But now it's time to return to Chelsea where Detective Harris is watching. You don't need your special ability to outwit a cretin like Harris. There are other ways short of killing him to demonstrate that he is no match for a mind of your caliber. This might be an even better way to prepare him for his end. Humiliate him first. Confound him. Lose him when he tries to follow you. Night after night, demonstrate his impotence against you.
And when he's completely demoralized, then you drive the knife home with Kara's hand.
This will be fun. You can start tonight.
You neaten up the room, turn off the lights. You hurry back to bed and leave Kara Wade's body in sleep.
▼
1:08 A.M.
Rob raced down Twenty-first Street. He sighed with relief when he saw Gates walking up the steps to his front door. The doctor had left his office unusually early tonight and Rob had been afraid he had something sneaky planned. If he did, he would have pulled it during Rob's end run with the car. But there he was. Home sweet home.
Was this it for the night? Rob didn't trust Gates enough to think so. He'd give him another couple of hours before quitting.
He got the car settled into its customary spot by the fire hydrant and zipped up the battered, fleece-lined leather bomber jacket to ward off the cold. He was just lighting a cigarette when he saw Gates bounce down his front steps and head back toward Seventh again.
Maybe he'd left something at the office. Rob started up the car. He wasn't going to let Gates out of his sight this time. He didn't wait for him to get to the end of the block but pulled out and crept the car along behind him. No need for subtlety anymore. Each knew where the other stood.
At the corner, Gates suddenly turned right instead of left. He began hurrying up Seventh Avenue. And the traffic ran downtown only.
Here we go!
Rob found another hydrant on the corner and pulled in next to it. He jumped out and sprinted after Gates.
The doctor had a half-block lead. At the corner of Seventh and Twenty-second he got into the rear of a waiting cab. It lurched away, heading east on Twenty-second.
Rob grinned. That sly bastard! Must have called from his home and had a radio cab waiting for him! Rob paused long enough to get the cab's number off the roof light, then he searched Seventh Avenue for a cab of his own. None in sight. He kept running, past Twenty-second on to Twenty-third which was a two-way. Better chance to find a cab there.
He did. He flagged it down and flashed his shield as he leaped inside.
"Police. Put on your 'Not in Service' sign and move it up to Sixth! Fast!"
The driver was dark, his voice thickly accented.
"Begging your—"
"You'll get paid. Move it!"
The driver moved it. The card on the visor said his name was Achmed Moustaffah. Rob didn't care if he was Colonel Qadaffi as long as he could handle his rig and knew the streets.
The light was green ahead at Sixth. Rob directed Achmed to the curb at the corner. Now the hard part. Was Gates continuing east or turning uptown? When the red came, he watched. He'd give the other cab twenty seconds to—
Suddenly a radio cab went by on Sixth, heading uptown.
"See that cab?" Rob said. "Forget the light and follow it."
Achmed turned to him and grinned.
"Really? This is true what you say? 'Follow that cab?' Four years I have driven and so many movies have seen and have prayed that someone would say this to me! You are making me so happy!"
"If you don't shut up and start driving, we'll lose him!"
With a screech of balding tires, Achmed wheeled through the red light onto Sixth.
"Have no fear! We shall not be losing him!"
Rob slid over on the back seat until he was behind Achmed. He crouched down and watched Gates' cab ahead through the space between the driver and the window post.
The smart way to do this, of course, would have been to have a back-up ready. But Gates was not officially a suspect, so there was no back-up to be had. And even if there were, Rob wouldn't have used it. This was between him and Gates. Anybody else would get in the way.
Okay, Doc. You've made your move. Let's see where it takes us.
▼
You look through the rear window of the cab and see no one following. A delivery truck, an off-duty cab. Easy to spot a tail at this hour of the morning.
You face front and settle back in the lumpy seat. You're disappointed. That was too easy. You almost wish for a decent challenge. This is like beating a street urchin at chess.
Well, no sense in following through with the rest of the route you had planned. No need for it now. You've achieved checkmate on the first move.
You tell the driver to let you off at the Plaza. He drops you on the Central Park Side. You walk in the bar entrance, past the stairway down to Trader Vic's, and into the Oak Bar with its dark paneling, the ornate white ceiling, the tiny lamps in sconces on the walls and pillars. You notice the sign. "Occupancy by more than 240 persons is dangerous and unlawful." You can't imagine sharing this room with 239 people.
You take a table by the window where you can see the park, and order a snifter of Remy Martin. You swirl it in the glass and inhale the vapors as the liquid warms, savoring the irony of sitting completely unnoticed in a place where only weeks ago, in a different body, you were notorious.
You are about to drain your snifter when the waiter sets another on your table.
"I didn't order this," you say.
The waiter smiles and nods his head toward the other end of the room.
