by Leslie Glass
He got down on his knees. He didn't like her position and moved her body around some more. Maslow couldn't figure out what he was doing.
"Hug me."
The boy lay down beside Dylan and started pulling at her clothes.
Maslow's heart pounded. No. No! He was choking on his indignation, his rage. The boy was pure evil. Never had he seen such evil. He could not lie there and watch when the boy pulled up Dylan's skirt and rolled on top of her. Maslow rose up out of the ground and struck out like a pit bull attacking a lion.
Sixty-five
The orange glow of Zumech's SAR jumpsuit was way ahead of April as Peachy reversed direction again, and turned northwest back toward the lake. The air was heavy and the grass was wet. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees and the mist had turned into a fine drizzle. April was in pretty good shape, but hadn't hunted at night for a long time. Ten years ago this would have been nothing. Her first job had been in Bed Stuy, where she'd been on the streets day and night for eighteen difficult months in a really rough neighborhood where she'd felt small and defenseless, but had never bothered much about her physical comfort in the heat, wet, or paralyzing cold.
Now she was no longer used to running at night with her gun at her waist and her extra equipment slamming against her side with every step. She perspired in the vest and waterproof windbreaker, hampered by her own precautions. This night maneuver was coming to nothing, and she was sorry that she'd worn the vest. It was one of the new ones, cost nearly four hundred dollars, and fit her small frame nicely. It was supposed to breathe and be cooler than the older models but still be strong enough to stop any bullet out on the street. The first two claims were proving false. She hoped she'd never be a test for the third.
She was winded and discouraged as the dog changed direction yet again and the weather worsened. Mike was ahead of her, and it annoyed her that he was moving faster now than she was. Woody straggled along at her side. She felt horrible. She'd made another tactical error, trying this search at night. They were idiots, out in a storm with all four people they were looking for way off their radar screen, somewhere in the wind.
Trotting northwest after the dog, she was furious at herself. Suddenly Woody's light went off beside her. The fog closed in to a tighter circle. Lightning hit, cracking the sky. A boom of thunder followed.
"Shit." Woody stumbled and swore as the sky opened up and the rain hit with full fury, almost knocking them over with its force.
Monsoon time in Manhattan; it always happened in summer and early fall. Dry in her jacket, April's head and feet were drenched in seconds. Their search party was over. The park was empty, the sky as dark as deepest night. The dog was moving west.
Ahead, Mike stopped to zip his jacket. Then he moved on, his flashlight pointed down at the path. April kept a slower but steady pace, her eye on Peachy's orange necklace and John's jumpsuit just visible and still moving west, now at a run. April checked her watch. They'd been out an hour and forty-five minutes.
The dog and trainer raced on in the rain. And April ran after them, panting and exhausted. She was certain that the dog was heading back to the haven of the red Jeep Cherokee. They were rained out. No dog could smell through a hurricane. She was deeply disappointed at their failure, and she was also ashamed because she, too, yearned for rest and warmth and praise from her boyfriend. Peachy would get her treats whether she'd lost the scent or not. But April had messed up, she'd lost all three of her suspects and was in big trouble. Big.
In six minutes, they were back almost to where they'd started. But Peachy did not stop at the cars. April saw Peachy's orange necklace as she skirted the water's edge on the east side of the lake, traveling north along the patch of water until it became shallows and finally grass. Water poured down on their heads, muting John's excited cry of victory as Peachy hurled herself into the grass and disappeared.
Sixty-six
In a crack of thunder, Maslow grabbed the boy by the back of his jacket and jerked him off Dylan. Unlike the boy and Dylan, he made no sound. All his effort went into the attack, and the boy was caught by surprise.
"Hey!" The boy pushed the sobbing girl from him like a rag doll that had gotten in his way. He tried to get up. As he unfolded his body, his forehead smacked a rock jutting from the ceiling.
"Shit." He swore and held his head. His foot knocked the flashlight over, dousing the meager light.
