by Tom Savage
Under his left arm he carried the Sunday New York Times.
The young man frowned at Mark as he approached down the sidewalk, and as he came abreast of him, he apparently made the born-and-bred New Yorker’s decision as to how to deal with the stranger in front of his building. Pointedly ignoring Mark, he turned and started up the steps to 125.
“Um, excuse me,” Mark called to his retreating back.
The big man turned on the steps. “Yeah?”
Mark tried to smile, but found that he couldn’t. “Is—is that newspaper for me?”
Now the man frowned again. He looked down at the paper under his arm, then up at Mark. When he finally spoke, he uttered Mark’s words of a moment before—“Excuse me?”—but it was the born-and-bred New Yorker’s reading of the line. Rough translation: Screw you.
Mark actually took a step backward on the sidewalk. “I—I’m sorry, it’s just—I thought maybe—a friend of mine sent me here to look for a—I think he’s playing a practical joke on me.…”
He trailed off, the words of instruction flashing in his brain. No one else may know about the game. He stood there, writhing with uncertainty, when three things happened simultaneously.
He heard music. From somewhere behind him, he heard the approaching sound of a familiar female voice singing a familiar song. It registered, fleetingly, that the singer was Judy Garland and the song was “Easter Parade.”
The door behind the man opened, and the pretty young woman Mark had glimpsed through the curtains arrived on the stoop. “Billy, what’s going on …?”
And a rolled newspaper materialized from thin air and landed with a soft thud at Mark’s feet.
All three of them stared down at the missile. Mark whirled around and looked behind him. For an odd, frozen moment, he thought perhaps he was hallucinating. A young boy, maybe twelve, was sailing silently by down the street on a red bicycle. The music came from a boom box in the wire basket attached to his handlebars. The boy turned his head briefly, his curly brown hair streaming, and shot Mark an impish grin. Then the hallucination vanished as instantly as it had arrived: the song faded away as the red blur sped to the corner, turned sharply, and disappeared from sight.
As the woman watched from the doorway, the man came back down the steps. He was reaching for the package when Mark knelt and snatched it up.
“Hey, buddy,” the man protested, “I think that must be for one of our neigh—”
“No,” Mark said with certainty. “It’s for me.”
It was not the Sunday Times, or anything nearly that size. It was one of the tabloids, rolled into a neat tube and tied with a black silk ribbon, like a college diploma. In one swift move, Mark slid the ribbon off and unrolled the tube. It was a New York Post, and not a recent one. That fact barely had time to register when Mark had a second hallucination: as the paper flattened, a yellow-and-purple plastic Easter egg that had been wrapped inside slid out and slowly, slowly fell down to land on the sidewalk, cracking open as it struck. A fuzzy yellow stuffed chick went skittering across the cement.
“What the hell?” the young man cried, nearly dropping his own packages.
The two men were staring down at the front page of the newspaper. George and Alma Banes were smiling up at them from a grainy photograph just under that day’s bold headline: FAMILY MAN STRIKES IN NEW YORK! The date was Monday, the day after Easter, eleven years ago.
The big man—Billy, she’d called him—bent to put down the tray and the Times on the sidewalk, grabbed the paper from Mark’s hands, and quickly folded it over, concealing the headline. He turned and called over his shoulder, his voice jocular, artificial. “It’s okay, Nan. Go back inside.”
Without a word, Nan complied, closing the door behind her. The man named Billy handed Mark the folded paper and viciously kicked the plastic egg halves into the gutter. The fuzzy chick followed them. Then the man turned to face Mark, his huge body unnaturally close, his eyes on fire. Mark could feel the heat, the outrage, the dangerous power of the man, and he shrank involuntarily back from him.
“You’d better leave now,” the young man growled. “Nan doesn’t know about what happened here, and I don’t want her to. It took me forever to find a place we could afford. She wouldn’t want to stay here, she’d want to move, and I like living here. That Family Man stuff was a long time ago. You said a friend sent you here for this? Well, I think your friend has a real creepy sense of humor. Now get the hell out of here!” He picked up his packages and bounded up the stairs to 125 Kane Street.
“I—I’m sorry, I …” Mark clutched the newspaper to his chest as he turned and fairly staggered away down the street in the direction of the subway that would return him to Manhattan, to his home, to sanity.
6
The tall, dark-haired man with the scar raised the field glasses and watched Mark Stevenson staggering away down the sidewalk. Then he lowered the glasses, a glint of amusement briefly lighting his pale gray eyes.
The writer was definitely upset, that much was plain. Unsettled and embarrassed, with that couple from the building intruding on the otherwise perfect setup. But the package had been delivered as instructed. The local boy had been only too glad for the twenty dollars and the new boom box, although his brief mission was never explained to him. He would boast to his friends about it, and about the strange, huge man in black with the scar down his face, but that was all. He was no problem.
And Mark Stevenson was playing the game.
