by Ray Daniel
A college girl next to me in a BC hat and sweatshirt called out to the runners. “You’re almost there! You got this! Go, fuzzy hat, go!” Her calls of encouragement brought me back into the moment. Reconnected me with the danger.
I looked out across the stream of runners. Saw a girl with the name Miranda written across her tank top. The college girl yelled, “You got this, Miranda! You go, girl!”
Miranda gave a tired smile and a thumbs-up. She had this.
She found another runner. “You go, clown guy!” The guy, whose clown makeup had sweated off long ago, smiled, too tired to take his eyes off the road and make eye contact. A guy next to me rang a cowbell. One runner ran down the line, hand raised, high fiving the crowd.
Then I saw it, across the river of marathoners, behind the crowd of well-wishers, moving toward Dorothy’s apartment: a tube, one of those tall portfolio tubes carried by art students. It surely would have been inspected if it had gone through a checkpoint, but a cursory glance probably wouldn’t have caught what was hidden inside.
I knew what was hidden inside because I saw who was carrying it.
Far Li, aka Epomis, aka E, turning from the crowd, stepping over the MBTA tracks, and heading for Dorothy’s apartment.
Sixty-Eight
I phoned Mel. “She’s here.”
“Where?”
“Dorothy’s. Get help.”
I hung up the phone, stood on tiptoe, and tried to concoct a plan that would get me across the churning crowd of runners. The Boston Marathon was now a river at full flow as the bell-curve bulge of midspeed runners took the turn into Boston.
Two problems prevented me from getting across and stopping E from finishing her revenge tour.
The first was the police who lined the raceway, a nod to increased security since the bombing years ago. I might get one leg over the fence edging the road, but there’d be a cop on me right away, pulling me back.
The second was the runners themselves. Exhausted, chugging out eight-minute miles with cramping legs and grinding knees, they’d be in no shape to dodge some asshat who tried to run sideways across the race. They’d trip on me, fall, create a pileup. In the end I would not only have shattered their dreams and wasted their months of training, I still wouldn’t get to Dorothy’s house before E’s sword finished the job.
I jogged down Beacon Street in the dripping rain, looking for a gap in the barriers, a spot where a mad dash could get me across before I collided with anyone. Then I saw an enormous gap in the police barrier, a gap filled with ten people who stood with an unobstructed path to the road. These people ran from table to track handing out cups of water in their capacity as Boston Athletic Association volunteers, the yellow-jacketed backbone of the event.
I needed one of those jackets.
The volunteers hustled back and forth between the crush of runners and a stack of green cups filled with water. The runners pelted by as the volunteers matched their stride, handed them the water, and ran back for more. One of the volunteers delivered her water, peeled away from the table, and headed for a blue port-a-potty behind me, giving me an idea. I had one shot at this, but I’d need some social engineering to pull it off.
I turned, entered the port-a-potty, and in a nod to authenticity, unzipped and used the facility, letting the sound of splashing water show that there was, indeed, a man at work inside. Then I waited another moment, undid the latch, and stepped out.
The woman in the BAA jacket waited in front of the john. I stepped down, closed the door behind me, and shook my head at her.
“It’s a disaster in there,” I said.
She crinkled her nose. “Really?”
“It’s gross. I’m glad I didn’t have to touch anything.”
“But I have to go.”
“Yeah, just giving you fair warning.”
The woman fingered her BAA volunteer jacket, clearly thinking about how to avoid soiling it.
“I can hold it for you,” I said.
“But you’ll miss the race.”
“It’s gonna run for a another couple of hours.”
She pulled off the jacket, handed it to me. “Thank you! Thank you!”
“Good luck in there,” I said.
She climbed into the port-a-potty, closed the door, and latched it. I donned her jacket. It pulled across the back but made a fine disguise. I ran back to the water table, ignoring the cop monitoring the entry point, counting on my new yellow jacket to get me to the roadway.
It worked.
I looked across Beacon Street. The art tube holding E’s sword bobbed in front of Pino’s Pizza as she made her way toward Dorothy’s apartment. Dorothy had been safe behind her nickname of “NotAGirl” and the fact that nobody knew where she lived, until I had given E all the information she needed to finish off the last member of PwnSec. I grabbed a cup of water, started running, matched stride with the next runner. A woman wearing an orange and blue checked top with the words Children’s Hospital Boston above her bib number.
I held out the cup. “Water?”
She shook her head and panted, “No thanks.”
I continued running. “You sure?”
“I’ll throw up.”
I dropped back to her teammate, a bald guy sporting a sheen of pate sweat. “Water?”
“No,” he puffed.
“You’re sweating.”
“I know. No water.”
I let him go. Behind him a short thin woman in a crop-top running bra fixed me with a gaze, shook her head.
“You sure?”
She ran on. I reached the end of the open stretch. More runners ran past. I looked toward the port-a-potty. A runner grabbed the cup from my hand when I wasn’t looking. The woman whose jacket I wore had emerged and was searching for me. I turned away before she could make eye contact, and saw E’s art tube winding its way past the deli, the thick crowd slowing her progress.
