Critical Space

by Greg Rucka

  One fare on the card.

  Subway stop at the corner of 7th Ave.

  Number 9 South to the Ferry Terminal -- be in the second car.

  It is now oh-six-thirty-eight hours.

  You have 18 minutes.

  Oh...

  Open the glove compartment.

  Like the last one, the note was typed.

  I stared at it, then at the glove compartment, and the butterflies in my stomach went a little crazy for a second.

  In the glove compartment was a cheap Motorola walkie-talkie, yellow, the kind marketed to suburban homeowners as a neat way to keep track of one another should someone get lost while working in the yard or walking their poodle. On a pink Post-it note stuck to its face was the command, TURN ME ON written in block capitals in black ink. There was a black knob at the top, by the antenna, and I twisted it, hearing the click, and then a short squelch of static. Then silence.

  I kept it in my right hand as I got out of the car, making for Seventh Avenue. "She's sending me to the Ferry Terminal," I told my radio. "Subway."

  "You go down there, we'll lose you, " Corry said. "Radios will be useless, so will the cell phone. I won't even be able to track you."

  "You're not telling me anything I don't know."

  "We'll split it up. Dale, Moore, and I will go the long route. Bridgett, can you make theferry?"

  Dale broke in over Corry. "Wait a minute. Did she tell you to get on the ferry?"

  "No."

  "So she could be trying to split us up, send us out to Staten Island ahead of you, then make you double back. "

  "It's possible." I was at the head of the stairs down to the station, and from below I could hear the grinding of wheels on metal growing, the sound of a train coming. "Guys, I've got to move. You're going to have to work this out yourselves. I'll radio as soon as I can."

  "You damn well better, " Bridgett said.

  Moore was on the line as I started down the stairs, asking Dale the best route to the terminal, and then I heard static. The radios we used for business, the one on my belt running leads to my palm and ear, were UHF, broadcasting on a repeater system that could be received throughout the boroughs. Powerful though they were, they couldn't penetrate the Manhattan streets. The Motorola in my hand was another story. It used VHF, and although it wasn't very powerful, it worked on a point-to-point system, basically direct line of sight. Which meant that if Drama was planning on talking to me, she'd have to have a relatively unobstructed view of my position.

  The transit card had enough on it for my fare, and I made it through the turnstiles and to the doors of the car just as they were closing. The train started moving before I was able to get a handhold on anything, and I nearly slammed into a classic punk, decked out in black leather with a spiked dog collar and a torn Sex Pistols T-shirt, all topped off with a purple Mohawk. He brought his shoulders up in defense and turned a glare on me, but it changed to curiosity when he saw my face.

  "Do I know you?"

  "All men are brothers," I said, and wedged myself into the corner at the end of the car. There were no open seats, and at the next stop more passengers came aboard, dressed for work downtown. I tried to catch as many faces as I could, but it was pointless. If Drama was in the car, I couldn't see her.

  I put the radio to my ear and heard static, the weak signal. A couple people gave me looks, wondering what the hell I was doing. Most couldn't have cared less.

  Then her voice, far away, saying my name, over and over again, almost singing, like she was on a playground somewhere, eight years old and taunting me from the swing set.

  "...Atticus Atticus Atticus are you listening we've only got a few seconds you're taking the ferry John F. Kennedy it leaves at oh-seven-hundred go to the second foredeck by the ladder don't be late don't be late Atticus Atticus..."

  Then more static, and then silence.

  I switched the Motorola off. The broadcast had been weak, too weak to be from the train. I'd caught the train she'd specified, so the only thing I could think was that she had been standing on a platform, maybe at Fourteenth Street, broadcasting as I went past. Which meant she wouldn't be on the ferry, which meant she could be anywhere by the time I reached Staten Island. There was no way Moore or Dale or Corry or Bridgett was going to find her in time.

  It hit me that I already felt tired, and I'd been at this for less than an hour.

  It hit me that I had been doing a very good job of hiding my fear up until this point, and that I didn't want to lose that now.

