“Car accident up ahead,” Hanlon said, pointing forward with his chin as the car came to a stop, stuck behind a sea of red brake lights. “‘Bus’ is an ambulance. ‘Likely’ means the victim is likely to die. They want the Accident Investigation Squad to come out.”
“What if it was them?” Daisy asked, her blood running cold.
“They’d be asking for a hell of a lot more than AIS,” Hanlon said. “Remember, Scott has a gun.”
“Yeah, your gun,” Daisy said, hoping the words would sting.
Given the look Hanlon shot her in the rear view, it seemed like she’d accomplished that mission.
“So, can’t you just radio in ahead?” Daisy asked. “They might be stuck in the same thing. The cops might have him boxed in. They could get him.”
“No way,” John said. “We do that, we have to call the whole thing off. We’ll never explain it away.”
“He’s right,” Hanlon said. “Better to wait. Scott may not be the smartest guy I’ve ever tangled with, but he has to know he can only get himself in more trouble. I’m sure this will open up in a minute.”
Daisy scoffed. She couldn’t believe they’d gamble with the life of her husband. She looked at Susan, who was staring vacantly out the window. She looked like a mouse, so timid and afraid. It made her angry. So she turned to Kat.
“I can’t leave him out there like that,” Daisy said.
“Better to just listen to what they said,” Kat responded.
“Forget this,” Daisy said. She opened the door and jumped out. She was running as soon as her feet hit the pavement, cutting a path down the shoulder of the expressway. Cars whipped past on the other side of the concrete divider. Hanlon and John were calling for her, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying, and she didn’t really give a damn.
She ran as fast as she could in the direction of the accident.
And, hopefully, her husband.
Chapter 21
Thomas Scott
THOMAS LOOKED AT the line of brake lights in front of him. The way was completely blocked. In the distance, it looked like there were police officers trying to clear room so traffic could start moving through a free lane.
Thomas’s heart was slamming against the inside of his rib cage.
He, the most wanted man on Staten Island, was in a stolen car, and suddenly he was a sitting duck. He looked at the cars around him. Already, people were shuffling, craning their necks, a few leaning on their horns.
No one was looking into the van.
But it was only a matter of time.
What if someone recognized him? Would a mob of people drag him from the car and beat him to death? Would they bring him over to the cops, who would find the stolen car and the gun and the cop tied up in the motel room, and then toss him right back in jail? He kept thinking back to the liquor store. The way people looked at him with disgust, like he had come there on purpose to hurt someone.
He considered hopping onto the shoulder, but there was construction, so it was closed. He couldn’t back the car up—there were too many cars behind him now, and anyway, the nearest exit was too far away.
He fantasized about driving one of those monster trucks that could jump up and roll over an entire line of cars. How easy it would be then, just to ride across this mess and speed away. But that wasn’t real. He was in a minivan, and although it had some nice features—GPS and satellite radio and heated seats—it wasn’t exactly built for what he had in mind.
“Damnit damnit damnit,” Thomas said, looking around, trying to decide the best course of action.
He looked to his right. On the other side of the three lanes of traffic, there was a grass-covered embankment. It wasn’t too steep and looked easy enough to climb. With traffic at a dead standstill, it would be easy enough to make his way across.
No, the real problem was that big stone wall at the top of the embankment.
Thomas knew that on the other side there was a line of quiet homes, and the wall was to drown out the never-ending hum of the highway. He looked to the left, across the opposite three lanes of traffic, up the other embankment, and there was no wall. The problem was, the cars on that side were whipping by at top speed.
Traffic was slow up in the distance, rubberneckers slowing down to look, but as soon as drivers passed the wreck, they pressed down hard on their gas pedals, racing each other to make up for the time they’d lost. There were enough cars moving just fast enough that Thomas knew his chances of getting all the way across without getting smashed to bits were low.
He looked at the wall to his right, wondered if it was low enough that he could climb over it, or if he could backtrack to the last exit.
And then he saw it.
About a hundred yards ahead, there was a gap. He could just make out a little bit of light streaming from the other side. If he could make it there, he could probably squeeze through.
He had no idea what he’d do when he made it there, but it was better than sitting here. Better than driving past some cops who might recognize him, or might get curious and run his plate, and then he’d be in the same position as before.
He thought back to his filthy cell at Rikers. All the people lined up outside it who wanted to do him harm. He didn’t want to go back.
He was preparing to exit the car when he glimpsed movement in the rear-view mirror. He turned to check what it was, and suddenly something slipped over his head, cinched around his throat, and pulled him back into the seat. The flow of oxygen to his lungs was immediately cut off.
Chapter 22
Paul Zhou
SCOTT WAS MUTTERING curses under his breath. Paul knew that if he was going to do something, this was his chance.
But he remained frozen under the blanket. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t even a fighter. He’d never been in a fight in his life.