I ran back to the table, grabbed another cup of water. Matched pace alongside a guy in a white-sheet toga who now understood why marathon runners had been shirtless Greeks instead of togaed Romans. Two rust-colored stains ran down the front of his toga showing that his nipples would never be the same after twenty-some miles of chafing.
I offered the cup. “Water?”
“No, man.”
“You sure?”
“Jesus, it hurts.”
I slipped into the race running behind him, came up on the other side. “You look like you could use it.”
“Should you be on the course?”
“No,” I said. I drank the water, tossed the cup to the ground, and kept going. Looked over my shoulder. I’d have to pick up the pace a bit to get across, so started running harder. Came up on a guy pushing a kid in a wheelchair. Ran past, slid in front of him with plenty of room. Kept running.
Someone in the crowd noticed me. “You can do it, yellow guy!”
“You go, BAA volunteer!”
I ran diagonally away from the wheelchair pair. Ran past a guy with no shirt, wearing red-white-and-blue running shorts, his bib clipped to the front of his shorts. The guy was ripped. Women hooted at him. “You go, hot dude.”
“Go! Go! Go!” the crowd yelled.
Though the cheers weren’t for me, I took them in anyway, letting them fill me with goodwill and energy. I could see how you could do this for twenty-six miles, as long as your knees held up.
Shirtless Guy looked at me. “What are you doing?”
“Crossing the street.”
I veered toward the barriers protecting the race course. Race fans raised hands for high fives. I looked behind me, saw a runner slapping palms, ran away from the barrier to make room, slowed, then stopped in front of the fence and threw a leg over.
“A little help!” I called.
Two guys in BU sweatshirts grabbed me, pul
led me over the fence.
One said, “Jesus, dude. You coulda killed someone.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Emergency.”
The marathon had pushed me downstream. I’d have to get back to Dorothy’s house.
I looked back up Beacon. Saw E’s art tube disappear into Dorothy’s entryway.
Sixty-Nine
My run had landed me a block downstream from where I had started. I looked back and saw the woman whose jacket I wore, talking to a cop and pointing at me. The cop looked across, spoke into the radio mike on his chest. It was time to get moving. I ducked behind the crowd, pulled off the yellow jacket, hung it on a parking meter, and started across the street.
A line of cars worked their way up Beacon, blocking the path. I looked toward Dorothy’s and saw a cop walking toward me, probably looking for the guy who’d stolen the BAA jacket. I’d need to get across. I took a step into the street. A car rolled past. The driver had clearly been trapped in marathon traffic and wasn’t giving an inch. I let the car go past, tried another step, blocked by another car. The nearest crosswalk was a half a block back.
Time to start acting like a Bostonian.
I stepped into the traffic. The next car jammed on his brakes, blasted his horn. I gave him the finger. Waved at him to slow down. Ran across his car. Another car came through that lane. Got in front of him. Almost across.
A guy on a bike yelled at me. “Asshole!”
That was fair.
Asshole or not, I was across the street. I started running up the sidewalk, dodging dawdlers left and right, skirting baby carriages, and kids holding hands. E’s art tube had been in the apartment building a couple of minutes. It could all be over by now. I ran past the convenience store and turned into the alley that led to the front door.
Ran right into Billy Janks, aka the bounty hunter CapnMerica.
“Got you!” he said, and clamped a handcuff over my wrist. Attached the other one to himself.
I tugged at my wrist, moving his arm. “Get this off me!”
He started walking, pulling me with him. “I’m finding a cop and turning you in.”
I stood my ground, stopping him. “What are you doing here?”
“Epomis called me,” he said. “She told me you’d be trying to get upstairs.”
“Of course I’m trying to get upstairs. She’s going to kill Dorothy.”
“She told me that you’d say that too.”
I raged, whipping my arm back and forth, whipping Billy’s arm with it.
“Ow!” he cried.
“I’ll break your fucking arm!”
“Stop!”
“I swear you wil—”
And then I stopped. Stopped whipping my arm. Stopped fighting. The rage had taken me again, filling my head with images of dragging Billy’s hand to the ground and stomping it until the handcuff came free, reveling in the idea of beating this scrawny loser to a pulp, betraying me once more.
Billy was right. It was time to stop.
I took a deep breath, blew it out, and stood with hands on knees, forcing Billy’s head close.
“Look, Billy,” I said. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“But I’m telling you that E is going to kill Dorothy. She’s already killed Russell.
“Russell?”
“Eliza.”
Eyes wide, Billy said, “No!”
“I’m sorry that I’ve been a dick this past week. I’m sorry I humiliated you. But we have to get past this.”
“I’m going to let the cops sort it out.”
The rage tickled my gut, trying to worm its way back into my thinking. I pushed it down. It hadn’t helped. It had never helped.
“Billy, how do you think I killed those people?”
