maslow had suffered a similar fate.
After ten more minutes Peachy faltered, lost again. She stopped, turned around three times, sniffing the air. Then, keeping the lake on her left, she found lamppost #7523, another block north. There, a large tree with a double trunk that split off again to form a third trunk held her interest for a while. She stuck her head close to the deeply grooved bark. The tree bordered the water and was surrounded by hard-packed ground. April wanted to approach, but Zumech waved her back.
"How are you doing, querida?" Mike spoke suddenly.
"Okay. I'm thinking we should have more people out here."
"How about we give the dog a few more minutes?"
The wind had picked up, agitating the leaves all around them and snaking April's hope. They had no real hint of where Brandy and David had gone. They could b
e anywhere. The dog looked confused, and now April doubted their brilliant idea of coming here. Peachy had brought them many blocks east of the place where they'd found Pee Wee this morning. It now seemed that working the tracker at night with a storm kicking up and David's scent as their guide-when they were really searching for Maslow-might be the stupidest idea she ever had. She didn't want to say that to Mike, however. They stood in the dark while the weather deteriorated around them and the dog sniffed the tree.
After what seemed like an eternity, Peachy lost interest in the tree and plunged south again. She retraced her own steps to Bow Bridge, crossed it, and this time took the east path toward Bethesda Terrace. It was better lighted here. April moved her feet, worrying about the time and thinking in her heart they'd made a big mistake. The wind was blowing like crazy, whipping branches around. The park was empty, and now April could see the presence of CP officers, safe and dry in their vehicles. On the park roads and off the roads, unmarked units had begun to cruise, on the lookout for Brandy and David. But the Ramble was deep and thirty miles long; people hid in the foliage there all the time. They'd have to get out of their units if they wanted to help. April put the thought out of her mind.
Ahead of them Peachy was traveling dead east now. She crossed the Bethesda Terrace, jogged around the fountain, and ran up the stairs to the Seventy-second Street crosstown drive. They had done a thirty-five-minute detour. Now she was hurrying toward Fifth Avenue and the East Side. This was way out of the way, far from where the cars were parked and where April and Woody had responded to the 911 call two nights ago. If Peachy had the scent, it now looked as if David might be headed home. He lived on Sixty-fifth Street and Park Avenue. Brandy lived on Seventy-fifth and Park Avenue. Maybe the two kids had come out, then gone home again when the weather worsened.
April checked her watch. They'd been out over an hour. It felt like four hours. She was sweating now, was tired and beginning to despair. Suddenly Peachy veered south once again, toward Fifty-ninth Street. She picked up her pace and ran down the Mall toward Literary Walk, then took the Center Drive south. In twelve minutes at a dead run, they neared Fifty-ninth Street and April could hear the comfortable clack of horseshoes on the pavement as a line of buggies headed home before the storm. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. It looked as though they'd lost him.
Sixty-three
When the rain broke free of the clouds and sleeted down on him, David had a feeling of intense exhilaration, like being at camp all over again. At camp in the Berkshires, the weather was often hot and humid. The rain would threaten scheduled activities for hours or days, then suddenly make a grand entrance with thunder and lightning during intercamp sports competitions, canoeing. In the middle of hikes, on camping trips. The rain showed up like a good friend at a boring party, disrupting the carefully planned schedules, making people run in all directions, and providing exquisite relief in the chaos it brought.
Rain on his face, on his sweatshirt, soaking his shoes had never bothered David. It meant freedom, the end of responsibility. In the rain, no game could ever be lost, no bad feelings were ever aroused, no restraint was there to hamper and frustrate him. Rain scattered everything. Now, as always, the boom of the thunder cleared the park. And the light, sound, and water show had a special message for him. The rain had come to protect him and assure him that he was right to send Brandy home. He was right to do things his own way. He was wet through, and he was given the signal-not to go home, get dry, and forget about everything bad he could do; but rather to move forward, secure in the safety of his privacy.
He knew just what he was going to do. He planned the event as a special souvenir for himself that he could savor all the rest of his life. He would lift the gate free. He would go into the cave. The shrink would be there, still alive, but helpless. He would set up his flashlight in the cave so there would be just enough light to see what was going on. He would pretend the helpless man was his own shrink. Then he would lie on top of that girl. He and Brandy had seen her on Central Park West a couple of times before. Brandy dismissed her as an ugly girl, but she always said that about everybody. Really the girl was very pretty, tiny and thin. Last night, he'd enjoyed hurting her, and making her beg for mercy.
