Contagion

26

Beth Holderness had stayed late to get all the throat cultures of the hospital employees planted. The evening crew had come in at the usual time, but at that moment they were down in the cafeteria having their dinner. Even Richard had disappeared, although Beth wasn’t sure if he’d left for the day or not.

Since the micro section of the lab was deserted except for her, Beth thought that if she were to do any clandestine searching, this was as good a time as any. Sliding off her stool, she walked over to the door to the main part of the lab. She didn’t see a soul, which encouraged her further.

Turning back to microbiology, Beth headed over to the insulated doors. She wasn’t sure she should be doing what she was doing, but having said she would, she felt some obligation. She was confused about Dr. Jack Stapleton, but she was even more confused about her own boss, Dr. Martin Cheveau. He’d always been temperamental, but lately that moodiness had reached ridiculous proportions.

That afternoon he’d stormed in after Dr. Stapleton had left, demanding to know what she had told the medical examiner. Beth had tried to say that she’d told him nothing of consequence and had tried to get him to leave, but Dr. Cheveau wouldn’t listen. He even threatened to fire Beth for willfully disobeying him. His ranting had brought her close to tears.

After he’d left Beth had thought about Dr. Stapleton’s comment that people at the hospital, including her boss, had been acting defensively. Considering Dr. Cheveau’s behavior, she’d thought Dr. Stapleton might be right. It made her even more willing to follow up on Dr. Stapleton’s request.

Beth stood in front of the two insulated doors. The one on the left was the walk-in freezer, the other the walk-in incubator. She debated which one to search first. Since she’d been in and out of the incubator all day with the throat cultures, she decided to tackle that first. After all, there was only a small area in the incubator where the contents were unfamiliar to her.

Beth pulled open the door and entered. Immediately she was enveloped by the moist, warm air. The temperature was kept close to body temperature, at 98.6° Fahrenheit. Many bacteria and viruses, especially those that affected humans, had understandably evolved to grow best at human body temperature.

The door behind Beth closed automatically to seal in the heat. The compartment was about eight by ten. The lighting came from two bulbs covered with wire mesh mounted on the ceiling. The shelving was perforated stainless steel. It extended floor to ceiling on both walls, along the back, and down the center, creating two narrow aisles.

Beth made her way to the rear of the compartment. There were stainless-steel boxes back there that she’d seen on numerous occasions but had never examined.

Grasping one of the boxes with both hands, Beth slid it out from its shelf and put it on the floor. It was about the size of a shoe box. When she tried to open it, she realized it had a latch that was secured with a miniature padlock!

Beth was amazed and instantly suspicious. Few things in the lab were kept under lock and key. Picking the box up, Beth slid it back into place. Moving along the shelf, she reached around each box in turn. Every one of them had the same type of lock.

Bending down, Beth did the same on the lower shelf. The condition of the fifth box was different. As Beth stuck her hand around its back, she could feel that the padlock’s clasp had not been closed.

Insinuating her fingers between the unlocked box and its neighbors, Beth was able to slide it out. As she lifted it, she could tell it wasn’t quite as heavy as the first locked box; she feared it would be empty. But it wasn’t. As she lifted its cover, she saw that it contained a few petri dishes. She also noted that the petri dishes did not bear the customary label that was used in the lab. Instead they only had grease-pencil alphanumeric designators.

Beth gingerly reached into the box and lifted out a petri dish labeled A-81. She lifted the top and looked in at expanding bacterial colonies. They were transparent and mucoid and they were growing on a medium she recognized as chocolate agar.

A sharp mechanical click of the insulated door opening startled Beth. Her pulse raced. Like a child caught in a forbidden act, she frantically tried to get the petri dish back in the box and the box back on the shelf before whoever was entering saw what she was doing.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time. She’d only had a chance to close the box and pick it up before she found herself face-to-face with Dr. Martin Cheveau. Ironically, he was at that moment carrying a box identical to the one she was holding.

“What are you doing?” he snarled.

“I’m…” Beth voiced, but that was all she could say. Under the pressure of the circumstance, no potential explanation came to mind.

Dr. Cheveau noisily stashed his box on one of the shelves, then grabbed Beth’s away from her. He looked at the open latch.

“Where’s the lock?” he growled.

Beth extended her hand and then opened it. In her palm was the open padlock. Martin snatched it and examined it.

“How did you get it open?” he demanded.

“It was open,” Beth asserted.

“You’re lying,” Martin snapped.

“I’m not,” Beth said. “Honest. It was open and it made me curious.”

“Likely story,” Martin yelled. His voice reverberated around the confined space.

“I didn’t disturb anything,” Beth said.

“How do you know you didn’t disturb anything?” Martin said. He opened the box and glanced inside. Seemingly satisfied, he closed it and locked it. He tested the lock. It held.

“I only lifted the cover and looked at one culture dish,” Beth said. She was beginning to regain some composure, although her pulse was still racing.

Martin slipped the box into its position. Then he counted them all. When he was finished, he ordered her out of the incubator.

