The Darkest Day

FORTY-THREE

Three blocks from the cab he bought food and a soda at a taco truck unaffected by the blackout with its own generator. He ate while sheltering from the rain in a doorway with two other taco eaters. They made eye contact with him and each other but no one spoke. They communicated only with grins of contentment, enjoying their meal in silence, but for Victor it was all about the calories. He would have devoured anything with the same relish. His blood needed sugar and his muscles needed glycogen.

One guy went back to the stand for a second taco. Victor followed suit.

Once again they shared a moment’s silent camaraderie as Victor allowed himself to relax. In this brief instance he had no problems nor was in any more danger than the man next to him. A temporary respite, because it was far from over. He needed to be refuelled and ready when they next came for him.

Which they would. The only question was who would find him first: cops or killers.

On another street, he passed a homeless guy in an old, dirty army jacket and beanie hat.

Victor said, ‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the jacket.’

He waited while the homeless guy weighed up the offer. He saw Victor’s urgency, and with it, the strength of his own negotiating position.

‘Two hundred.’

‘Deal,’ Victor said. ‘But for that I want the hat too.’

A minute later, he stank of urine, but the green army jacket and hat transformed his appearance. Anyone who looked at him was quick to look away. Everyone noticed him, but no one wanted to. He was as visible and invisible as he had ever been as he set off north towards the Bronx.

The street looked the same as it had earlier. The blackout had made no difference. It had been as dirty and rundown and neglected under a bright afternoon sun as it was in unlit twilight. He saw no government vehicles or midnight-blue panel vans or white minivans or any other vehicle he had seen before. If any of his enemies were nearby, he couldn’t see them. Dressed like a tramp, he hoped they wouldn’t see him either.

It was nearing six p.m. Raven had said to be here in two hours just over two hours ago. Victor hadn’t wanted to be on time or early for once. He didn’t want to wait any longer than he had to. He hadn’t wanted to come back here at all even before he was a fugitive.

He used the alleyway behind the building to break in. The interior was dark and gloomy. He made it to Raven’s front door without seeing another person.

He waited, listening. He could hear no one moving around on the other side. He stood to one side of the door and used the back of his hand to push it open hard enough to surprise someone on the other side, but not hard enough so it would bang against the wall.

No gunshots, so no one had been waiting in the dark to shoot at whoever came through.

Inside, he had walked forward, gun in hand, with slow, careful steps along the hallway before he heard someone further inside the apartment. Maybe Raven. Maybe Guerrero or Wallinger. Maybe cops or residents or Halleck’s people or anyone else.

He kept Raven’s gun low and pointed at the floor because it was dark, and if it wasn’t an enemy waiting for him, he didn’t want someone else to see the gun raised. He didn’t want to get killed by a trigger-happy resident investigating a break-in or the like.

Ahead, the lounge area was better lit than the hallway because someone had opened the blackout blinds and what remained of the sunlight illuminated the open space. He stepped into it to see a man in a suit, wearing a tan raincoat. He was trying to get his cell phone to work.

Wallinger.

‘Hands where I can see them,’ Victor said.

Wallinger turned to face him, surprised at the sound of Victor’s voice, but not shocked; not scared. Wallinger’s gaze fell to the gun in Victor’s hands.

‘Why does a credit enforcement agent need a piece?’

Victor said, ‘It’s a jungle out there.’

‘A jungle gone dark,’ Wallinger replied. He held up his phone. ‘Cell towers must be down too or the networks are overloaded.’

‘Everyone’s calling home or trying to find out how to get home.’

Wallinger nodded. He dropped the phone into a pocket of his raincoat. ‘Why don’t you put that gun away?’

He gestured with an outstretched hand while the other hovered near his waistband, fingers making small movements as if playing the keys of an invisible piano.

Victor looked from the moving fingers to the coat that hung open centimetres away.

‘What?’ Wallinger asked.

‘What’s under your jacket?’

‘Nothing,’ he was quick to answer. Too quick.

‘Move your hand away from your gun.’

Wallinger looked down and seemed surprised to find the hand hovering at his waistband. The fingers stopped moving, the hand clenching into a fist that remained in place. His gaze rose to meet Victor’s.

‘Why?’ Wallinger said.

‘You know why.’

The man said nothing.

‘You have two choices,’ Victor said. ‘We don’t need to go into details, but it’s in your best interests to pick the second one. So do it.’

‘You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a federal agent. I think you’re forgetting your place here.’

‘I’m not telling you what to do,’ Victor explained. ‘I’m advising you on what you should do.’

Wallinger’s jaw clenched as he thought.

‘Take your time,’ Victor said.

Wallinger raised his hands. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

Victor nodded. ‘I’ve been making a lot of those recently. Another isn’t going to make much difference. I want to see your identification.’

‘You’ve already seen it.’

Victor gestured with the gun. ‘I have short-term memory issues.’

Wallinger smirked and moved his right hand towards his chest.

‘Use your left instead.’

Wallinger frowned. ‘My badge is in my left inside pocket.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’

It took a little effort for Wallinger to work the ID out of the pocket, but he managed the awkward manoeuvre better than most would.

‘Now what?’ he asked.

‘Throw it to me,’ Victor said.

Wallinger did. Victor caught it in his left palm while his gaze remained on Wallinger.

‘Put both hands on the top of your head.’

Wallinger sighed. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’

‘Do it,’ Victor ordered. ‘And watch your language.’

With obvious indignity Wallinger did as he was told. Victor flipped open the badge booklet. It was the same as before. Genuine, or a fake as good as genuine.

Victor said, ‘Where’s Guerrero?’

Wallinger didn’t answer, but Guerrero said, ‘I’m behind you. Drop the gun.’