"Compliments of the gentlemen at the bar, sir."
Startled, you scan the bar. Your eyes freeze on a man in a brown leather jacket standing with his foot resting casually on the brass rail. He smiles and hoists a glass of beer in your direction.
Harris!
The insolent pup! How did he find you? You were certain you left him gawking on that street corner back in Chelsea.
Well, never mind that now. He was lucky this time. And you did want a challenge tonight, didn't you?
Time for the second phase of your plan to elude him.
You leave enough money for the drink and a tip, then you exit the bar and rush through the small lobby toward the main entrance, the one by the fountain, facing Fifth Avenue. You turn left toward Central Park South. As soon as there's a break in the traffic, you hurry across the street toward the Park.
▼
Rob watched Gates enter Central Park's southeast corner.. He couldn't believe Gates wanted to spend any real time in there. Too risky. He could run into a bunch of wilding kids and be left as hamburger along the side of the path. He guessed from Gates' soft look that he wasn't in great shape, which placed another mark against a long trot through the Park.
A diversion, I'll bet.
Rob moved to his left along Central Park South until he was half way between Fifth and Sixth. He pressed himself back into the darkened, canopied doorway of Mickey Mantle's and waited.
Sure enough, ten minutes later Gates emerged from the park at the head of Sixth Avenue and crossed back to the downtown side of Central Park South. He disappeared as he hurried down Sixth.
Rob cut through the alley near Mickey Mantle's, emerging on 58th Street, then he ran full tilt up to Sixth and turned downtown. He spotted Gates immediately on the far side of the avenue. Rob hugged the store fronts, keeping to the shadows. His big worry now was Gates grabbing a cab and leaving Rob in the dust.
Rob watched Gates cross 57th, saw him pause, look around, then duck down the steps of the subway entrance on the far corner.
Rob stayed in the shadows by his own subway entrance, catercornered from Gates'.
Good for you, Doc. Never would have thought of you taking the subway.
Rob allowed himself to relax a little. He had practically grown up on the subway. He knew it inside and out.
Gates had just entered Rob's realm.
▼
You buy a token and wait n
ear the foot of the steps, watching for Detective Harris to appear. Suddenly there are footsteps descending but it is a tall lanky black man wearing what looks like a soft leather fez. His eyes challenge you as he passes. You look away. When you hear the rumble of an approaching train on the level below, you dash down the stairs to the platforms. You don't care where the train is going because you're only going to take it one stop. The wind gushes from the downtown side. Excellent! You run for it. The doors open at your approach, as if they've been expecting you. You find a car near the middle and step inside. But you don't sit down. Instead, you peer up and down the platform. You're taking no chances this time. There is no sign of Detective Harris. You watch until the doors close, sealing you in.
You smile as the train lurches forward. You've done the unexpected. Normally a man of your stature would not stoop to riding the subway. But you thrive on doing the unexpected.
The first stop is almost immediate. Forty-ninth Street. That's too close to where you got on. You decide to take the train one more stop.
See? Sometimes you even surprise yourself—you've changed your own plans in mid-play.
Let Harris try to catch you now.
▼
Rob crouched near the top of the stairway furthest uptown on the platform. He'd come underground via the other entrance. Apparently the doctor was unaware of the multiple stairways to and from street level at each stop.
Rob watched as Gates scanned the platform. He waited until the doors were closed and the train was in motion, then he made his move. He ran down the steps, darted across the platform, and grabbed one of the safety chains that swung across the space between the last and next-to-last cars. He slipped between the chains and stepped onto the platform between the cars.
He paused there a moment to catch his breath and get himself together. That move had been a lot easier when he was fifteen.
He slid the door open and entered the next-to-last car. Leaning forward against the train's momentum, he made his way toward Gates' car, somewhere near the middle. He found the doctor hanging on a strap and staring out the windows at the darkness of the tunnel.
He walked by and gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs.
"Sorry."
Gates turned, a glare in his eyes. But the anger abruptly turned to shock.
Rob gave him a polite smile, as if he were just another passenger.
"Wish they'd learn to drive these things a little smoother," he said, then continued forward to the next car.
He hid his grin from Gates. That expression on the psychiatrist's face was worth the risk of jumping on a moving subway. Any day.
In the second car from the front, Rob found a heavy black woman in a nurse's uniform standing by the door, obviously waiting for the next stop. That would be Forty-second Street. She had a face like James Earl Jones with a Roseanne Barr style body. Perfect.
When the train stopped at Forty-second, Rob exited the car in a half crouch on the nurse's downtown side, then slipped behind the nearest pillar and waited. He was sure Gates would not want to stay on the subway any longer. Well, pretty sure. This was pure gamble now. Rob stayed behind the pillar, not moving a muscle as the train slid its doors closed and began to roll toward Thirty-fourth Street. He peered into the passing cars. If he saw Gates, the chase was over. The psychiatrist would have won tonight. Rob would have to start again tomorrow night.