“I’m sorry,” Beth said after Martin had closed the insulated door behind them. “I didn’t know that I wasn’t supposed to touch those boxes.”

At that moment Richard appeared in the doorway. Martin ordered him over, then angrily related how he’d caught Beth handling his research cultures.

Richard acted as upset as Martin when he heard. Turning to Beth, he demanded to know why she would do such a thing. He wondered whether they weren’t giving her enough work to do.

“No one told me not to touch them,” Beth protested. She was again close to tears. She hated confrontations and had already weathered a previous one only hours earlier.

“No one told you to handle them either,” Richard snapped.

“Did that Dr. Stapleton put you up to this?” Martin demanded.

Beth hesitated, not knowing how to respond. As far as Martin was concerned her hesitation was incriminating. “I thought as much,” he snapped. “He probably even told you about his preposterous idea that the plague cases and the others were started on purpose.”

“I told him I wasn’t supposed to talk with him,” Beth cried.

“But talk he did,” Martin said. “And obviously you listened. Well, I’m not going to stand for it. You are fired, Miss Holderness. Take your things and get out. I don’t want to see your face again.”

Beth sputtered a protest and with it came tears.

“Crying is not going to get you anywhere,” Martin spat out. “Nor are excuses. You made your choice, now live with the consequences. Get out.”

Twin reached across the scarred desk and hung up the phone. His real name was Marvin Thomas. He’d gotten the nickname “Twin” because he’d had an identical twin. No one had been able to tell the two of them apart until one of them got killed in a protracted disagreement between the Black Kings and a gang from the East Village over crack territories.

Twin looked across the desk at Phil. Phil was tall and skinny and hardly imposing, but he had brains. It had been his brains, not his bravado or muscles, that had caused Twin to elevate him to number-two man in the gang. He had been the only person to know what to do with all the drug money they’d been raking in. Up until Phil took over, they’d been burying the greenbacks in PVC pipe in the basement of Twin’s tenement.

“I don’t understand these people,” Twin said. “Apparently that honky doctor didn’t get our message, and he’s been out doing just what he damned well pleases. Can you believe it? I hit that sucker with just about everything I got, and three days later he’s giving us the finger. I don’t call that respect, no way.”

“The people want us to talk to him again?” Phil asked. He’d been on the visit to Jack’s apartment and witnessed how hard Twin had hit the man.

“Better than that,” Twin said. “They want us to ice the bastard. Why they didn’t have us do it the first time is anybody’s guess. They’re offering us five big ones.” Twin laughed. “Funny thing is, I would have done it for nothing. We can’t have people ignoring us. We’d be out of business.”

“Should we send Reginald?” Phil asked.

“Who else?” Twin questioned. “This is the kind of activity he loves.”

Phil got to his feet and ground out his cigarette. He left the office and walked down the litter-strewn hallway to the front room, where a half dozen members were playing cards. Cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air.

“Hey, Reginald,” Phil called out. “You up for some action?”

Reginald glanced up from his cards. He adjusted the toothpick protruding from his mouth. “It depends,” he said.

“I think you’d like this one,” Phil said. “Five big ones to do away with the doctor whose bike you got.”

“Hey, man, I’ll do it,” BJ said. BJ was the nickname for Bruce Jefferson. He was a stocky fellow with thighs as thick as Phil’s waist. He’d also been on the visit to Jack’s.

“Twin wants Reginald,” Phil said.

Reginald stood up and tossed his cards on the table. “I had a crap hand anyway,” he said. He followed Phil back to the office.

“Did Phil tell you the story?” Twin asked when they entered.

“Just that the doctor goes,” Phil said. “And five big ones for us. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Twin said. “You gotta do a white chick too. Might as well do her first. Here’s the address.”

Twin handed over a scrap of paper with Beth Holderness’s name and address written on it.

“You care how I do these honkies?” Reginald asked.

“I couldn’t care less,” Twin said. “Just be sure you get rid of them.”

“I’d like to use the new machine pistol,” Reginald said. He smiled with the toothpick still stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“It’ll be good to see if it’s worth the money we paid for it,” Twin said. Twin opened up one of the desk drawers and withdrew a new Tec pistol. It still had some packing grease on the handle. He gave the gun a shove across the desk. Reginald snapped it up before it got to the edge. “Enjoy yourself,” Twin added.

“I intend to,” Reginald said.

Reginald made it a point never to show any emotion, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. As he walked out of the building, his mood was soaring. He loved this kind of work.

He unlocked the driver’s-side door of his jet-black Camaro and slipped in behind the wheel. He put the Tec pistol on the passenger seat and covered it with a newspaper. As soon as the motor was humming, he turned on his tape deck and pushed in his current favorite rap cassette. The car had a sound system that was the envy of the gang. It had enough subwoofer power to loosen ceramic tile in whatever neighborhood Reginald cruised.

With one last glance at Beth Holderness’s address and with his head bobbing with the music, Reginald pulled away from the curb and headed uptown.