Dark took over the cave again but for the lightning outside, flashing like a strobe in a downtown club. Inside, it smelled of rain, sweat, blood, and fear. Maslow went for the boy's knees. Cursing some more, the boy fell hard, and the two grappled on the sharp, stony cave floor, struggling for advantage. Maslow tried to kick his opponent in the balls but couldn't get to him. So he pummeled with his fists as hard as he could from above, landing his blows on the boy's head and neck.
"Cut that out!" The boy's cry was high-pitched and carping. He was actually complaining.
Maslow tried to pin him, but the younger man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He flipped Maslow off him, and with one cuff, exploded Maslow's head with a thousand excruciating pin lights of pain. Maslow lay where he had fallen, stunned and immobilized.
Muttering angrily, the boy searched for the light, found it, and righted it so he could see again. Then he returned to the girl and his task of torturing her as if nothing had happened. First he didn't like the way she was lying and moved her around.
She was awake now, crying and begging him to stop. Then suddenly she became quiet. Her body twitched. Maslow could see convulsions in the light. The boy was pleased by these movements.
"Hug me," he said again.
Her head went back and forth.
He lowered his body on her, holding her down.
"No!" The cry was sharp.
He raised himself up a little, excited. "Put your arms around me. Come on."
She couldn't. He let himself fall down on her, crushing her. She bucked against him.
"This is a good feeling. Isn't this good?" he said.
After a few minutes, the pain eased a little in Maslow's head, and he started thinking again. He was a doctor, and a doctor's mind was a repository of secret knowledge. He clicked through it as if his brain were a computer. What part of the body could he attack with little effort? A hat pin behind the ear would kill him in a few seconds. In the Bellevue ER, he'd seen a rich eighty-two-year-old woman killed that way by her greedy son. But Maslow didn't have a hat pin, let alone a knife or a gun.
Maslow groaned involuntarily. David looked his way.
"Isn't this good?" he said. Below him, he was pulling up Dylan's short shirt.
Maslow's hand scrabbled around in the dirt, searching for the imaginary hat pin. He stopped when it connected with a metal object, the broken spoke he'd dropped when the boy appeared. He grasped the precious rusted iron in his hand and pulled himself up. The boy was now lost in himself and Dylan's agony.
Maslow crawled toward him. Using the spoke like a sword, he took wobbly aim, pointing straight at the carotid sinus. He swiped at the nape of the neck, striking the sharp edge into the soft skin so hard it sheared through the artery that fed the boy's brain. The boy howled with pain and grabbed his neck as the hot blood spouted out.
"Are you crazy?" he screamed. He was off Dylan again. In an angry frenzy at the attack, and apparently unaware of how badly he was hurt, the boy grabbed the weapon from Maslow's hand and lunged at him. In a second Maslow was covered with blood.
Sixty-seven
April heard the screams ahead and knew where Mike was headed. He reached the little bridge over the lake bed where water was no more, reaching it just as Peachy's barking rose to a delirious pitch. In a burst of energy she didn't know she had, she followed Mike across the bridge. Woody unholstered his gun.
"Put that away," she barked. There was too much confusion in the sounds she heard, and she was terrified that Woody might get too excited and shoot in error, hitting Mike or John, the victim, o
r even herself.
Rain slated down on her face and neck, blinding her. She lost Mike and couldn't see what was going on ahead. She stepped off the bridge and the muddy path gave way. She tumbled down the bank, twisting her ankle as she landed hard on the stony riverbed.
"You okay?" Woody got to her and felt for her arm, his gun still in his hand.
"Yeah, fine. Help me up," she said impatiently. Woody yanked her to her feet before she had a chance to say, gently. His gun was pointed at her knee. "Holster your gun!" she commanded angrily. She couldn't get more specific than that. The man was a menace, but he holstered the gun.
Through a dense thicket they heard chaotic screams and shouts. Peachy was yelping like crazy, a hero in her finest hour. Mike was trying to take command. She heard it before she saw it.
"Help! Help us, please!"
"Police. Drop that. Put your hands up."