But he didn't see Gates. He must have got off.
But still Rob didn't move. When the train was gone, he heard what he had expected: a single pair of footsteps hurrying up the stairs.
▼
You watch every passenger who gets off the train, then you wait until the doors are all closed. And still you wait until the train has been swallowed by the subway tunnel. You are alone on the platform. The detective did not get off the train.
You turn and hurry up toward the street, planning what to do next. This has been a very unsettling experience. Detective Harris was exceedingly lucky tonight and very cocksure about it. He knocked you in the ribs on the subway car, then pretended you were a stranger. An insult. An assault. Even though the chase isn't over yet, he has succeeded in humiliating you. He'll be bragging about this to his policemen cronies tomorrow, calling you a fool.
Oh, it will be good to have Kara Wade's hand sink that blade into his gut and twist it!
But that will have to wait. What to do now? If you return to Chelsea he might well be sitting in his car outside your front door, waiting for you. Laughing at you.
You come up to the cold, crisp air. The neon sleaze of Times Square assaults you. You ignore it. Your mind is on, more important matters. What to do next?
An idea strikes you. Why return home at all? Spend the night at a hotel. A wonderful idea.
You look around. But you certainly won't stay here in the Times Square area. The Grand Hyatt is just a few blocks east. And the Helmsley Palace is further uptown. You were at the Helmsley as Kara a few nights ago.
Now you'll have to be there as yourself. Oh, well, it's a comfortable place.
No sooner do you raise your hand to flag a taxi than one pulls into the curb. You reach for the door but it opens by itself. A familiar, grinning face appears out of the rear interior.
"Need a ride, Doc? I'm heading your way."
The shock is like a stab in the throat. This is not to be borne! How can this buffoon know your every move? It's not possible! Not natural!
You lurch away, into the street to find another cab, one for yourself, to take you away from this city hireling who trails after you like a tin can tied to your tail. Rage is a living thing inside you. You'll kill him with your bare hands if you ever get the chance!
Suddenly there's the blare of a horn, unbearably loud, screeching tires. You spin. Lights, so bright, so close—
▼
"Oh, shit, man! Oh, shit!" Rob's cabbie was saying as he leaped from his taxi.
Rob was ahead of him, running around the back of the cab to where Gates lay sprawled face down on the pavement.
The driver of the van that struck Gates was running around in circles, grabbing anyone who might have been a witness, pleading with anyone who would listen.
"You saw him run out in front of me didn't you? I had no chance to stop! The light was green! He jumped right in front of me! It's not my fault!"
Rob wanted to shut him up.
"It's all right. I'm a police officer. It wasn't your fault. Now back off while—"
Gates groaned and got to his knees. He looked around in a daze. Finally his eyes focused on Rob. There was a wild look in them.
Rob took a cautious step forward.
"Just stay where you are, Gates. We'll get an ambulance."
Gates lurched to his feet and reached for Rob, staggering toward him. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead.
"El merit!"
"Easy, Gates. You're hurt. Why don't you sit on the curb here.
As Rob put out a hand to steady the injured man, Gates leaped at him.
"Nen tibet! Kedeshen, nen tibet!"
He grappled with Rob, slinging one arm around him and pulling at his jacket with the other. There was a crazed look in his eyes. Rob tried to push him away without knocking him down again.
"Hey, be cool, Doc. You're going to—"
And then Rob felt Gates' probing hand latch onto his holster.
He's going for my gun!
Rob shoved Gates violently away but felt the revolver pull free, saw Gates click off the safety. Rob grappled for it. Gates was in his face. He looked demented. He was breathing like a set of leaky air brakes. Flecks of saliva salted his lips as he wheezed in a faint, frantic, high-pitched voice, saying the same thing over and over.
"Nen tibet! Nen tibet!"
Gates had wormed one of his fingers through the trigger guard but Rob had jammed his thumb behind the trigger. Gates twisted the pistol viciously, pointing the barrel straight up, but Rob held on. He knew he was a dead man if the gun got away from him.
> Suddenly Gates stiffened and shuddered. His eyes widened and he suddenly tried to pull his hands free of the revolver. The move took Rob by surprise. His thumb slipped from behind the trigger, leaving it free to move.
The retort was deafening. Rob winced away from the muzzle flash, felt the burn and sting of the ignited powder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gates jerk upward, saw the top of his head explode in a fountain of red. And then the revolver was all his again and Gates was staggering backward with outflung arms. He managed two steps, during which his eyes were wide, shocked, losing their light. For an instant, his mouth twitched. He said something that sounded like "Kissinum," then he toppled flat onto his back like a fallen tree.
Sibs Page 26