Beth hadn’t gone directly home. In her distressed state, she needed to talk with someone. She’d stopped at a friend’s house and even had had a glass of wine. After talking the situation over, she felt somewhat better, but was still depressed. She couldn’t believe she’d been fired. There was also the gnawing possibility that she’d stumbled onto something significant in the incubator.

Beth lived in a five-story tenement on East Eighty-third Street between First and Second avenues. It wasn’t the greatest neighborhood, but it wasn’t bad either. The only problem was that her building was not one of the best. The landlord did the least possible in terms of repair, and there was always trouble with something. As Beth arrived, she saw there was a new problem. The outer front door had been sprung open with a crowbar. Beth sighed. It had happened before and it had taken three months for the landlord to fix it.

For several months Beth had been intending to move out of the building, and had been saving her money for a deposit on a new apartment. Now that she was out of work, she’d have to dip into her savings. She probably couldn’t move, at least not for the foreseeable future.

As she climbed the last flight of stairs she told herself that as bad as things seemed, they could be worse. She reminded herself that at least she was healthy.

Outside of her door, Beth fumbled with the clutter in the depths of her purse to find her apartment key, which she kept separate from the building key. Her idea was that if she lost one, she wouldn’t necessarily lose the other.

Finally coming up with the key, she let herself into her apartment. She closed and locked the door, as was her habit. After taking off her coat and hanging it up, Beth again searched through her purse for Jack Stapleton’s card. When she found it, she sat on the couch and gave him a call.

Although it was after seven, Beth called the medical examiner’s office. An operator told her that Dr. Stapleton had left for the day. Turning the card over, she tried Jack’s home number. She got his answering machine.

“Dr. Stapleton,” Beth said after Jack’s beep sounded. “This is Beth Holderness. I have something to tell you.” Beth choked back tears from a sudden surge of emotion. She considered hanging up to collect herself, but instead she cleared her throat and continued haltingly: “I have to talk with you. I did find something. Unfortunately I was also fired. So please call.”

Beth depressed the disconnect and then hung up the phone. For a second she debated calling back to describe what she found, but she decided against it. She’d wait for Jack to call her.

Beth was about to stand up when a tremendous crash shocked her into complete immobility. The door to her apartment had burst open, and it slammed back against the wall hard enough to drive the doorknob into the plaster. The deadbolt that she’d felt so secure about had splintered the doorjamb as if the jamb had been made of balsa wood.

A figure stood on the threshold like a magician appearing out of a cloud of smoke. He was dressed from head to foot in black leather. He glanced at Beth, then turned and yanked the door closed. Quiet returned to the apartment with the same suddenness as the explosive crash. At the moment only the muffled sound of a TV in a neighboring apartment could be heard.

If Beth could have envisioned this situation she would have thought she’d scream or flee or both, but she didn’t do either. She’d been paralyzed. She’d even been holding her breath, which she now let out with an audible sigh.

The man advanced toward her. His face was expressionless. A toothpick jauntily stuck out of his mouth. In his left hand he brandished the largest pistol Beth had ever seen. Its ammunition clip protruded down almost a foot.

The man stopped directly in front of Beth. He didn’t say a word. Instead he slowly raised the pistol and pointed it at her forehead. Beth closed her eyes…

Jack exited the subway at 103rd Street and jogged north. The weather was fine and the temperature reasonable. He expected a big turnout at the playground, and he wasn’t disappointed. Warren saw him through the chain-link fence and told him to get his ass in gear and get over there.

Jack jogged the rest of the way home. As he approached his building, thoughts of Friday night and his uninvited visitors unwelcomely entered his mind. Having been at the General that day and having been discovered, Jack thought it was very possible that the Black Kings would be back. If they were, Jack wanted to know about it.

Instead of going in the front door, Jack descended a few steps and walked down a dank tunnel that connected the front and the back of his building. It reeked of urine. He emerged in the backyard, which looked like a junkyard. In the half-light he could make out the twisted remains of discarded bedsprings, broken baby carriages, bald car tires, and other unwanted trash.

Against the back of the building was a fire escape. It didn’t descend all the way to the ground. The last segment was a metal ladder with a cement counterweight. By turning over a garbage can and standing on its base, Jack was able to reach up and grab the lowest rung. As soon as he put his weight on it, it came down with a clatter.

Jack climbed up the ladder. When he stepped off onto the grate of the first landing, the ladder retracted to its original position with equal clamor. Jack stood still for a few minutes to be sure that the din didn’t disturb anyone. When no one stuck their head out of a window to complain, Jack continued climbing.

On each floor Jack had ample opportunity to glance in at the various domestic scenes, but he assiduously avoided doing so. It wasn’t pretty. When he saw it close-up, Jack found true poverty enervating. Jack also kept his eyes elevated to avoid looking down. He’d always been afraid of heights, and climbing the fire escape was a test of his fortitude.

As Jack approached his own floor he slowed down. The fire escape serviced both his kitchen window and his bedroom window, both of which were ablaze with light. When he’d left that morning, he’d left all the lights on.