"Put your hands up. Oh my God!"
"Good girl, Peachy. Good girl."
Then a miracle occurred. The rain ended as suddenly as it had begun, clearing the air almost instantly. April ignored the shooting pain in her foot as she pushed through the dripping bushes. Quickly Mike had holstered his own gun. Now his flashlight illuminated a scene none of them would ever forget. Three people in a cave so small no one else could get in. And blood was everywhere.
Most prominent in the scene was the dog barking triumphantly, for she'd found what she'd been looking for and won the prize. The long-sought smell of David's sweat was now combined with his blood, and the delighted dog was hanging on him, trying to kiss him and lick his seeping wound.
April was on her radio calling for backup and three EMS vehicles. Staying calm and speaking as tersely as she could, she described the critical nature of the situation and gave their location before she went in to help. She had no clear idea of the extent of the carnage. In all the mud and gore, she could not at first tell what had happened in there. When she signed off, hung the radio on her belt, and moved closer, she had a view into unfathomable horror.
The face of the missing jogger was unrecognizable, filthy and awash with blood. It poured out of a gash in his forehead and from his nose. A girl April couldn't immediately identify lay on the ground with her skirt pulled up around her hips. Her face, too, was bloody and her features indiscernible. Her nose looked broken and ragged bone could be seen sticking out of her ankle. Was this Brandy? Dylan Rodriguez? She couldn't tell.
And last, the boy, David, was bent over, holding his neck with one hand. The other brandished what looked like a bloody poker. Blood gushed out of his neck, and he was the one who was screaming.
Peachy had him pinned against some structure that looked like a gate. She had no idea of restraining him. She was greeting him, slobbering on him, and humping him with all the joy of a long-lost friend while David shrieked his head off, "I'm hurt, I'm hurt. He stabbed me." He sounded like a lost little boy.
John took command of the dog, thanked her lavishly, and moved her out of the way. Then he heeled Peachy and took off for the cars to set up his flares and continue talking on the radio through Central to lead the medical teams in to the closest access.
"April, we need your help in here," Mike said.
April responded quickly. Now was the dilemma of which injured person to attend to first-the perpetrator or the victims. Once long ago, when April was a rookie, she and her partner were the first on the scene of a jewelry store robbery gone bad. The perp had shot the owner in the neck. Her partner ran after the perp and April crouched on the floor with a hand clamped over the victim's wound, talking to him for five interminable minutes until EMS arrived.
Together April and Mike moved David out of the cave, laid him down. Mike put his jacket under the boy's head and clamped his wound. April went in for the girl. She, too, took off her jacket. Underneath was a cardigan and a shirt. She ripped them both off to cover the sobbing girl. April was stripped down to her bra and talking softly to soothe the girl, when she realized it was Dylan. She took Dylan's hand and squeezed it.
"It's April Woo. Hold on there, you're going to be okay. I'm with you, just hold on." April kept talking. "Your mom's waiting for you. Just a few more minutes. Dylan, can you hear me? We're going to get you out of here."
"Don't move her, don't move her," Maslow cried.
"I'm not moving her. How are you doing?" April held Dylan's hand but turned her attention on him.
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine." The voice sounded strong.
"Good, take my jacket. I've got her." April handed him her jacket.
"Woody, take Dr. Atkins out. Hurry."
For once Woody had his brains screwed in. Despite Maslow's protests, he half-carried him out of the cave.
Turned out, the three officers and the dog tracker worked perfectly together, so well, in fact, that before EMS arrived, Woody had covered his boss with his own shirt and given his jacket to Dylan. They were all on a high, having done what they set out to do, and saved three lives in the process.
Back on Park Avenue, Brandy Fabman missed the storm. Long before ten, she'd slipped back into her building unnoticed by the two officers on a three-minute coffee break from watching her building. She was at home in bed, dreaming of the money she would make when her story was sold to the movies and of the skimpy dress she would wear on her TV appearances.
