Biaggi could not stop the shaking that had spread across his shoulders and down his back. It was all he could do to keep his breathing soft enough to blend with the sounds of the park. He watched through blades of grass as Baker stripped off his jacket and wrapped it, indifferently, he thought, around the body of the unconscious woman, then lifted her onto one shoulder with astonishing ease. With his free hand, he knelt to gather bits of cloth and then, without pausing, stepped fluidly across a low stone wall as if he carried no burden at all. Biaggi put away his gun and fumbled for the radio on his belt.
“Harrigan,” he whispered as he fed out his antenna. He did not bother with a call signal. “Harrigan, come in. Come in.”
“Got you” came the broken voice from the box. “Where ... hell are you?”
“He's headed your way from near the zoo,” Biaggi panted. “There's trouble here. Park muggers. This guy Baker took them both out with ease. Except I think one of them knew him. And he's got a woman with him.”
“What was ... damned thing? Say again.”
“He's coming your way. He just ripped the shit out of a couple of punks.”
”. . . can't get... stay on him. You read?”
“I'm on him. Out.”
Biaggi collapsed his radio as he pushed to his feet. He moved several steps in the direction Baker had taken and then hesitated, glancing toward the shape of the one called Jace. Baker would keep, he decided, for the few seconds it would take to see if these two were alive. He'd be slowed by the weight of the woman, and he could only be heading south to the exit nearest his hotel, where Connor Harrigan was waiting.
He knelt at Jace's side and bent over the ruined face but chose not to look at it. The gurgling, mewing sounds it made were enough. He stripped off Jace's watch and patted for his wallet. Both of these he dropped into his raincoat pocket. Almost as an afterthought, he placed his fingertips on the carotid artery of the unconscious man. Jace could live. Given attention, the bum could live. Biaggi stood and walked the fifteen yards to where the big one lay draped over the boulder. He lifted Sumo's wrist, feeling for a pulse as he worked loose a heavy chronograph. This pulse was weaker than the other. Biaggi studied the watch curiously, ignoring Sumo, who slid like a flow of mud from the rock and settled to the grass. Funny, he thought, for junkies to own watches. The big one's clothing, both their clothing, were good quality and they fit. They must have bought them new. Dressed like this, he wondered, and they're working the park?
He bent over and felt for Sumo's wallet. His hand brushed over something wet and hard. Biaggi drew a pen-light from his pocket and cupped his hand over the beam as he sought what he already knew was there. Again he turned his head away. A befouled and dripping bit of chrome gleamed obscenely in the light. The knife was rammed a full ten inches into Sumo's colon.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He fell backward into a sitting position and stared after Baker through the darkness. What the hell was going on here? He shuddered again at what he'd seen, and at the thought that had he not seen it, he might have tried to take Baker himself. Who wouldn't have? The guy was nothing. A commuter. Or he used to be. Just one more grunt who took the train to work and played golf on Saturdays and jogged with his dog on Sundays until it was time to light the charcoal. Sonnenberg could take a lump like that and make this out of it? What for? Who the fuck would want him? But you want him, don't you, Mr. Peck? You say, do you have doubts, Michael? Are you up to this task, Michael? We can't let him fall into the wrong hands, Michael. Not Domenic Tortora's hands, not Connor Harrigan's hands, not a couple of punks working Central Park . . . Wait a minute.
Biaggi patted his raincoat pocket and located the wallet that belonged to Jace. He drew out the soft leather billfold. It was expensive, he realized, even before he snapped on his penlight. Dunhill, maybe. The light made a circle the size of a half-dollar, and it quickly found the likeness on a driver's license of the one who seemed to know Baker. The name printed there seized Biaggi by the throat.
He was Baker again.
He had started south, then doubled back when he was beyond the hearing of the man who'd stayed hidden. His arms had begun to burn under the woman's weight, and the muscles of his back were tightening. Perhaps he'd sent Abel back too soon. No, she was beginning to stir. Abel might have ... He wasn't sure anymore what Abel might have done.
Beyond the zoo, he found a bench that was deep in shadow and sat the rousing woman there, wondering if it might be best to leave her. The one in the gray raincoat might help her. The one who followed and watched. But he was far behind. He had a gun, Baker realized. Why did he have a gun in his hand this time? No matter. He was getting farther away. If she were left here now, someone else might find her. Maybe someone like the two he'd crippled. Or she'd wake up screaming before he was safely gone. Besides, he had to know first.. . “Charley?”
“yes?”
“This is Tanner Burke. Did you know that?”
“you did so i did.”
“How can it be that she's here? Does she know me?”
“doesn yt know jared baker.”
“Why was she in the park, Charley? And how did Abel find her?”
”i don't knowwww.” Charley lapsed into an irritating singsong that he used when he chose to be vague. The voice in Baker's head was softer than the other and higher pitched. Childlike. Baker despised this one sometimes.
“You do know, Charley. And the other one back there, the one called Jace. He knew me. He said my name. Who was he, Charley?”
“ask abel”
“I’m asking you, Charley. What has Abel done?”