Jack sidled up to the kitchen window first and peered in. The room was empty. A grouping of fruit he’d left on the table was undisturbed. From where he was standing he could also see through to his door to the common hall. His repair was still in place. The door had not been forced open.

Moving to the second window, Jack made sure that the bedroom was as he’d left it. Satisfied, he opened the window and climbed in. He knew he’d been taking a chance leaving the bedroom window unlocked, but he thought it worth the risk. Once inside his apartment, he made a rapid final check. It was empty with no sign of any unexpected visitors having been there.

Jack quickly changed into his basketball gear and exited the same way he’d entered. Given his acrophobia, descent was more difficult than ascent, but Jack forced himself to do it. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t wild about stepping out of his front door unprotected.

When Jack got to the street end of the tunnel, he paused in the shadows to view the area immediately in front of his building. He was particularly concerned about seeing any groups of men sitting in cars. When he was reasonably confident there were no hostile gang members waiting for him, he jogged down to the playground.

Unfortunately, during the time he’d taken to climb up and down the fire escape and change clothes the crowd at the playground had swelled. It took Jack even longer than usual to get into the game, and when he did, he ended up on a comparatively poor team.

Although Jack’s shot was on, particularly his long jumper, his teammates’ weren’t. The game was a rout, to Warren’s delight; his team had been winning all night.

Disgusted with his luck, Jack went to the sidelines and picked up his sweatshirt. Pulling it over his head, he started for the gate.

“Hey, man, you leaving already?” Warren called out. “Come on, stick around. We’ll let you win one of these days.” Warren guffawed. He wasn’t being a bad sport; ridiculing the defeated was part of the accepted playground behavior. Everybody did it and everybody expected it.

“I don’t mind getting whipped if it’s by a decent team,” Jack shot back. “But losing to a bunch of pansies is embarrassing.”

“Ohhhh,” Warren’s teammates crooned. Jack’s retort had been a good one.

Warren strutted over to Jack and stuck his index finger into Jack’s chest. “Pansies, huh?” he said. “I tell you what. My five would devastate any five you could put together right now! You pick, we play.”

Jack’s eyes swept around the court. Everybody was looking in their direction. Jack considered the challenge and weighed the pluses and the minuses. First of all, he wanted more exercise so he did want to play, and he knew that Warren could make it happen.

At the same time, Jack understood that picking four people out of the crowd would irritate the ones he didn’t pick. These were people Jack had been painstakingly cultivating over the past months to accept him. Beyond that, the people who were supposed to have winners would be especially vexed, not at Warren, who was insulated from such emotion, but at Jack. Considering all the angles, Jack decided it wasn’t worth it.

“I’m going running in the park,” Jack said.

Having bested Jack’s retort and willing to accept Jack’s refusal to meet his challenge as another victory, Warren bowed in recognition of his team’s cheering. He high-fived with one of them and then swaggered back onto the court. “Let’s run!” he yelled.

Jack smiled to himself, thinking how much the dynamics of the playground basketball court revealed about current intra-city society. Vaguely he wondered if any psychologist had ever thought about studying it from an academic point of view. He thought it would be fruitful indeed.

Jack stepped through the chain-link gate onto the sidewalk and started jogging. He ran due east. Ahead, at the end of the block he could see the dark silhouettes of jagged rocks and leafless trees. He knew that in a few minutes he’d leave behind the bustle of the city and enter the placid interior of Central Park. It was his favorite place to run.

Reginald had been stymied. There was no way he could have walked out into a playground in a hostile neighborhood. Having found the doc playing b-ball, he’d resigned himself to waiting in his Camaro. His hope was that Jack would separate himself from the crowd, perhaps by heading for one of the nearby delis for a drink.

When he’d seen Jack quit the game and pull on his sweater, he’d been encouraged enough to reach under the newspaper and snap the safety off the Tec. But then he heard Warren’s challenge and was sure he’d be sitting through at least another game.

He was wrong. To his delight, a few minutes later Jack came out of the playground. But he didn’t head west in the direction of the shops as Reginald had anticipated. Instead he headed east!

Cursing under his breath, Reginald had to make a U-turn right in the middle of all the traffic. A cabdriver complained bitterly by leaning on his horn. It was all Reginald could do to keep from reaching for the Tec. The cabdriver was one of those guys from the Far East whom Reginald would have loved to surprise with a couple of bursts.

Reginald’s disappointment turned back to delight when he became aware of Jack’s destination. As Jack sprinted across Central Park West, Reginald quickly parked. Leaping from the car, he grabbed the Tec along with the newspaper. Cradling the package in his hands, he, too, dashed across Central Park West, dodging the traffic.

At that point an entrance to the park’s West Drive continued eastward into the park. Nearby was a sweeping stone stairway that rose up around a rocky outcropping. Lampposts partially lit the walkway before it disappeared into the blackness.

Reginald started up the stairs where he’d seen Jack go seconds earlier. Reginald was pleased. He couldn’t believe his luck. In fact, chasing his prey into the dark, deserted park was making the job almost too easy.