  There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Drama was trying to strip me of my protection, of my support. The message about taking the ferry clinched it, proved beyond doubt that she wanted to get me alone. This was worse than a fool's errand, and there was only one way that made it make sense, only one reason to jump me through all these hoops to get me alone, to keep Antonia alive.

  Drama wanted a trade. My life for Antonia's.

  * * *

  I dumped the Motorola in the first trash can I found, then sprinted up the stairs out of the station, already trying to get someone to respond to my radio call. Three lines of automobiles stretched around the corner of the terminal, cars waiting for their turn to cross New York Harbor, and I stood and scanned the line, looking for any vehicle I could recognize.

  "Somebody come in," I said. "I'm aboveground, I'm getting on the ferry, somebody acknowledge."

  "I'm with you, already aboard. Second row, middle. Where are you?" Bridgett's voice.

  I was so relieved to hear her that for a moment I couldn't talk.

  "Atticus?"

  "I'm boarding. Supposed to go to the fore, second deck, and wait for instructions."

  "Should I find you?"

  I debated. Even if she could have reached the terminal before me, Drama wouldn't risk coming aboard, wouldn't risk trapping herself anyplace where there was no easy exit. But that didn't mean she couldn't have eyes present, someone or something to watch.

  "No," I told Bridgett. "Keep your distance."

  She hesitated before responding. "Confirmed."

  The ferry sounded its horn, and I followed the remaining stragglers as they rushed aboard. I kept talking to Bridgett as I followed the walkway, passing an enormous anchor crammed into a corner, to the stairs and then up to the second deck. Most of the benches were occupied, and I could see a clump of early-bird tourists gathered on the aft observation deck to get a look at Manhattan as we pulled away.

  "Why am I not hearing the others?"

  "They cut out about three minutes ago. Could be signal loss, could be the batteries went dead."

  "You have your cell phone?"

  "I do."

  "Call Natalie, see if they've checked in."

  "Will do."

  I turned to the fore, exited through the double doors onto the observation deck. We'd already left the terminal and I was surprised I hadn't even felt us go into motion. Continuing forward, I could look over the wall at the water beneath us, the short waves slamming into the ferry. The wind off the water was surprisingly cold, and the clouds had gone high again. Although the sky made the water look green and gray, visibility across to Staten Island was clear. On the starboard side, I could see the Statue of Liberty, stoic and stern and glorious, and she looked more to me like a guardian at the gate than an usher to the shore.

  Behind me, under the awning and against the wall to the main cabin, I saw the ladder Drama had directed me to, marked with a sign warning that no one was admitted above. Attached to the awning, stowed above the beams that crisscrossed above my head, were old life jackets, faded safety orange, and nothing to trust your life to, from the looks of them. Faded paint noted that they were to be used in emergencies only.

  I moved to the ladder and turned to face out again, waiting, listening to the wind and the gulls. The clump of tourists from the aft had moved forward, were emerging on my right, snapping photographs and talking in broken English and fluent German.

  My radio crackl
ed, and Corry came on, saying, "Check, check, anyone read?"

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  "A repeater went down somewhere, something, we lost communications when we left the Island. How are you reading?"

  "Five-by," I said. "Where's Moore?"

  "I'm here, " Robert said.

  "I'm on the ferry," I said.

  "We heard, " Corry said. "Bridgett gave Natalie the update, we called in to let her know what was going on. You know your next stop?"

  "Other than Staten Island, no, not yet."

  "We're just getting into Brooklyn, the bridge traffic nearly killed us. We're going to try and come across on the Verrazano. Keep us in the loop. Out."

  "Out," I said. Off to the port side, I could see the bridge spanning the Verrazano Narrows, linking Brooklyn to Staten Island. It would take them at least another twenty minutes to reach it, by which time we'd be pulling into the St. George Ferry Terminal. Depending on what happened next, we'd either end up moving closer together or farther apart.