The problem then was it had all happened too fast. Brandy got too crazy when she was high. She made a mess of everything. You had to do this kind of thing slowly, deliberately, not in a panic. From now on he would do things right. He would set it up carefully, and the shrink would be there as his witness. This time he wouldn't have to be in a hurry, for no one could frighten or stop him from doing whatever he wanted. He could take his time and enjoy squeezing the breath out of her. And he would savor knowing that someone was watching as he did it.
As he hiked purposefully in the rain, he remembered that squashing was a recognized method of killing. In American History, he'd read about the witches of Salem. They used to kill them by drowning, but also by piling stones and rocks on them until they couldn't lift their chests to fill their lungs with air and were crushed to death in their own graves. A good way to get rid of anyone. He particularly liked the idea of crushing a very pretty girl to death with the weight of his own body. After the girl was dead, he would suffocate the shrink. That would be no effort at all. The man was small and practically dead already.
David had thought to bring along a really good knife. It was much better than Brandy's. It had a serrated edge for cleaning fish cartilage and could cut through anything. He liked the idea of his competence in this area. He had thought out many aspects of this mission, and it turned out that he was smart and knew what he was doing. When he was finished, he would end up with two fingers, and Brandy, who was way too impulsive, would have none.
Thunder struck as he pushed through the bushes. Then lightning. In the lightning he saw two rats huddled together outside the gate. He cursed and threw a rock at them. They ran away. He directed his flashlight where the rat had been and saw the foot sticking out. His heart sank. What fun would it be if the girl was already dead. He approached the gate swearing softly.
Sixty-four
” Bitch. Damn bitch.”
Maslow heard the voice. Then the crunch on gravel. A crack of thunder ruptured the sky. The noise covered his soft signal to Dylan. "Shhh." As if she could hear him and respond. There was nothing from her. A flashlight raked the area.
"Damn!" The voice was full of anger. Frightening.
Quickly, Maslow moved to the back of the cave before the light could catch him. His breathing sounded loud and ragged in his ears, but the boy didn't hear it.
"What the fuck!" He was talking to himself as he shone the strong beam on Dylan. She was out of it, didn't move. The light traveled along the ground.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminated him, just for a second, from behind. Maslow was horrified by the sight of the boy, dripping wet and at the peak of his health. The monster who had captured and beaten and terrorized him and Dylan looked huge, like an athlete, a football player or mountain climber. Even in the best condition, Maslow would not have been able to take him on. Now he was weak and dehydrated. His legs were shaky at best and his head ached from the blows he'd received. There was no way he could fight him now.
The light froze on the gate bottom. The boy's attention was drawn to Maslow's sneakers stuffed under the gate and the gap where a spoke had been.
"What the fuck!" he said again. He shone the light into the cave looking for Maslow and didn't locate him at first.
Maslow had thrown himself down in the corner, trying to look as if he had given up and died hours ago. The boy kept the light on him, shifting it back and forth from the shoeless feet to his hands buried in dirt, to his head. Maslow saw the light move and kept still. He had a wild hope that the boy would think Dylan was dead and he was dead, and that he would just go away.
But the boy was angered by what he saw and squatted down to assess the situation. He saw the sneakers and the digging that Maslow had done in his a
ttempt to free Dylan's leg. Then he shone the light on Dylan more carefully this time and saw that her hands were no longer bound. He swore again.
Maslow held his breath as the boy poked Dylan's foot. She groaned. That galvanized him. The rock was still wedged against the gate. Now he picked it up and moved it. Then he wrenched the gate away. Dylan was not so out of it that she didn't feel the metal tearing her flesh. She screamed.
Maslow screamed, too, but the boy didn't hear him. Thunder was booming in the sky, and he had something else on his mind. He entered the cave, bending low to get inside. He shone the light on Maslow. Maslow held his breath and didn't move as the boy half-walked, half-crawled closer to get a better take on him. He poked Maslow with his foot, curiously, as if he were some thing, not a person. When Maslow didn't move, he kicked him in the ankle, then in the side. The breath was knocked out of him, and still he didn't move.
Maslow hurt in new places now, and he was enraged by the arrogance of the boy. The kid didn't see them as alive, as people. He didn't give a shit what he was doing to them. The arrogance and the raw sadism was more than Maslow could bear. If he had been strong enough to kill, he would kill now. But he was afraid to move, afraid of what the boy would do to him next.
Satisfied that he was no threat, the boy turned around and concentrated on Dylan. She was weeping feverishly, talking gibberish a few feet away. The boy was interested in her.
"Turn over," he said.
She didn't acknowledge him. This annoyed him. "I want you to turn over." She didn't comply, so he rolled her over himself.
Maslow thought he would lose his mind as he saw the boy talking to her, moving her arms and her legs to suit him.
"No, no." She muttered something inaudible.
The boy paid no attention to her. "Put your arms around me and hug me," he said.