He wondered if he could signal to someone outside the car, but wasn’t sure how to do that without attracting Scott’s attention. He thought about opening the back door of the van. He could just reach the handle. But he wasn’t sure if it was locked. The doors usually locked after the car was started. If he made too much noise trying to open it, Scott could turn around and make short work of him with the gun.
He paused, breathed in the smell of the blanket.
They’d spent so many beautiful afternoons sitting on it. He ran through them in his head, highlights of Mei’s short life. He focused in on one of the earlier memories. She took her first steps off this blanket, into the freshly-mowed grass of Silver Lake Park.
He would carry the memory of that day with him for the rest of his life. The way she tentatively propped herself up, standing and laughing and swaying with a newfound sense of power. She did that occasionally, but couldn’t seem to muster the courage to take a step, and would inevitably plop down on her butt.
But this time, she smiled like she’d been let in on a secret, and she stumbled forward. It was only three or four steps before she went down, and Paul scooped her up and rocked her in his arms, brushing her black hair out of her face as she cried little crocodile tears, less hurt and more looking for Father’s attention.
Paul saw a grass stain up on the edge of the blanket and had to fight back his own tears.
The memory of his daughter and what he lost filled him with rage. The thought of that most perfect piece of him, which he’d created, gone before she had a chance to fall in love or join a team or stay up late or any of the other things kids are supposed to do—it was too much.
Paul may not have been a man of action, but the adrenaline was pumping. The anger was giving him strength. It was pushing him to remember that this was the man who had killed his daughter.
Scott was a big man. Paul wasn’t as strong as Scott, but he was smart. He reached his hand around, as slowly as possible so as not to disturb the blanket, and came across Mei’s sparkly purple jump rope, wedged into the corner. Something he had forgotten to clear out of the car the last time he cleaned.
&nbs
p; Any other time he would have been annoyed at the oversight.
Right now it was perfect. Fitting that this was the way Scott would die.
Because even though Scott was a big man, as long as Paul had a little leverage, things could be made a little more even.
What would it take? Three minutes? Four?
Suddenly he understood what was driving John so hard. What made Daisy light up so much. For as detestable as this whole thing was, it was something. And doing something made him feel so much less helpless. Like he wasn’t just tumbling through a void.
He threw the blanket aside, charged forward, threw the jump rope over Scott’s head, making sure to loop it around his neck, and leaned back with all his weight. Scott thrashed and drew both hands to his throat, desperately trying to free himself.
Paul looked up, saw Scott’s frightened eyes in the rear-view mirror, and locked on to them. He wanted to see the life leave them.
He wasn’t afraid anymore.
Chapter 23
Thomas Scott
DARKNESS DANCED AROUND the edges of Thomas’s vision. Something hard and tight was cutting into his throat. He scratched at it, but couldn’t get a finger underneath it. He flailed his arms, desperately trying to reach for something, but there was nothing close. The gun might as well have been a million miles away, out of his reach on the passenger seat.
Someone must have been in the car with him. When Thomas had gotten in, he hadn’t seen anything but a dirty old blanket. But he was sure no one had come in since. The doors hadn’t opened, the lights hadn’t gone on. Someone had been waiting.
All he could see in the rear-view mirror was a pair of furious eyes.
He tried to cough, to choke, to call out for help, but all he could do was feel his lungs screaming for air, and the thing cutting into his throat, crushing his trachea.
Then he realized his foot was still pressed firmly on the brake pedal.
He picked it up and pushed it down hard on the gas.
The van leapt forward and collided with the car in front of it. It wasn’t much of an impact, but it was enough that whoever was behind him seemed to falter. The thing around his neck loosened just enough that he could slip a hand under, creating some relief for his throat. Thomas took a greedy gasp of air, savoring the feeling of his lungs filling back up, nearly crying from relief.
He turned and saw someone moving, pushing toward the front seat.
Going for the gun.
Thomas threw his elbow back and it smacked off something hard. The person yelped in pain and fell back as a bolt shot up Thomas’s arm. He slammed the car into Park and reached for the gun, but only succeeded in knocking it away. It fell somewhere between the passenger door and the seat, out of reach.
He was about to climb over when he noticed the driver of the car in front of him stalking toward the van. He was a big man, better than six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. He had big glasses and a bushy mustache and his face was twisted in anger. He was yelling something, and even with the window closed Thomas could tell it wasn’t going to be good.
So Thomas threw himself into the back, figuring he’d push past the person in the back and escape through the rear of the van, which would be clear now that they’d moved forward.
But as he scrambled around the seat and onto the floor, someone jumped onto his back and wrapped an arm around his throat, screaming into his ear, “You killed my daughter!”
Once again, he couldn’t breathe.
Chapter 24
Paul Zhou
PAUL THREW HIMSELF on top of Scott. Driving the car forward might have been enough for Scott to distract him, but it would also piss off the other drivers and alert the police.
All he had to do was hold him.
But the man was strong. He was bucking and fighting, trying to get away, moving toward the back of the car. And meanwhile, someone was smacking the car window, trying see what was going on. Probably the person in front of them who they’d hit.