That was the important thing, he knew. Everything that had been planned for the next six days, the elaborate setup that would move the pawn around the enormous chessboard—it all depended on the pawn playing the game. But he had known beforehand that the writer would play, and why.
So, on to the next round. If Mark Stevenson was as smart as all that, he would read the newspaper he’d just received very carefully. He would put together the next clue, and the next move. And tomorrow, Monday, he would be on his way to the next location.
The big man moved forward out of the shadows of the doorway where he had concealed himself to watch 125 Kane Street, and glided toward his parked Lincoln Town Car. He gave the appearance of gliding, he knew. The long black coat, what in more romantic times had been called a “duster,” swirled around him, concealing his legs. The voluminous coat was also good for concealing other things, such as the field glasses, and the power pack and headset that monitored the listening device he’d planted in the writer’s apartment. Not to mention his special medical kit. And the knife.
The eight-inch, stainless steel blade was something he knew how to use. His father had given it to him when he was twelve years old, and he had first killed with it when he was fifteen. Since then, it traveled with him. It had become an essential part of him, a defining characteristic. The custom-made leather sheath was attached to a shoulder holster, and the knife fit comfortably against the left side of his rib cage. It was there, always, waiting to be put to use.
He preferred the weapon to a gun, although he prided himself on the fact that he could use any firearm in existence if the occasion arose. He was an expert marksman. That, too, had been part of his early training. He could kill a man with his bare hands, if it came to that, and had done so. Violence was second nature, part of his everyday reality, and it always had been. He didn’t even think about it anymore.
And he had big plans for Mark Stevenson.
He would follow Mark—or “the mark,” as he had come to think of him—back to Manhattan. He would resume his post outside the brick apartment house on Bedford Street and wait for the next discovery, the next flurry of activity. And the forthcoming week would be fraught with activity.
Yes, he thought again. It will be a perfect game.…
Dark as a shadow, silent as the grave, he glided into the car and glided away down the street, toward the avenue that would lead him to the Brooklyn Bridge.
7
There had to be some mistake.
Mark had known from the
moment the newspaper, that mocking gauntlet of challenge, had been cast down before him that this game, this scavenger hunt, was inevitable. He knew—as this person, this “Scavenger,” apparently knew—that he would be compelled to play along. He was already playing, in fact. And for this, he was going to need money.
He had credit cards and a checkbook, but he would probably need cash as well. His next stop was Washington, D.C., and he had decided to rent a car. He’d come here, to the bank at Sheridan Square three blocks from his building, to check his account balances and withdraw some cash, and as he stared down at the illuminated screen of the automated teller machine he repeated his first, incredulous thought, now spoken under his breath.
“There has to be some mistake.”
But there was no mistake; he knew that, too. The last time he had noted the balance in his account had been four days ago, Wednesday. At some point between then and now, his checking balance had grown by exactly ten thousand dollars.
Even as he accepted the fact, he accepted that there was no point in following it up. Like the diskette taped to his door, it was simply there. Anyone could deliver an envelope to an apartment building, and anyone with ten thousand in cash could deposit it in someone else’s bank account without arousing suspicion. Scavenger hadn’t tried to withdraw money from Mark’s account, which would be questioned, and some teller in any one of hundreds of branches of his bank would only be able to provide the same description Mrs. Ramos had already given him: tall, dark, scarred. Tracking down the teller could take days, and Mark didn’t have days. He had obtained the newspaper in half of his allotted twenty-four hours, and tomorrow, Monday, he would be in Washington. He’d been given twenty-four hours there, too, beginning at midnight tonight. Time was a big factor in this demented game.
Washington was the next apparent destination, but he wasn’t looking for a specific article this time. He was looking for a man. He thought about this as he withdrew several hundred in cash from the ATM and stuffed it into his wallet. Then he proceeded home, to get ready for dinner with Tracy. He’d called her and asked her to come to the Village this evening. He wanted to say good-bye in person, not on the phone. He’d do it over dinner in a restaurant, and he would take her back to his apartment for the night. She didn’t know it yet, but it might be their last night together for at least a week.
He showered and changed at home, thinking all the while of the eleven-year-old copy of the New York Post that was now folded into his suitcase.
The breaking news concerned the Banes family, of course, and it had covered the first few pages of the paper that day. The details of the slaughter were related, with photos of the covered bodies being carried down the steps, the very steps where Mark had stood this morning. The paper had been careful to include as much information as could hastily be gathered about the victims, the actual people behind the sensational tragedy. The family’s status in the community, Dr. Banes’s distinguished contributions to the medical profession, the children’s schools and colleges, Mrs. Banes’s many charity activities. A brief sketch, a hurried overview of the lives of five perfectly decent, perfectly innocent people.
Nobody had seen anything on that holiday morning. The neighbors on the block near 125 Kane Street were not the sort of people who spied on each other, and the Christians among them had been preoccupied with church and Easter egg hunts in backyards and preparing feasts for their families and guests.