From Jack’s point of view at that moment the park’s desolate darkness was more a source of comfort than uneasiness, unlike when he’d crossed the park on his bike Friday night. He felt consolation in the fact that although his vision was hampered, so was everyone else’s. He firmly believed if the Black Kings were to harass him it would be in and around his apartment.

The terrain where Jack’s run began was surprisingly hilly and rocky. The area was called the Great Hill for good reason. He was following an asphalt walkway that twisted, turned, and tunneled beneath the leafless branches of the surrounding trees. The lights from the lampposts illuminated the branches in an eerie fashion, giving the impression the park was covered by a giant spider’s web.

Although he felt winded at first, Jack settled into a comfortable pace and began to relax. With the city out of view, he had a chance to think more clearly. He began to wonder if his crusade was based on his hatred for AmeriCare, as Chet and Bingham had implied. From his present perspective Jack had to agree it was possible. After all, the idea of the intentional spread of the four diseases was implausible if not preposterous. And if he found the people at the General defensive, maybe he’d made them respond that way. As Bingham had reminded him: Jack could be abrasive.

In the middle of his musings Jack became aware of a new sound that coincided with his own footfalls. It was a metallic click, as if his basketball shoes had heel-savers. Perplexed, Jack altered his pace. The sound went out of sync for a moment but then gradually merged back.

Jack hazarded a glance behind him. When he did, he saw a figure running in his direction and closing. At the moment Jack spotted the figure, the man was passing under a lamppost. Jack could see he was not dressed as a jogger. In fact, he was wearing black leather, and in his hand he brandished a gun!

Jack’s heart leaped in his chest. Aided by an adrenaline rush, he put on a burst of speed. Behind him he could hear his pursuer do likewise.

Jack frantically tried to figure the fastest way out of the park. If he was able to get among traffic and other people he might have a chance. All he knew for sure was that the closest way to the city was through the foliage to his right. He had no idea how far. It could have been a hundred feet or a hundred yards.

Sensing his pursuer was staying with him and perhaps even gaining, Jack veered right and plunged into the forest. Within the woods it was considerably darker than on the walkway. Jack could barely see where he was going as he stumbled up a steep grade. He was in a full panic, crashing over underbrush and scrambling through dense evergreens.

The hill leveled off at the summit and Jack burst through to an area with considerably less undergrowth. It was just as dark, but there were only dead leaves to contend with as he ran between the closely spaced tree trunks.

Happening upon a massive oak tree, Jack slipped behind and leaned against its rough surface. He was breathing hard. He tried to control his panting to listen. All he could hear was the sound of distant traffic that reverberated like the muffled roar of a waterfall. Only occasional car horns and undulating sirens punctuated the night.

Jack stayed behind the broad trunk of the oak for several minutes. Hearing no more footfalls, he pushed off the tree and continued heading west. Now he moved slowly and as silently as possible, nudging his feet forward in the leaves to keep the noise down. His heart was racing.

Jack’s foot hit up against something soft, and to his horror it seemed to explode in front of him. For a second Jack had no idea what was happening. With great commotion a phantom figure swathed in rags lurched out of the ground as if resurrecting itself from the dead. The creature whirled about like a dervish, flailing at the air and shouting “Bastards” over and over again.

Instantly another figure loomed up as well, equally frantic. “You’re not gonna get our shopping cart,” the second man yelled. “We’ll kill you first.”

Jack had only managed to take a single step backward when the first figure threw himself at him, smothering him with a wretched stench and ineffectual blows. Jack tried to push him away, but the man reached up and drew his fingernails down Jack’s face.

Jack marshaled his strength to rid himself of this fetid vagrant who clung to his chest. Before Jack could shake him loose, a burst of gunfire shattered the night. Jack felt himself sprayed with fluid as the tramp stiffened, then collapsed forward. Jack had to push him aside to keep from being knocked over backward.

The other vagrant’s keening brought forth a second burst of gunfire. His wails of grief were cut off suddenly with a gurgle.

Having seen the direction from which the second burst of gunfire had come, Jack turned and fled in the opposite direction. Once again he was in headlong flight despite the darkness and the obstacles. Suddenly the ground dropped off, and Jack stumbled down a steep hillside, barely keeping his feet under him until he plunged into a dense undergrowth of vines and thornbushes.

Jack clawed his way through the thick bushes until he burst out onto a walkway with such suddenness, he fell to his hands and knees. Ahead he could see a flight of dimly lit, granite stairs. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed toward the stairs and took them two at a time. As he neared the top a single shot rang out. A bullet ricocheted off the stone to Jack’s right and whined off into the night.

Trying to duck and weave, Jack reached the top of the stairs and emerged onto a terrace. A fountain that had been turned off for the winter stood empty in its center. Three sides of the terrace were enclosed by an arcade. In the center of the rear arcade was another stone stairway leading to another level.

Jack heard the rapid metallic clicks of his pursuer’s shoes start up the stone stairway behind him. He would be there in an instant. Jack knew he had no time to make it to the second stairway, so he ran into the interior of the arcade. Within the arched space the darkness was complete. Jack advanced blindly by holding his hands out in front of him.

