The Footprints of God

by Greg Iles

  “Why did they stop the trains?” Rachel asked.

  “Us.”

  “They’re shutting down all the trains in Union Station to find us?”

  “Attention, please,” said the PA announcer. “The police have asked that all shoppers and travelers move in a calm and methodical way to the exits. We apologize for this inconvenience. There is no danger of any kind to persons or property. You may pay for your purchases, but we ask that you move to the exits as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  I could see the effort it was taking for Rachel to stay calm.

  “We’re not going to get out, are we?” she asked.

  I looked over the balcony rail again. The cop was trying to decide whether to come up or go down. “They must have triggered some sort of terrorist alert. That’s the only way you could evacuate this place. There could be a hundred cops surrounding the building.”

  Rachel looked along the mezzanine. Clusters of people were hurrying toward us. We stepped away from the stairs and let them pass.

  The cop below moved toward the ticketing area and spoke into his collar radio again.

  “We’ve got two choices. One, we change our appearance and try to get out with the crowd.”

  “Change our appearance how?”

  “Go into a store and put on all black clothes, maybe. Find some scissors and cut off your hair. Mousse mine up. Try to look ten years younger.”

  Rachel didn’t look encouraged. “That’ll get us nailed in the airport. We won’t match our passport photos.”

  “You’re right. Then we do the simple thing. Go into the back of a store, find a couple of big cardboard boxes, and hide in them until all this dies down.”

  “Simple is good.”

  “But the police might bring dogs.”

  “God.”

  “Come on,” I said, suddenly sure what to do.

  I ran down the curved staircase, watching for police uniforms. I’d seen a marquee for a theater on our way in, and from the station’s layout, I guessed it was on the lower level. The staircase terminated in a food court. People were rushing to finish their meals, anxiety on their faces. Through a jumble of orange and yellow chairs I saw a line of moviegoers filing out of the theater doors.

  “Where are we going?” Rachel asked.

  “The cinema.”

  “They’re evacuating it.”

  As we moved toward the theater entrance, a section of wall opened about ten yards in front of us, and a frightened-looking young couple walked out, squinting their eyes. Before the tire door’s spring could pull it closed, I darted forward and blocked it with my foot.

  The houselights were on in the theater, but the seats were empty. Up the sloping floor to my left, a man in a sport jacket was ushering the last moviegoers up the center aisle toward the main exit. To my right, a ten-foot-tall Hugh Grant walked dejectedly along a London street, his hands in his pockets. Rachel leaned against my back.

  “What’s in there?”

  I pulled the door open wide enough for us to slip through, then lifted the bottom of the heavy red curtain that ran along the wall and let it fall over us. We flattened ourselves against the wall and separated, so as to fit more naturally into the billow of the fabric. I could no longer see Rachel, but I realized with surprise that we were holding hands. The instinct was as primitive as that of two Neanderthals comforting each other against a cave wall.

  “Why here?” she asked. “Why not the back of a store?”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw police converging on our stolen truck.

  “Dogs,” Rachel whispered. “A minute ago, this room was full of sweating people. Different scents. Not like the stockroom of some store.”

  “Right.” The soundtrack of the movie died with a groan. I expected to hear voices, but none came. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Rachel clung to my sweating hand. As I wiped perspiration from my forehead, a male voice penetrated the curtain.

  “I got the center aisle!”

  Rachel’s hand clenched mine.

  Police radio chatter echoed through the theater.

  “Okay,” called a second man. “I’ll shine my light under the seats.”

  The men didn’t worry me much, but the rapid panting that followed nearly stopped my heart. I might soon have to choose between surrender and a shoot-out with city police.

  “She’s got something!” cried the first man. “Look, she’s on a scent. Go, girl!”

  I tried not to breathe.

  “Shit, it’s half a hot dog.”

  “Wait, she’s onto something else.”

  The voices were closer. Rachel’s hand was shaking. How would she react if I fired my gun? These weren’t assassins sent by Geli Bauer. They were probably D.C. cops doing their duty.

  “She’s going in circles,” said the second voice. “Too many scents. I’m smelling some BO myself. We’re gonna have to come back later.”

  “Okay. They want her down by the tracks anyway.”

  The voices receded.

  “What are we going to do?” Rachel whispered.

  “Wait.”

  “How long?”

  “They can’t keep Union Station closed all day.”

  “You think the dog is coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think I peed in my pants.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Won’t the dog smell it?”

  She was right. “Just try to be quiet.”

  An hour and forty-five minutes later, a male voice came over the PA system. “Dr. Tennant, this is Officer Wilton Howard of the Washington, D.C., police department. We want you to know that we know this is all a misunderstanding. We’ve been made aware that the shooting in North Carolina was self-defense, and we are prepared to offer you protective custody and unlimited communication with anyone you wish to speak to. Please step into plain sight with Dr. Weiss, put down any weapons, and turn yourself in to any officer. You will not be treated as a criminal.”