“abel says go now. go to the hotel.”
“Answer me, Charley. I'll bring you out if you don't answer me.”
“you can't, she'll see.”
The woman coughed and one eyelid fluttered. It opened slightly and then closed again, but her breath was coming deeper and faster. Baker waited until he could feel her body start to tense against his and then he closed his hand firmly over her mouth. Her eyes opened wide and she sucked in air through his fingers.
“Don't scream,” he said as gently as he could manage. “You're all right now but you can't scream.”
Her hands braced against him, fingernails biting, and her eyes turned to his. They were wide with terror.
“Do you understand?” he asked, whispering. With his head, he gestured toward a deeper part of the park. “I'm going to get you out of here. But you have to be quiet.”
She flicked her eyes in the direction and nodded quickly. Baker drew back his hand but kept it hovered near her mouth.
“Where are they?” she croaked, peering into the damp blackness. Baker let his hand fall away.
“They can't hurt you. Do you think you can walk?”
”I think so.” She felt her legs as if to measure the strength that remained in them. “Please, let's get out of here.”
“Fifth Avenue is right past those trees.” Baker pointed. ”I stopped so you could ... pull yourself together first.” Baker touched the bulging pocket of the jacket he'd made Abel wrap around her. Abel would not have covered her. He would have carried her into the street the way she was. “Your things . . ” He faltered. “They're in that pocket. They're torn but they might be better than ...”
Baker knew he was stammering. He was talking of clothing recently torn from her body, and he was talking to a face that had grown to mean much to him. A shyness seized him. She noticed. Or at least she sensed his discomfort and it seemed to ease her own. The woman reached into Baker's jacket and drew out the light, crumpled clothing. She fingered first the hooks of her bra. They were bent and twisted. The thin shoulder straps had been sliced through with a knife.
“The blouse isn't so bad,” he suggested. “It's just torn near one button. I can walk back into the trees while you put it on.”
“No,” she snapped, digging her fingers painfully into his thigh. “Please.” Her voice softened. “Please don't go anywhere.” She pre
ssed his thigh more gently and then rose to her feet. The woman shrugged off Baker's jacket and, making no effort to cover herself other than turning her back to him, she carefully slipped her arms into the cool fabric of her sleeves. It chilled her. Baker stood and stripped off his sweater, offering it to her as she buttoned her blouse. She took it, thanking him with her eyes, and slipped it over her head. Once more, Baker covered her shoulders with his jacket. Closing it across her chest, she hugged herself and stared into the darkness. He knew she was remembering.
“They had knives,” she said, her voice dull.
“Yes.” He drew the suede lapels together at her throat. “But don't worry about them now. They can't hurt you.”
“But how did you . . . There were two of them and they were afraid of you. You don't seem .. ”
”I don't know. We'd better get going.”
“The big one. He was going to cut me if you did anything.”
Baker took her arm and steered her toward the east-bound path. He held her until he was sure she could walk steadily.
“We should call the police,” she said.
“There's no need.” Baker listened hard for some sign that she knew their names. At least the one who knew his. But he heard nothing. Felt nothing.
“But look what they ... They could hurt somebody else.”
“They won't,” he promised. “Not for a very long time. It might help you to remember that.”
She stared for a long moment into the darkness. “It still doesn't seem right,” she said finally, a swell of anger pushing through the fear. “They grabbed me. Right out on the sidewalk they grabbed me and they pulled me in here. God damn it, they should go to jail.”
Baker felt himself relax. She didn't know them. And she didn't know him either. Whatever was happening, whatever Abel was causing to happen, she need not be a part of it any longer.
“Put it behind you,” he urged gently. “If you call the police, you'll feel better for only a little while. But you'll spend years answering useless questions about tonight.”
Her eyes clouded. It seemed as though there was another reason for calling the police. That other man in there. The one who hurt them. There was something terrible about him. This man? No, not like this one. He was like this one, but... The picture danced away from her.
“Let's just get out of here,” she said.
She was silent as they walked slowly down the east side of Fifth Avenue, a street width away from the black stone walls of the park. By the time they reached the Frick Museum she was trembling. An aftershock was setting in. She would seize one shaking hand with the other and the quiver would leap at once to her elbow. Baker listened.
Approaching a streetlamp, Baker saw the wet line gleaming across her high cheekbone and curling down her throat. He stopped and fumbled, patting for a handkerchief he knew he didn't carry. Then, with his fingertips, he wiped away one welling tear and held her, drying her face against his shirt.
”I feel so cheap,” she sniffed.
“Don't you dare.”
“You don't. . . you don't know what I mean.”
“You were remembering their screams,” he said. “You were remembering the way they must have hurt. It made you feel better and you don't like that in yourself.”
For a moment, she didn't move or speak. Then, not looking up: “How did you know that?”
I've had the feeling is what he almost answered. ”I don't know” is what he said.
They were near the Pierre Hotel. Baker gestured with a thumb. “The bar will still be open if a drink might help. You can use the ladies' room to ...”