The pounding footfalls on the first stairway abruptly stopped. Jack knew his pursuer had reached the terrace. Jack continued forward, moving faster, heading for the second run of stairs. To his horror he collided in the blackness with a metal trash can. The noise was loud and unmistakable as the can tipped over and rolled to a stop. Almost immediately a burst of gunfire sounded. The bullets entered the arcade and ricocheted wildly off the granite walls. Jack lay flat, clasping his arms over his head until the final shell whined off into the night.

Standing up again, Jack continued forward, more slowly this time. When he reached the corner he encountered more obstacles: bottles and beer cans were strewn on the floor with no way for Jack to avoid them.

Jack winced every time one of his feet struck an object and the resulting noise echoed in the arcade. But there was no stopping. Ahead a faint glow indicated where the second stairway rose up to the next level. As soon as Jack reached it, he started climbing, moving more quickly now that there was light enough to see where to put his feet.

Jack was almost to the top when a sharp, authoritative command rang out in the stillness.

“Hey, man, hold up or you’re gone!”

Jack could tell from the sound of the man’s voice that he was at the foot of the stairs. At that range Jack had no choice. He stopped.

“Turn around!”

Jack did as he was told. He could see that his pursuer had a huge pistol leveled at him.

“Remember me? I’m Reginald.”

“I remember you,” Jack said.

“Come down here!” Reginald ordered in between breaths. “I’m not climbing another stair for you. No way.”

Jack descended slowly. When he got to the third stair he stopped. The only light was a suffused glow from the surrounding city reflected off the cloud cover. Jack could barely make out the man’s features. His eyes appeared to be bottomless holes.

“Man, you got balls,” Reginald said. Slowly he let his hand holding the Tec pistol fall until it was dangling at his side. “And you’re in shape. I gotta hand you that.”

“What do you want from me?” Jack asked. “Whatever it is you can have it.”

“Hey, I’m not expecting anything,” Reginald said. “ ’Cause I can tell you ain’t got much. Certainly not in those threads, and I’ve already been to that shithole apartment of yours. To be honest, I’m just supposed to ice you. Word has it you didn’t take Twin’s recommendation.”

“I’ll pay you,” Jack said. “Whatever you’re being paid to do this, I’ll pay you more.”

“Sounds interesting,” Reginald said. “But I can’t deal. Otherwise I’d have to answer to Twin, and you couldn’t pay me enough to take on that kind of shit. No way.”

“Then tell me who’s paying you,” Jack said. “Just so I know.”

“Hey, to tell you the truth, I don’t even know,” Reginald said. “All I know is that the money’s good. We’re getting five big ones just for me to chase you around the park for fifteen minutes. I’d say that’s not bad.”

“I’ll pay a thousand,” Jack said. He was desperate to keep Reginald talking.

“Sorry,” Reginald said. “Our little rap is over and your number’s up.” As slowly as Reginald had lowered the gun, now he raised it.

Jack couldn’t believe he was going to be shot at point-blank range by someone he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. It was preposterous. Jack knew he had to get Reginald talking, but as glib as Jack was, he couldn’t think of anything more to say. His gift for repartee had deserted him as he watched the gun rise up to the point where he was staring directly down the barrel.

“My bad,” Reginald said. It was a comment that Jack understood from his street basketball. It meant that Reginald was taking responsibility for what he was about to do.

The gun fired, and Jack winced reflexively. Even his eyes closed. But he didn’t feel anything. Then he realized that Reginald was toying with him like a cat with a captured mouse. Jack opened his eyes. As terrorized as he felt, he was determined not to give Reginald any satisfaction. But what he saw shocked him. Reginald had disappeared.

Jack blinked several times, as if he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he looked more closely he could just make out Reginald’s body sprawled on the paving stones. A dark stain like an octopus’s ink was spreading out from his head.

Jack swallowed but didn’t move. He was transfixed. Out of the shadows of the arcade stepped a man. He was wearing a baseball hat backward. In his hand he held a pistol similar to the one Reginald had been carrying. He went first to Reginald’s gun, which had skidded ten feet away, and picked it up. He examined it briefly, then thrust it into the top of his trousers. He stepped over to the dead man and with the tip of his foot turned Reginald’s head over to look at the wound. Satisfied, he bent down and frisked the body until he found a wallet. He pulled it out, pocketed it, then stood up.

“Let’s go, Doc,” the man said.

Jack descended the last three steps. When he got to the bottom he recognized his rescuer. It was Spit!

“What are you doing here?” Jack asked in a forced whisper. His throat had gone bone dry.

“This ain’t no time for rapping, man,” Spit said. He then indulged in the act that had been the source of his sobriquet. “We gotta get the hell out of here. One of those bums back on the hill was only winged, and he’s going to have this place crawling with cops.”

From the moment Spit’s gun had gone off in the arcade, Jack’s mind had been spinning. Jack had no idea how Spit happened to be there at such a crucial time, or why he was now hustling him out of the park.