If there had been a commotion in the house, or screams, nothing had been noted. There were no unaccountable fingerprints, no footprints in the blood. The FBI and police had speculated on that, the apparent ease with which the shocking deed had been done. Five grown people do not simply allow themselves to be killed, one cop was quoted as saying. The best guess was that it had been done very early, while the family had still been asleep, exactly as in the other four incidents. The forensic evidence supported this: four of the five members of the Banes family had been killed in their beds upstairs and carried down to the dining room. Only Alma Banes had apparently been downstairs at the time: she was killed in the kitchen.
The red Magic Marker highlights had appeared on a related story on page five—a sidebar, really—detailing the ongoing FBI investigation and recapping the earlier four attacks by The Family Man. Accompanying that story was a photograph of a big, imposingly handsome, powerfully built African-American man in his mid-forties. He was Ronald O’Hara, the FBI special agent in charge of the Family Man case. He and his team had arrived from Washington to work with the NYPD as they had earlier worked with the police in the other four locations.
The head shot of Agent O’Hara was circled in red marker, and a big question mark had been drawn in the margin beside it. In the text of the story, the word “Washington” had been underlined three times, and a big exclamation mark accompanied it. Near these markings had been scrawled, 24 HRS. STRTNG MDNGHT TNGHT!
And there was something else. Across a department store advertisement beside the article, in the same red marker, was the sentence:
Newspapers were very important to The Family Man, because they reported what he wanted them to report.
So Scavenger had conveyed his new instructions. Mark would go to Washington tomorrow, to look up O’Hara. That was obviously the next move. After that—well, he had no doubt Scavenger would provide further directions.
Mark would not call O’Hara, or in any way forewarn him of his arrival. He knew the agent was retired, had been for several years now, and he had his address in Georgetown. Last year, when Mark had been preparing his notes for Dark Desire, he had called the man and requested an interview. The former agent had refused to discuss the Family Man case, certainly not for a novel based loosely on the facts. He had refused to see Mark outright, and Mark knew why.
That was going to be the big problem, Mark thought as he dressed for dinner. He would surprise O’Hara at home—if he was at home—and he would have to get the man to invite him in. To cooperate with him. To talk to him now, despite his earlier refusal.…
The intercom buzzer sounded, interrupting his reverie. Tracy. Right on time, as usual. And she must not know about this, any of it. He loved her, and he didn’t want her to be frightened or to worry about him. She had enough on her mind at the moment, he knew. In a couple of months, they were going to be married, and even a small City Hall ceremony took planning. By that time, Scavenger would be a thing of the past.
He hoped.
With a sigh for the difficult task that awaited him in Washington tomorrow, he forced a smile to his lips and went over to the door to let Tracy in.
8
“Washington?”
“Yes.”
“For a week?”
“Well, I’m starting there, anyway. I think I may have to go to a couple of other places as well.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“You’re not sure. You’re doing research for your novel, but you’re not sure where you’re going to be?”
“Something like that.”
Pause. Then the woman said, “Mark, is—is something wrong?”
At that moment a car horn blared loudly before the vehicle tore through the intersection beside him, obliterating the reply. When the car was gone, he heard her say, “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m beginning to sound like a wife. Of course, that’s what I’ll be in two months, don’t forget. I’m sorry. But please call me from wherever you are from time to time, so I won’t worry.”
“I will.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Now, where do you want to have dinner?”
The woman laughed. “That place around the corner, the one with the Cobb salad I like so much.…”
He smiled to himself and switched off the receiver. They would emerge from the building in a few minutes, he reasoned, and he would shadow them while they were out. Then they were coming back here to spend the night: they’d already discussed that, too. He wouldn’t listen in on that part of it. Well, p
robably not, anyway.…
And tomorrow, the mark—“Mark”—would go to Washington.
Perfect.
9
It was over dessert and coffee in the restaurant that Mark first conceived the idea.
Tracy looked beautiful, as ever. She’d smiled and laughed all through dinner, her glowing face and sparkling blond hair reflected in the muted light of the candle between them. She’d had her famous Cobb salad, and he had ordered filet of sole, but he hadn’t really been able to eat, being so distracted, so preoccupied. He pushed the fish and potatoes and string beans around on his plate, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he was barely eating any of it. If she did notice, she didn’t say anything, and for that he was grateful.
He had to do something.
Tracy ordered more white wine and launched herself into a couple of amusing stories, one about her mother’s obsession with international bridge tournaments and the other about one of her authors. Mrs. Morgan was soon going to play in some high-stakes game somewhere, and the author, a mousy young woman named Edna Clapp who wrote gushing, semipornographic romantic fiction under the glamorous pseudonym Stella Verlaine, had decided on cosmetic surgery. This had struck Tracy as being hilarious, because the woman was cross-eyed: all the nose jobs and chin remodelings and boob jobs in the world would not improve her most distinctively unattractive feature.…
He could not go to the police.
Tracy finished her anecdote and looked over at him expectantly. He laughed perfunctorily. She finished her salad and said something he didn’t quite catch, something about hot pecan pie with whipped cream.…