She shook her head. ”I don't want anyone to see me.”
“Does that matter? Except for wearing my clothes, you don't look bad at all.”
“People will recognize me.”
Baker affected a shrug, pretending not to understand. “There are other places. Or I'll take you home. Tell me where you want to go.”
She looked up at him, through his tinted glasses, into eyes that were a soft gray in that light. She saw no recognition in them. It bothered her. Not so much that he didn't know her, but the flash of intuition that told her he didn't want to know her.
“My home is in Idaho but I'm living in California. I'm mostly a skier.”
Baker remembered, but he did not react.
“Except now I'm mostly an actress. I've made two movies and I've been on TV a lot. Maybe you've seen me in something.” Oh damn, she thought, why did I say all that. He'll think I'm a perfect ass.
Baker smiled. “Now that you mention it,” he said. ”I didn't place you before.”
It was a lie of course. Baker had heard when Jace called her by name and when he called her Hollywood. And he knew the face. He'd seen it many times. He saw it a hundred years ago with Sarah at his side, watching her hand out trophies for a junior girls' slalom meet in Stratton, Vermont. Tina especially knew her. Tina had finished third. And her reward from Baker was a parka like the one Tanner Burke wore. Her reward to herself was to fix her hair in the long layered cut of Tanner Burke and to ski like her and walk like her in that confident, striding way she had. To toss her long, loose curls when she laughed and to tilt her head when she grinned. Now Baker grinned to himself. He imagined Tina's eruption if he ever told her that he'd met Tanner Burke . . . Oh, Daddy, you actually talked to her? What did she say? Weren't you nervous? Is she like she is in the movies? Don't tell me if she isn't nice. She is, isn't she? Did you tell her I still have her picture? Did you tell her she's my absolute most intense favorite?
And he'd seen her since. During the endless lonely hours of what Sonnenberg called his pupation, he'd seen her on the television screen. He'd looked for her there. By that time, she'd become more than Tina's idol in Baker's mind. She'd become a link that held him just the smallest bit closer to Tina when he could not be with her. For that reason, or for another, she grew on him. He saw her face often in television movies and in Clairol commercials. And once he even left one of Sonnenberg's sessions to watch her on a celebrity ski tournament.
Baker knew her. And someday he'd tell Tina. But for now, he thought, this particular night had better pass without their lives being further linked, except in memory.
“My name is Tanner,” she said, looking at the sidewalk. “Tanner Burke.”
“Hello, Tanner.” He took her arm again to start her walking. “You're staying at a hotel then. The Plaza?”
Tanner Burke nodded. “Well?” she asked.
“I'm sorry?”
“You haven't told me your name.” She paused with him on the sidewalk of the General Motors Building before crossing toward the Plaza.
“It's . . . Harry,” he answered. “Harry Mailander.”
“Harry?” Her eyes flicked up. “You hesitated just then.”
“Just thinking,” he said. “You should be all right from here if you don't mind walking through the lobby in my sweater. I'll watch you until you're inside.”
Her pulse in the arm he was holding took a hitch. He felt it through his fingertips. She hesitated, then put a hand on his and held it. For reasons she could not yet sort out, his suggestion startled her. It was true that she was safe enough. The hotel entrances on Central Park South and on the fountain side were brightly lit and each would have a doorman near. But she'd be alone. He'd let go of her arm and the awfulness of what had happened would come flooding back, and he would not be there to blur it. The trembling would return, and if she turned back toward him he'd be gone and she'd wonder whether he had ever been there at all... There was that too. It hadn't struck her until now and it came with a shudder. Those screams. The gagging terror of the one who'd sat on her, and the horror she could feel in that huge and vicious man who'd held the knife against her breast . . . This man had caused that. This tender man. Harry?
“Harry Mailander,” she repeated. “Why do I think that name doesn't fit you? Why do I think it isn't even your name?”
Baker couldn't help but smile. Her perce
ptiveness pleased him. He knew, of course, that she might have some dim memory of him speaking Abel's name or of Abel speaking his, but it was more than that. He could feel it. And he knew that she could sense something real beneath whatever name he chose to use, and knowing that made him feel less the invention of another man.
“It's nice to see you smile, though.” She answered with a tentative grin of her own. “Another feeling I have is that you don't smile very often. But you should.”
Baker flushed, but the grin remained.
From inside Baker's jacket, she drew out an American Airlines ticket envelope she'd seen when he placed it over her shoulders. “If I look at this,” she asked, her own smile fading, “will it say Harry Mailander?”
“I'd rather you didn't.”
She stopped again and faced him as he gently took the envelope from her and returned it to its place. Her eyes showed hurt and then anger.
“Well, Harry or whatever-your-name-is, I want to know why not.” Her hands went to her hips. ”I mean, I don't want to sound full of myself, but most men I meet want me to remember them. You don't even want me to know your name.”
Baker touched her cheek. “I'll remember you,” he said softly, “and I'll think about you. And yes, I'd very much like you to remember me.”
Abel Baker Charley Page 3