Jack tried to protest. He knew leaving a murder scene was a felony, and there had been two murders, not one. But Spit was not to be dissuaded. In fact, when Jack finally stopped running and started to explain why they shouldn’t flee, Spit slapped him. It wasn’t a gentle slap; it was a blow with vengeance.

Jack put his hand to his face. His skin was hot where he’d been struck.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Trying to knock some sense into you, man,” Spit said. “We got to get our asses over to Amsterdam. Here, you carry this mother.” Spit thrust Reginald’s machine pistol into Jack’s hands.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Jack asked. As far as he was concerned it was a murder weapon that should be handled with latex gloves and treated as evidence.

“Stick it under your sweater,” Spit said. “Let’s get.”

“Spit, I don’t think I can run away like this,” Jack said. “You go if you must, and take this thing.” Jack extended the gun toward Spit.

Spit exploded. He grabbed Reginald’s gun out of Jack’s hand and immediately pressed the barrel against Jack’s forehead. “You’re pissing me off, man,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? There still could be some of these Black King assholes hanging around here. I tell you what: If you don’t get your ass in gear I’m going to waste you. You understand? I mean I wouldn’t be out here risking my black ass if it hadn’t been for Warren telling me to do it.”

“Warren?” Jack questioned. Everything was getting too complicated. But he believed Spit’s threat, so he didn’t try to question him further. Jack knew Spit to be an impulsive man on the basketball court with a quick temper. Jack had never been willing to argue with him.

“Are you coming or what?” Spit demanded.

“I’m coming,” Jack said. “I’m bowing to your better judgment.”

“Damn straight,” Spit said. He handed the machine pistol back to Jack and gave Jack a shove to move out.

On Amsterdam Spit used a pay phone while Jack waited nervously. All at once the ubiquitous sirens heard in the distance in New York City had a new meaning for Jack. So did the concept of being a felon. For years Jack had been thinking of himself as a victim. Now he was the criminal.

Spit hung up the phone and gave Jack a thumbs-up sign. Jack had no idea what the gesture meant, but he smiled anyway since Spit seemed to be content.

Less than fifteen minutes later a lowered maroon Buick pulled to the curb. The intermittent thud of rap music could be heard through the tinted windows. Spit opened the back door and motioned for Jack to slide in. Jack complied. Events were clearly not in his control.

Spit gave a final look around before climbing into the front seat. The car shot away from the curb.

“What’s happening?” the driver asked. His name was David. He was also a regular on the b-ball court.

“A lot of shit,” Spit said. He rolled his window down and noisily expectorated.

Jack winced each time the bass sounded in one of the many stereo speakers. He slipped the machine pistol out from under his sweater. Having the thing close to his body gave him a distinctly unpleasant feeling. “What do you want me to do with this?” Jack asked Spit. He had to talk loudly to be heard over the sound of the music.

Spit swung around and took the gun. He showed it to David, who whistled in admiration. “That’s the new model,” he commented.

With little talk the threesome drove north to 106th Street and turned right. David braked across from the playground. The basketball game was still in progress.

“Wait here,” Spit said. He got out of the car and headed into the playground.

Jack watched Spit as he walked to the basketball court and stood on the sidelines as the game swept back and forth in front of him. Jack was tempted to ask David what was happening, but his intuition told him to keep still. Eventually Spit got Warren’s attention and Warren stopped the game.

After a brief conversation during which Spit passed Reginald’s wallet to Warren, the two men came back to David’s car. David lowered the window. Warren stuck his head in and looked at Jack. “What the hell have you been doing?” he demanded angrily.

“Nothing,” Jack said. “I’m the victim here. Why be angry with me?”

Warren didn’t answer. Instead, he ran his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth while he thought. Perspiration lined his forehead. All at once he stood up and opened the door for Jack. “Get out,” he said. “We have to talk. Let’s go up to your place.”

Jack slid out of the car. He tried to look Warren in the eye, but Warren avoided his stare. Warren started out across the street, and Jack followed. Spit came behind Jack.

They climbed Jack’s stairs in silence.

“You got anything to drink?” Warren asked once they were inside.

“Gatorade or beer,” Jack said. He had restocked his refrigerator.

“Gatorade,” Warren said. He walked over to Jack’s couch and sat heavily.

Jack offered Spit the same choices. He took beer.

After Jack had provided the drinks he sat in the chair opposite the couch. Spit preferred to lean against the desk.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Warren said.

“You and I both,” Jack said.

“I don’t want to hear any shit,” Warren said. “ ’Cause you haven’t been straight with me.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“Saturday you asked me about the Black Kings,” Warren reminded him. “You said you were just curious. Now tonight one of those mothers tries to knock you off. Now I know something about those losers. They’re into drugs big time. You catch my drift? What I want you to know is if you’re mixed up with dealing, I don’t want you in this neighborhood. It’s as simple as that.”

Jack let out a short laugh of incredulity. “Is that what this is about?” he asked. “You think I’m dealing drugs?”

