Night Shift

Chapter 30

Wednesday, December 8, 5:04 p.m.

Suddenly Ronnie sat bolt upright. He’d been impatiently waiting for Jack Stapleton to appear, sitting in his idling Cherokee double-parked on the right side of First Avenue just south of 30th Street, nearly the same location where he’d been that morning while watching for him. The traffic was heavier at 5:00 p.m. than it had been at 7:00 a.m., and on several occasions cars and taxis had pulled up behind Ronnie when the traffic light had been red, expecting him to drive forward when it turned green. When he didn’t, there had been lots of horn blowing and then choice epithets when the cars had finally pulled out and driven around.

Also different than ten hours earlier was that it was now dark and Ronnie was in a completely different mental state. Early that morning he’d been a calm observer, whereas now he was mentally hyped up in anticipation of ridding himself of the danger that Stapleton represented to his ongoing crusade. He felt a definite and pleasurable excitement, not too dissimilar to how he felt just prior to administering the coup de grâce to one of his suffering patients. As he’d sat there, waiting, he’d given a passing thought to immediately running over Jack right there at the intersection, as Jack would most likely have to wait for the light to cross over to the First Avenue bike lane that ran north on the west side and present himself like a sitting duck. But ultimately Ronnie decided that plan was far too risky since it involved colliding with Jack and running him over directly in front of too many witnesses. On top of that was the concern that Ronnie would undoubtedly be forced to stop at the next intersection due to the rush hour traffic congestion, which might cause unknown consequences.

“Finally!” Ronnie voiced as he watched Jack pedal up 30th Street and come to a halt at the intersection to wait for the traffic light to change, exactly as Ronnie had envisioned. In anticipation of action, Ronnie pressed on the Cherokee’s accelerator a few times with the transmission in neutral just to be rewarded with the purr of the engine, proclaiming it was ready to do battle. Ronnie had flipped the lever earlier so that the mufflers were fully engaged, and the engine was significantly quieter so as not to cause undue attention.

From that point on, Ronnie did not have a specific plan of attack because he wasn’t sure if Jack would come out of the relative safety of the bike path, which was busy, as was the avenue. Contrary to the avenue, the traffic on the bike path wasn’t as directionally consistent, with occasional electric delivery bikes going in the reverse direction. If Jack did venture out into the vehicle traffic, Ronnie thought it might offer a good opportunity to run him over, or, if that failed, to give Ronnie the opportunity to pull alongside and shoot him at close range through the open window. Since that was a distinct possibility, Ronnie had his beloved pistol conveniently ready on the passenger seat with a round in the chamber.

As Jack pedaled across the avenue only ten or fifteen feet directly in front of Ronnie, he was able to even see Jack’s expression thanks to a nearby streetlight. From Ronnie’s vantage point, it seemed as if Jack was smiling.

“Smile now, you fool,” Ronnie said. He truly couldn’t believe someone would be insane enough to commute to work on a bike considering all the crazy taxis and rideshare drivers, and especially only wearing a corduroy jacket. Although the temperature had been unseasonably moderate over the previous week, it was December, which meant winter in New York City. In Ronnie’s mind it was crazy, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Jack weren’t a dedicated bicyclist, Ronnie would have been at a loss for how to get rid of him short of merely shooting him as he came out of work or his house.

When the traffic light finally turned green for Ronnie, he gunned his Cherokee and jumped out ahead of the traffic. His idea was to cross over the five lanes so that he’d be driving alongside the parked cars that separated the bike lane from avenue traffic. Unfortunately, Ronnie had to slow down almost immediately because cars and buses were taking their time leaving the traffic light at 33rd Street. By then, he could see that Jack was already beyond 33rd Street, moving much faster than the vehicular traffic.

Ronnie’s heart skipped a beat. This was a situation he’d not anticipated, and he couldn’t let Jack get too far ahead. The idea of Jack arriving at the MMH before him would be anathema. As a result, Ronnie switched into his super-aggressive driving mode and the Cherokee responded in kind, allowing him to weave in and out of the traffic. In desperation, he even resorted to using the dedicated bus lane for short spurts, risking being pulled over by traffic police. Ronnie thanked his lucky stars that he wasn’t. He was also thankful that Jack wore a lime green helmet and had a flashing red LED rear bike light, making him stand out even from a block away. Within ten blocks, Ronnie had managed to close the gap and out of the corner of his eye he could see that he was currently traveling abreast of him, but it was a struggle to maintain with the amount of traffic Ronnie had to contend with.

The next thing he knew, a new problem had emerged. The lane of traffic he was in was vectored into a tunnel that he’d forgotten about near the United Nations building, whereas Jack’s bike lane stayed up in the open air. For several blocks while he was underground, Ronnie lost sight of him. When he emerged, he didn’t see him. Assuming that Jack had to wait for several traffic lights that were avoided by the tunnel, Ronnie moved over to the left-hand side of the avenue and slowed down, again evoking lots of horn honking and angry gestures from irate drivers. Finally, Jack appeared in Ronnie’s rearview mirror, along with a clot of other bicyclists that Jack quickly outdistanced. Since the location was now Midtown, more electric delivery bikes were going in both directions and the congestion had become more obvious.

By 54th Street, Jack apparently gave up on the bike lane, and Ronnie saw him suddenly dart out into the traffic. Ronnie allowed himself a smile as it was the change he’d hoped would happen. Now with him out in the road, things were looking rosier. Ronnie even lowered his driver’s-side window and moved his SIG Sauer into his lap. He also switched off the pistol’s safety.