  The tourists decided it was too cold and went back inside, and as they did, Bridgett came out, zipping up her biker jacket. She was wearing sunglasses, and she went to the railing and leaned over it, half of her six feet one dangling over the deck below, and with the wind blowing off the water making her hair fly, she looked impressive, and I knew she was posing. Then she pushed back off the railing and reached into a pocket. I guessed Altoids, but she came out with Cherry Life Savers and started chomping them down.

  Something was beeping, and it took me a couple seconds before I realized that it wasn't coming over my radio, that it was a pager going off nearby, but there was nobody nearby with a pager as far as I could see. With my earpiece in, the sound was impossible to pinpoint, and I yanked it free, listening, then looked up.

  One of the life jackets was paging me. I tried reaching for it and couldn't find anything, resorted to using the ladder, and on the second rung reached again. It was on top of the life jacket at the back, beside the opening onto the deck above, and I pulled it down, looking it over. It was black, new, with an LCD readout on the side for alpha-numeric messages.

  I dropped off the ladder and turned it off, then used the buttons on the side to scroll through the message.

  BLACKVWPASSAT... NJNADGAR...

  KEEPWATCHINGTHISSPACE...

  When I looked up again, Bridgett was at my shoulder and the St. George Ferry Terminal was looming large off the bow.

  "Got all that?" I asked.

  "Yup. Make sure I'm behind you when you leave the terminal."

  "Keep your distance. She'll be watching, and if she thinks you're threatening her plans, she'll move against you."

  She gave me a grin to humor me, then gestured that I should lead the way back down to the cars. As we worked our way back down I got on the radio and told Corry and Moore to stand by, that I'd have more information shortly. Bridgett stayed with me as I searched for the VW, even though I told her to back off, and we were about to hit the terminal before I found it. When she saw where it was parked, Bridgett swore, echoing curses off the walls around us.

  "Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch!" Bridgett said, and then she kicked the Passat for good measure.

  It was the last car in the third row. Bridgett's Porsche was parked several cars ahead, and the way the vehicles were packed in, there was no way she'd be able to fall in behind me as we left the terminal. It meant she'd have to pull out as fast as she could and then circle back around, and hope that she'd be able to catch me before I got out of sight.

  The ferry hit Staten Island with a gentle bump, and Bridgett shook her head once, then ran to her car. I tried the door on the Passat, and of course it was unlocked. It took me a few seconds to find the keys, checking the ignition, then the glove compartment, before I found them wedged between the roof and the passenger-side sun visor.

  As I started the car, the pager began beeping.

  DIRECTIONSUNDERFLOORMAT

  I bent and lifted the mat, found a folded sheet of paper, typed in the same font as the others had been. Before I had a chance to read it, the pager went off again.

  SHEKEEPSHERDISTANCEORSHEGETSHURT

  Cars were beginning to move off the ferry. I dropped the pager in my lap, put the car in gear, and edged forward, then hit the transmit button in my left palm.

  "Bridgett, you're going to have to back off."

  "Like hell."

  "I got another page. She just threatened you."

  "Let her. "

  "Whoa, " said Corry. "She just what? "

  "Drama just warned Bridgett to back off," I said. "I'm getting messages by pager."

  "Then Bridgett had bloody well better back off, " Moore snapped. "If Drama's twitchy, Wendy could end up dead. "

  "You're assuming Wendy's still breathing, " Bridgett retorted hotly. "And Wendy isn't my fucking priority at this moment. "

  I slammed the transmit button down again, breaking in before Moore could get a response off, snarling, "God dammit, that's enough! I want radio silence now, I don't want anybody saying anything until I come back on the line, is that understood?"

  There was silence in my ear. The light at the intersection changed to green, and Bridgett's Porsche didn't move.

  "Confirmed," Corry said.

  "Confirmed," Moore said.

  The cars behind the Porsche began honking their horns.

  "Con-fucking-firmed, " Bridgett said, and she must have popped the clutch, because the Porsche ripped out of the intersection with a squeal and smoke. She took the left too hard, the 911 hugging the road, and then braked into the parking lot of a nearby BP station.