“Doc, listen to me,” Warren said. “You’re a strange dude. I never understood why you’re living here. But it’s okay as long as you don’t screw up the neighborhood. But if you’re here because of drugs, you gotta rethink your situation.”

Jack cleared his throat. He then admitted to Warren that he’d not been truthful with him when he’d asked about the Black Kings. He told him that the Black Kings had beaten him up, but that it involved something concerning his work that even he didn’t totally understand.

“You sure you’re not dealing?” Warren asked again. He looked at Jack out of the corner of his eye. “ ’Cause if you’re not straight with me now you’re going to be one sorry shit.”

“I’m being entirely truthful,” Jack assured him.

“Well, then you’re a lucky man,” Warren said. “Had David and Spit not recognized that dude who came cruising around the neighborhood in his Camaro, you’d be history right now. Spit says he was fixing to blow you away.”

Jack looked up at Spit. “I’m very grateful,” he said.

“It was nothing, man,” Spit said. “That mother was so fixed on getting you that he never once looked behind him. We’d been on his tail almost the moment he turned on a Hundred and Sixth.”

Jack rubbed his head and sighed. Only now was he truly beginning to calm down. “What a night,” he said. “But it’s not over. We’ve got to go to the police.”

“Hell we do,” Warren said, his anger returning. “Nobody’s going to the police.”

“But there’s someone dead,” Jack said. “Maybe two or three, counting those homeless guys.”

“There’ll be four if you go,” Warren warned. “Listen, Doc, don’t get yourself involved in gang business, and this has become gang business. This Reginald dude knew he wasn’t supposed to be up here. No way. I mean, we can’t have them thinking they can just breeze into our neighborhood and knock somebody off, even if it is only you. Next they’d be icing one of the brothers. Leave it be, Doc. The police don’t give a shit anyway. They’re happy when us brothers are knocking each other off. All you can do is cause you and us trouble, and if you go to the police, you’re no friend of ours, no way.”

“But leaving the scene of a crime is a-” Jack began.

“Yeah, I know,” Warren interrupted. “It’s a felony. Big deal. Who the hell cares? And let me tell you something else. You still got a problem. If the Black Kings want you dead, you’d better be our friend, because we’re the only ones who can keep you alive. The cops can’t, believe me.”

Jack started to say something, but he changed his mind. With his knowledge of gang life in New York City, he knew that Warren was right. If the Kings wanted him dead, which they apparently did-and would all the more now with Reginald’s death-there was no way for the police to prevent it short of secret-service-type twenty-four-hour guard.

Warren looked up at Spit. “Somebody’s going to have to stick tight to Doc for the next few days,” he said.

Spit nodded. “No problem,” he said.

Warren stood up and stretched. “What pisses me off is that I had the best team I’ve had in weeks tonight, and this shit has cut it short.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I’ll let you win next time I play against you.”

Warren laughed. “One thing I can say about you, Doc,” he said. “You can sure rap with the best of them.”

Warren motioned to Spit to leave. “We’ll be seeing you, Doc,” Warren said at the door. “Now don’t do anything foolish. You going to run tomorrow night?”

“Maybe,” Jack said. He didn’t know what he was going to do in the next five minutes, much less the following night.

With a final wave Warren and Spit departed. The door closed behind them.

Jack sat for a few minutes. He felt shell-shocked. Then he got up, went into the bathroom. When he looked into the mirror he cringed. At the time he and Spit had been waiting for David to arrive with the car, a few people had glanced at Jack, but no one had stared. Now Jack wondered why they hadn’t. Jack’s face and sweater were spattered with blood, presumably from the vagrant. There was also a nasty series of parallel scratches from the vagrant’s fingernails down his forehead and over his nose. A cross-hatching of scratches marred his cheeks, from the underbrush, no doubt. He looked like he’d been in a war.

Jack climbed into his tub and took a shower. By then his mind was going a mile a minute. He couldn’t remember ever being in such a state of confusion, except after his family had perished. But that was different. He’d been depressed then. Now he was just confused.

Jack got out of the shower and dried himself off. He was still half debating whether or not to contact the police. In a state of indecision, he went to the phone. That’s when he noticed that his answering machine was blinking. He pushed the play button and listened to Beth Holderness’s disturbing message. Instantly he called her back. He let her phone ring ten times before giving up. What could she have found? he wondered. He also felt responsible for her having been fired. Somehow he was sure he was to blame.

Jack got a beer and took it into the living room. Sitting on the windowsill, he could see a sliver of 106th Street. There was the usual traffic and parade of people. He watched with unseeing eyes as he wrestled with his dilemma regarding calling the police.

Hours passed. Jack realized that by not making a decision he was in essence making one. By not calling the police he was agreeing with Warren. He’d become a felon.

Jack went back to the phone and tried Beth for the tenth time. It was now after midnight. The phone rang interminably. Jack started to worry. He hoped she’d simply fled to a friend’s house for solace after losing her job. Yet not being able to get in touch with her nagged at him along with everything else.