  “What do you think?” Rachel asked.

  “I hear Geli Bauer in that message.”

  “Maybe it’s for real. I mean, all the cops in the building heard that, too.”

  “If they’ve been told I’m a terrorist or something like that, they think anything is justified to bring me out. Plus, they think I’m armed.”

  “Are you?”

  I started to lie, but she needed to know the truth. “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.”

  The police message began again.

  “David…”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Stay quiet.”

  Another hour passed, with more and varied messages coming over the PA system. On instinct, I told Rachel to lie flat on the floor and remain against the wall. I did the same.

  The dog didn’t come back, but more cops did. It sounded as if they were walking every row of seats. Now and then I felt the heavy curtain sway as one of them checked it. As footsteps neared us, I pulled my gun out of my pants and prayed that Rachel could hold her nerve. Heavy steps approached me, and then the fabric lifted off my face.

  A pair of black boots was inches from my eyes. I held my breath, unsure whether I’d been seen or not. The curtain danced along my right cheek. Then it dropped, and the boots walked away. The cop had only hit the wall a few times with his hand to check behind the curtain.

  My heart felt as though it had turned to stone.

  The boots approached again. The cop checked the curtain the way he had before, one row down. I tried to shut out the sound of his footsteps. After a seeming eternity, I realized he had passed us by. The search continued for another five minutes, then the radio chatter died. I thought Rachel must be close to cracking, but I didn’t risk trying to speak to her. After twenty minutes with no further appeals over the PA system, I heard a mechanical hissing and clicking that I recognized as rewinding film.

  “Is that the projector?” Rachel asked.

  “Somebody’s rewinding the film. They
must be reopening the station. We should go.”

  “Maybe we should wait until tonight.”

  “No. There’ll be guards posted at the exits tonight. Right now, we can count on a lot of confusion as they reopen the station. This is our best chance.”

  We got up and moved down the wall to the exit door. After listening and hearing nothing, I opened the door a crack. Two women walked past wearing street clothes. I thought they might be cops, but then the PA announced a rescheduled train. An empty terminal needed no such announcement. I pulled Rachel through the door.

  The escalators and staircases were filling with people, and the clangs of kitchen equipment reverberated across the marble floor of the food court. We walked to the escalator and started up.

  “When we hit the main floor, walk twenty yards behind me,” I said. “If someone spots me, blend into the crowd and disappear.”

  The escalator terminated near the entrance of the B. Dalton store. I kissed Rachel on the cheek, then struck out across the floor, scanning the crowd for uniforms.

  Angry travelers were pouring into the station like water through a dam. Most were heading for the trains. I couldn’t have asked for better cover. I glanced back to make sure Rachel was following, then prepared to turn right, toward the main entrance. If the police were funneling people through a single checkpoint, I’d double back and search for an alternate escape route. If not, I’d gut it out and trust to the anonymity of the crowd to get us through.

  I veered right and headed into the barrel-vaulted chamber that led to the main entrance. The river of humanity flowing against me was hard to navigate, but I was glad for every person there. By shutting the station for three hours, the police had created an almost impossible situation for themselves.

  Between me and the entrance stood the circular restaurant I’d seen on the way in. Two stories high, the open-air café was like an island in the center of the floor. It had tables on its second level and a wrought-iron balcony that allowed its patrons to watch the pageant below. It also provided a bird’s-eye view for anyone wanting to surveil the huge hall. I started around it on the left side, keeping my face downcast.

  “Dr. Tennant!” shouted a female voice.

  I glanced up.

  Geli Bauer was staring down at me from the café’s second level. Her scarred face and electric blue eyes were impossible to miss, and her presence here had the inevitability of fate. The three hours we’d hidden in the theater had given her time to fly here from North Carolina. The police had reopened the station, but Geli had waited in the hope of spotting us. As I whirled to see if Rachel saw the danger, I realized my mistake. Geli instantly spotted her and raised a walkie-talkie to her lips.

  “Run!” I shouted to Rachel.

  Geli dropped her radio, whipped up an automatic pistol, and aimed down at me.

  A woman beside her screamed. As others joined the panic, Geli darted onto a staircase that curved down to the main floor. I slid my hand behind me, toward the gun at the small of my back.

  “Don’t!” Geli shouted, moving quickly down the stairs. “I’m not going to fire! The order to kill you came from Godin! Godin’s lost his mind!”

  She stopped three-quarters of the way down the steps, holding her pistol in a two-handed combat stance.

  “If that’s true, put down your gun!”

  She didn’t.