“Someone help!” Paul yelled out, gripping the man tighter, wrapping one arm around Scott’s neck, and the other around his own wrist, trying to keep ahold of Scott.
The front driver-side door opened, the interior flooding with yellow light, and a male voice asked, “What the hell is going on in there?”
Paul was about to answer when he felt the body under him shift. Scott was getting his feet underneath him, and Paul couldn’t do much more than go along for the ride, as the bigger man threw him back into the wall of the van. Paul’s head smacked on the glass, and he saw stars, loosening his grip enough that Scott was able to move toward the back.
He fiddled with the door and found the button. The door slowly rose and Paul got a good look at Scott’s face. He looked so much more sinister in the harsh interior light.
Scott stepped one foot out of the van, looked back, and paused.
“You’re Mei’s father,” Scott said.
Paul felt a white-hot explosion spark in the center of him. “Don’t you dare say her name,” he said, choking back tears. He scrambled to get out of the van as Scott backed up and put his hand in the air.
“I did not kill your daughter,” he said.
And then he ran off.
Paul tried to follow and stumbled out of the back. Just as he was about to turn and see if anyone could help him find the direction Scott ran, someone pushed him back against the hood of an idling car.
He turned and found a huge man with glasses and a mustache, his face red. “What the hell is wrong with you, you idiot?” he asked. “You smashed into me. I guess it’s true that Asians can’t drive.”
Paul was about to say something when Daisy appeared. She shouted “Hey,” threw her hand out, and struck the man across the face.
“That’s racist,” she said. “My husband is an excellent driver.”
It took a second for Paul to process the sight of his petite wife appearing out of nowhere like that. He didn’t know what to do, and watched as the man stumbled for a moment then reached back his hand to smack Daisy.
That white-hot point of rage in Paul’s stomach grew bigger. He stepped forward and threw out his fist, jabbing the man’s nose. It opened like a faucet, spouting blood. The man staggered back, holding his face.
The quickness and brutality of it shocked Paul. But his wife was in danger. One member of his family was dead. He wouldn’t allow another to be hurt.
It didn’t take long for the big man to regain his composure. He balled his fists and set himself, preparing to launch forward. Paul knew this was not a fight he was going to win, but he had to do everything he could to protect his wife.
He braced himself.
Chapter 25
Rex Hanlon
HANLON CUT THROUGH the cars on foot just as traffic was starting to pick up. He had no idea what was happening up ahead, but knew there was a very real chance things had just gone south.
He hated leaving his own car, but if there were cops, he might be able to handle it. If those cops saw Scott, then the game would be up. There’d be no explaining that. He might even be in a lot of trouble. Scott could tell them everything that happened at the motel, and the pieces would fall into place fairly quick.
It’d be his word against a kid killer, sure. But there were enough parties in play now that there was no outcome that didn’t end with him losing his career, his pension—probably his freedom.
He ducked to the side and jogged on the shoulder, drivers honking their horns at him. He held his badge up over his shoulder, hoping it would catch the light and shut them up.
He wondered if John would think to put the car on the shoulder and wait. Hanlon should have told him to do that. John had insisted on coming, of course, but Hanlon thought it was better to leave him with Susan and Kat.
He was getting tired of this. Part of him just wanted to put a bullet in Scott’s skull. Let those parents rest, knowing the man was dead. His career was over anyway. May as well end it with a bang.
Up in the distance, Hanlon saw another car pulled off to the side of the road. The shoulder was blocked because of construction, so it was cutting off a full lane, but cars were able to stream around it.
As he got closer, he recognized the van.
He broke into a run, his knee and hip immediately screaming in protest. Damnit, his age was catching up with him, and he hated it. Hated how he used to be able to run like this and barely break a sweat. Now he would feel some serious pain in the morning. Probably the next day, too.
As he approached the van, it took him a second to figure out what was going on. Daisy was behind Paul, the two of them standing in front of a bigger man with his fists clenched and blood on his face. Hanlon threw himself between them, and held up his badge.
“NYPD,” Hanlon said, sucking in air, trying to catch his breath. “What the hell is going on here?”
The man put his hand up, pointing past Hanlon. “This idiot drove his car into mine. Then this bitch slapped me in the face, and he punched me. I want you to arrest them right now.”
Paul and Daisy started to protest, but Hanlon gently pushed the man farther away from the two of them. Right off the bat he could see the man’s eyes were a little glassy, and upon stepping closer could smell the thick scent of beer on him.
“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?” Hanlon asked.
The man went white. “Uh…”
“Come with me,” Hanlon said.
He walked toward where the van and the car were pressed up against each other. The man was docile now, his face drenched in fear. Hanlon took a look at the bumpers of the two vehicles and found the car’s was a little loose and some of the paint had been sheared off, but otherwise, it didn’t look too bad.
“That’s a pretty easy repair,” Hanlon said, standing up and looking the man dead in the eye. “Few hundred bucks, I figure. If I told you that you could go home and handle it yourself, would that be preferable to a DUI?”
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