“You cut off their heads!”
“With a sword?”
“Yeah.”
I spread my arms, carrying Billy’s arm with me. “You see a sword?”
Billy looked.
“Did E have a sword?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did she have a long tube that could carry a sword?”
Finally, Billy put it together. “She’s the HackMaster!”
“Yeah. I can still save Dorothy, but you’ve got to take these off and go get a cop.”
Billy reached into his pants, pulled out a set of keys. I imagined E upstairs, knocking on Dorothy’s door, calling out, “It’s me!” in a friendly woman’s voice. Dorothy opening the door.
Billy dropped the keys. “Shit!”
I thrust out my manacled wrist. “Focus, Billy.”
We crouched. He scrabbled for the key, unlocked my cuff.
“Now,” I said, “go get a cop. Top floor!”
Billy ran out to find a cop. I turned and ran up the stairs to the front door.
Locked.
Seventy
I mashed all the doorbells next to the door. Listened for a buzzer. Heard a click instead. Realized the buzzer was broken. The click had unlocked the door. Heard another click. The door had relocked.
“Dammit!”
I mashed the buttons again, listened for the click. Got it this time, pushed the door open, and ran into the hallway.
A woman in a faded housedress stood in front of the staircase. “You again! Stop ringing my bell.”
I dodged past her. “Sorry. Gotta go.”
“I’m serious.”
I ran up the steps. “Won’t happen again!”
I pounded up the hallway stairs, reached the top apartment. Closed door. Tried the knob: locked. Pounded on the door.
No answer.
I looked for blood seeping into the hallway. None. Pounded again.
“It’s Tucker! Open up!”
The door swung open. Dorothy stood before me.
“E was just going to show me her artwork,” said Dorothy.
Behind Dorothy, E fiddled with her art tube and reached into it.
“Run,” I said to Dorothy.
“What?”
Behind Dorothy, E drew a short sword out of the art tube.
“Run!”
E yelled, “No!” and raised the sword.
I pushed Dorothy out the door behind me as E charged. I reached down, grabbing the wooden baseball bat Dorothy kept for security. E’s sword swooshed. I ducked. The sword clunked into the wooden door. I slammed the door shut, hoping to trap the sword, but E yanked it free.
I ran into the living room, carrying the bat.
“You ruined everything!” E screeched. She turned, raising the sword.
“This isn’t helping, E!” I said, holding the bat in front of me. “Your sister is gone.”
“No shit!” E said. Swooshing the sword in front of her. “Nothing’s going to bring her back.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The point is to kill them. That’s the fucking point.”
“Who?”
“You know who. PwnSec.” Another swoosh.
“You killed Russell. He’s the one who did it.”
“They all did it!”
E rushed at me, swinging the sword in a big arc aimed at my neck. I stuck the bat in the air. The sword chunked into it, cutting halfway through, but stopping. I took advantage of my leverage, twisting the bat before E could get the sword free, torquing it out of her hands, and throwing it aside.
I ran at E, reaching down, grabbing her legs, lifting and slamming her to the ground. I just had to hold her here until the police came. E wrapped her legs around me, trying to twist free. I reached for her hands, trying to grab her, immobilize her.
And then … I don’t know what. E grabbed my wrists, pulled my arms toward her and twisted, holding my wrist with one hand and wrapping her other arm a
round mine. She pulled me down toward her, spun, and suddenly my shoulder was twisting.
“Aagh!” I yelled, trying to yank my arm free.
E held on, twisting her body and pushing. Searing pain shot through my shoulder as I felt the ball lift out of its socket, tendons popping and twisting. I panicked, trying to free my dead arm.
E spun around to my back, wrapping her forearm around my throat, pushing down and cutting off my air. I reached for her with my good arm, couldn’t get there. Couldn’t stop her. My vision clouded, darkness pooling in from the edges. I looked through the tunnel, spasming and choking, when I saw her.
Dorothy’s aunt Ruby sat in her wheelchair, pointing an enormous black gun at us. E, her head burrowed into my back and unreachable, didn’t see Ruby fire the gun.
My world exploded. Pain tore through me as all my muscles jammed and clenched into a massive knot of charley horses. I screamed. On my back, E grunted, her chokehold loosening as she screamed alongside me.
The Taser finished the job that the sword, the dislocated shoulder, and the chokehold had started. I saw Dorothy and Billy burst into the room with a cop, and passed out.
Seventy-One
My eyes fluttered open. Jael knelt beside me.
“He is awake,” Jael said to Mel. “That is unfortunate.”
Jael pulled on my ruined arm harder than E ever had. Pain sparkled before my eyes, the joint crackled, the noises twisting my gut. I yelled just as my shoulder snapped back into place.
“I am sorry,” said Jael.
“Think nothing of it.” I wept.
Outside crowds cheered and cowbells clanged as the marathon continued.
Mel gave me a kiss on the shoulder. “There, it’ll feel better soon,” she said. “Also, they’ll give you drugs.”