At two in the morning, when David Owen and Dylan Rodriguez were both in operating rooms having emergency surgery, Cheryl Fabman got her wish to be reunited with her ex-husband. She and Seymour stayed all night together in a police station where they waited for a lawyer to come and deal with the kidnap, assault, and attempted murder charges against their daughter.
Epilogue
Jerome Atkins and his wife, Adina, received the news early Friday morning at their Park Avenue apartment that their son, Maslow, had been rescued from the small cave in Central Park where he had been held captive since Tuesday evening by two Park Avenue teenagers who attended fancy private schools. The couple hurried to the hospital for a reunion with him. Several hours later, they appeared holding hands at a scheduled press conference. Also present at the news conference held at Roosevelt-St. Luke's Hospital on Columbus Avenue were Lieutenant Arturo Iriarte, Sergeant April Woo, Lieutenant Mike Sanchez, and Dr. Jason Frank, described (to his chagrin) as a close friend of the Atkins family.
During the conference, held in time for the local five o'clock news, a hospital public relations spokesman reported that Dr. Atkins had been heroic in his efforts to save his half-sister. Dylan Rodriguez had been captured and severely beaten while searching for Maslow after earlier police attempts to find him in the park had failed. She was in stable condition after surgery. No mention was made of the awkward circumstance that Dylan had been Maslow's patient.
Smiling broadly in an elegant silver suit, Lieutenant Iriarte stepped forward into the flashes of many cameras and video cams. Looking every inch the boss of bosses, he described in great detail the planning and execution of the rescue. After seven minutes of air time (later cut to thirty seconds), almost as an afterthought, he introduced two officers who had implemented the operation. The two officers, though clean and wearing the clothes from their lockers, looked appropriately grubby and modest. They in turn gave credit for the remarkable rescue during one of the worst thunderstorms in New York history-which caused flooding and power outages that were still creating problems throughout the city-to NYPD dog tracker John Zumech and his Doberman pinscher, Peachy, who had kept going despite impossibly difficult weather conditions.
The two officers, Woo and Sanchez, were recognizable to that certain segment of New York City residents who followed the Metro section of the Times, the running sagas of the Post, and the front-page stories of The Daily News.
After them Jerome Atkins, looking very happy at the bank of microphones outside the hospital, said that he and his wife had never given up hope that their son was alive and were deeply relieved and grateful for his return. Questioned about his twenty-year-
old daughter, Dylan, and long-term relationship with coworker Grace Rodriguez, Atkins said there was nothing to the rumor. With his wife by his side, he explained that Grace Rodriguez and he had had a short relationship many years ago and had since remained friends for the sake of their child. He further added that Adina, his wife and best friend of thirty-eight years, knew all about his youthful indiscretion and had forgiven him years ago.
Dr. Maslow Atkins's hospital physician then reported that although Dr. Atkins was not able to appear live on camera, he had a statement to make. He was grateful to the New York City Police officers who had saved him and his sister and that he was happy to be alive.
Clips appeared on all the local network and cable TV programs and on the national morning news. In the following days, media attention would focus heavily on the lives of Brandy Fabman and David Owen and the debate over the punishment children should receive for their violent acts. But that was the news circus.
For April and Mike, the time of action was over. Now would come the long days of getting the facts and answers, tying up the loose ends, working with the DA's office, doing the paperwork. And who knew, perhaps even an IAB investigation of their own part in the case. In any event, they knew that when the red lights went off the video cameras, the department lights would come up hard on them.
They'd been up for over thirty-six hours when Jason, stopped on his way out to say good-bye.
"Thanks," he said to them. "I owe you everything."
"True," April replied deadpan. "Name your next child after Mike."
Jason froze. His face did a wild dance of surprise and horror as he did a quick calculation. "Are we pregnant?" he asked. Had Emma told April something about them before he knew it himself?
Always the detective, April reached a conclusion and smiled. People with babies still did it. She glanced at Mike. Enjoying Jason's discomfort, too, Mike let a little grin peek out from under his mustache. They caught each other's eyes.