  The Passat was an automatic, and I edged it forward until the light turned to red and the line stopped, then took the opportunity to review the sheet of instructions. Skimming them gave no hint of my next destination. Unlike the previous instructions, these were both incredibly vague and yet, at the same time, dictatorial.

  There were twenty-nine separate steps I was to follow, given in distance and relative direction, no compass points. Number 29 itself was, "EXIT CAR. ANSWER PAGE." At the bottom of the page she'd typed, "DON'T WASTE TIME."

  The signal turned to green, the cars in front of me began to move, and I turned left, activating the transmitter once more.

  "I'm rolling. Turning onto Bay Street, coming out of the terminal. No way to tell where she wants me to go. I don't even have compass points to work with, just left and right turns."

  "Damn," Corry muttered.

  "That solves that, " Bridgett said. "I'm staying with him until we know where he's going. Anybody have a problem with that?"

  "No," Corry said.

  Moore didn't transmit anything.

  "Stay out of sight of the car," I said. "I'll radio you with the street names as I have them, follow at a distance. Corry?"

  "Still here. "

  "You've got the map?"

  "Hagstrom page 63, baby."

  "All right, try to plot me on that, maybe you can figure out where I'm going."

  "Confirmed. Have to say, we're way behind you. If something goes down, we may not be able to close the distance in time."

  "How far out are you?"

  "Maybe another fifteen minutes before we hit the Verrazano, even the way Dale's driving. Morning traffic."

  "Don't worry about it, " Bridgett said. "I've got your back."

  The instructions led me from the ferry onto Victory Boulevard for almost three miles, past rows of dingy houses made dingier by the lack of color in the sky. Either the air conditioner in the Passat was broken or I didn't understand the controls, because the atmosphere in the car was thick and dead. I rolled down the window as I came up to Silver Lake Park, trading the security of a closed vehicle for the hope of air.

  There was a grotesque monument to modern architecture opposite Silver Lake Park, a block of apartments that looked like it'd been built by the same firm that handled most of the U.S. Army's bunkers in foreign lands. My instructions had me conti
nuing another 1.3 miles before a turn, and as I came over the crest of a small hill, with the Silver Mount Cemetery on my right, I caught a glimpse of the Porsche in my rearview mirror.

  "You're still too close. Give me more room."

  "There's plenty of room," Bridgett said.

  "Give me at least half a mile, more if you can."

  Her grunt was sullen in my ear.

  I had another left coming up, and as the odometer confirmed the distance, I signaled the turn. "Left onto Clove. Heading roughly south now, maybe southeast."

  Bridgett radioed a confirmation. Corry came back on the air, but there was a lot of interference, and I had to ask him to repeat.

  "Said it looks like you're actually coming in our direction."

  "Hope it stays that way," I said.

  The traffic on Clove was busier than it had been on Victory, and I went another half a mile before hitting a light and checking the directions. I was on Step 11 now, and had another left coming up, in less than a tenth of a mile. Ahead of me, past the light, the intersection had been constructed around the Staten Island Expressway, and it looked like I had two choices: I could either make an almost immediate left or I could continue past the highway and make the left there. The odometer wasn't helping much.

  The light changed, and I decided to err on the side of caution, making the left onto Narrows Road, then relaying the decision by radio to the others. Everyone acknowledged.

  Step 12 said to continue .86 of a mile and then to make a right. Behind me, a black Camaro made its presence known by leaning on its horn. I ignored it, knowing that I was driving like a little old lady, and unwilling to take things any faster. The odometer ticked off eight-tenths of a mile, and I didn't see a right turn onto anything. The Camaro tried to get around me, found that it was blocked by a truck, and gave me more horn. The odometer was about to roll over another mile before I saw a right I could take, a busy intersection onto Richmond Road.

  "Right onto Richmond," I radioed. If I had made a mistake, if I had taken the wrong turn when I'd gotten onto Narrows, there wasn't much of a point in sharing that.