  Why hasn’t she shot me? I wondered. Then I knew. Rachel was far enough away that if Geli shot me out of hand, she might escape with the terrified mob.

  “Drop your gun, Doctor!” Geli yelled, continuing down the stairs. “Drop it now and lie prone on the floor! I won’t fire!”

  She couldn’t miss from where she was. I dropped my gun on the gleaming floor. Her eyes flashed with satisfaction.

  The crowd reacted to this disturbance like an ant colony perceiving danger in its midst. Waves of panic radiated into preoccupied travelers farther from the center, creating a cyclone of people rushing for the exits. Police stationed there would have to battle their way here foot by foot.

  “Get over here, Dr. Weiss!” Geli shouted.

  “David?” Rachel called tentatively.

  Geli’s automatic had a silencer on its barrel. “Run!” I screamed. “Get out of here!”

  Geli shifted her aim toward Rachel. I lunged up the steps. My hands closed around her wrists as the gun spit a round past me. The fury in her face told me she’d missed.

  Geli drove a knee into my stomach, knocking the wind from my lungs. I wrenched at her bones like a man trying to break green sticks. She threw herself backward and spun, flipping me onto the steps with her sitting on top of me. I fought to keep her gun pointed away from me, but she had the leverage on her side. The silencer inched steadily toward my face. Geli’s scar went white as the strain of combat filled her cheeks with blood.

  “Let go of the gun!” screamed a female voice. “Both of you! Let go and stand up!”

  Ten feet away, Rachel stood with both hands clenched around my revolver, her eyes wide with terror.

  “Put down that weapon!” Geli yelled. “You’re interfering with a federal officer in performance of her duty!”

  “Shoot her!” I shouted, trying to rip the gun from Geli’s grasp.

  “She killed Fielding! Shoot!”

  Geli slammed the point of her elbow into my solar plexus, and the silencer jammed into my cheek. An explosion rang my eardrums like gongs, and something wet spattered my face. Geli’s blazing eyes seemed to fill my vision, but then a river of blood flooded down her shirtfront.

  I grabbed her gun and rolled her off me.

  Rachel was still aiming the smoking revolver and shaking like an epileptic. The bullet had hit Geli in the neck, but she’d managed to stuff her fingers into the wound to stop the bleeding. Never had I seen such rage in human eyes. I grabbed Rachel’s wrist and ran back toward the main hall. As we rounded the corner, Geli’s voice echoed though the hundred-foot-high chamber: “You’re dead, Tennant! You’re fucking dead!”

  I sprinted toward the B. Dalton store at the end of the mall. Cases of books were bulky and heavy. That meant a loading dock.

  Customers scrambled out of our way as I hustled Rachel into the stockroom of the bookstore. The tile floor was piled with boxes, and sure enough, there was a loading bay with a motorized door to handle deliveries. I hit a red button on the wall, and the door began to rise.

  Sunlight flooded into the room. I lowered Rachel to the cement of the loading bay, then jumped off myself. A delivery truck was parked at the entrance to the bay, and two men stood talking beside its cab. As we ran up the incline, I saw a white Toyota Corolla parked by the truck. Its driver’s door was open, but no one was inside.

  I aimed my revolver at the two men, then jerked it toward the Toyota. “I need that car!”

  The truck driver held up his hands, but the other man looked at the Toyota. “That’s my car.”

  “Give me the keys!”

  The man looked blank.

  “Give him your damn keys!” said the truck driver.

  “They’re in it.”

  I pulled Rachel around to the passenger door and put her inside, then scrambled into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The owner of the car yelled something, but his words were lost in the roar as I sped away. Forward momentum slammed my door, and it took all my self-control to slow down. I’d have to drive at normal speed to get us clear of the station, then ditch the car to get clear of the city.

  “Oh, God,” Rachel said, her face white.

  Wailing sirens were converging on Union Station.

  Chapter

  27

  I stood behind Rachel at the food court at JFK airport in New York, watching her for signs of a breakdown. She was wearing a blue dress, part of a new wardrobe she’d bought in New Jersey, but the dress did nothing to mask her pale skin and hollow eyes. Shooting Geli Bauer had rattled her badly, and though news reports had revealed that the “federal officer” shot at Union Station had
survived, Rachel had remained shaky throughout the drive to New York.

  I would never have got her out of Washington without help. After ditching the Toyota five blocks from Union Station, I hailed a taxi and had it carry us back over the Potomac to Alexandria, Virginia, to an upscale shopping center. There I called the phone number that had led to the café rendezvous with Mary Venable. I told the woman who answered that Dr. Rachel Weiss was in mortal danger and desperately needed help. Forty-five minutes later, a woman in a blue Toyota Camry picked us up and took us back into Washington, to a private residence on the south side.