At the light at 57th Street, Ronnie was a mere two cars behind Jack, who had moved up during the red light to the edge of the intersection. Sensing an opportunity, Ronnie’s pulse began to race as he waited for the light to change. His plan was to pull into the dedicated bus lane and then come alongside him, shoot him, then dart forward and make the first left-hand turn to disappear into Midtown traffic.

Unfortunately, the light seemed to take forever to turn green, and just before it did, a city bus came east on 57th Street and turned north into the bus lane. When the light turned green for Ronnie and all those people waiting with him, including Jack, the bus lane was no longer available. Accordingly, Ronnie had to stay in line while ahead Jack had upped his speed to stay a little ahead of the traffic, aided by the avenue dipping downhill to go under the approaches to the Queensboro Bridge.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Ronnie cried as he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. His simple plan had been thwarted by the damn bus because just beyond the Queensboro Bridge, the right-hand lane of First Avenue was backed up by a line of cars waiting to turn east toward the FDR Drive. Slowed to a near crawl and feeling momentarily helpless, he watched as Jack gained on him by slaloming through the mostly stalled traffic.

As soon as he could, Ronnie broke free of most of the congestion beyond 64th Street. By then he couldn’t even see Jack for certain, at least not until he’d raced ahead a number of blocks by weaving in and out of traffic and even running a few lights. Finally, near 70th Street, he came abreast of Jack, who had returned to the bike lane running along the left-hand side. Since the area was a bit less commercial and more residential, there were far fewer double-parked delivery trucks, which made travel easier both on the street and in the bike lane.

Slowing to match Jack’s pace, Ronnie hazarded a glance down at the speedometer and was impressed Jack was maintaining close to twenty-five miles per hour. As the two of them hurled northward by catching the synchronized traffic lights, Ronnie came to understand that the only way he was going to accomplish what he needed to do was to move over in the left lane and time it correctly that he and Jack would start across an intersection of a westbound cross street at the same moment. At that point Ronnie would suddenly swerve into the cross street and either impact Jack directly or, if he were slightly ahead, allow Jack to impact him. Either way, at that speed, Jack surely would be gravely and almost assuredly mortally injured, which was the goal of the whole operation.

Ronnie tensed as the two of them rapidly bore down on 83rd Street. In an attempt to gauge the upcoming collision as carefully as possible, he increased the Cherokee’s speed slightly, moving a bit ahead of Jack. He reasoned the Cherokee would have to travel a smidgen farther than Jack’s bike as it made the turn if they were to collide as planned.

At the exact moment of entering the intersection, Ronnie yanked the car’s steering wheel hard to the left and braced himself against the corresponding g-force that threatened to throw him into the passenger seat. There was an accompanying high-pitched screech of the tires bitterly complaining about the same g-force while the entire car tipped precariously and threatened to roll. Ronnie yanked the steering wheel in the opposite direction as the image of Jack and his bike loomed ahead with everything happening in a fraction of a second and a blink of the eye.

The Cherokee jolted as Ronnie fought with the steering wheel to straighten the vehicle toward the opening between the cars parked on either side of 83rd Street. After an initial shuddering thump, Jack’s body went airborne before it collided with a thud against the windshield — causing Ronnie to duck by reflex — and left a swath of blood as it caromed off the right side. Almost simultaneously, Ronnie felt a second shudder and heard a crunching sound as the Cherokee crushed the bike, undoubtedly reducing it to a mass of twisted and broken carbon steel.

Hitting the brakes, Ronnie slowed the car greatly to regain control and allow a more careful and calm drive west along 83rd Street. He was surprised that he found himself trembling as he switched on the windshield fluid and wipers to wash the blood away. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, he could see both Jack’s body sprawled out in the street along with the twisted remains of his bike. With a distinct sense of relief, he didn’t see any people who might have witnessed the supposed accident.

Coming up to Second Avenue, Ronnie began to slow, but he wasn’t going to come to a full stop. If the traffic light was still red when he got there, he planned to inch out into traffic and turn left as soon as he could. His interest was to get out of the area, although now with the bloodstain mostly washed away and no apparent witnesses it wasn’t critical. But luckily the light turned green before he got to the intersection, and he was able to continue straight ahead. When he got to Third Avenue and another green light, he turned right, and only then did he allow himself to begin to calm down. It had all happened so fast that he hadn’t realized how very tense he’d become.

Taking the next left-hand turn onto a relatively quiet residential block, Ronnie drove about halfway down to the next avenue, where he pulled over to the curb at a fire hydrant under a convenient streetlight. Leaving the car idling, he sprang out with glass cleaner and paper towels. His first order of business was to check the front of the car for damage, and except for a few minor scratches, which would be easy to rectify with the touchup paint he had back in his garage, it looked pristine. Feeling relieved, he then saw to the windshield. It took only a few moments to make sure it, too, was completely clean and bloodless. He then quickly went around, sprayed, and wiped off the water-based paint he’d used to cover the flames extending back from the wheel wells.

With his beloved Cherokee essentially back to normal, Ronnie took a moment to listen to the sounds of the city. He half expected to hear the undulations of an ambulance siren, but he didn’t. Vaguely, he wondered if Stapleton’s body had been discovered.

With a progressive sense of calmness after the excitement, Ronnie opened the back of the Cherokee. With a screwdriver he’d put in the storage area, he made short work of replacing the license plates. When he was done, he put the soiled paper towels and the outdated plates in a trash can. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, he felt elated. It was as if a new day had dawned and a heavy weight had been removed from his shoulders. His pit stop had taken a mere five minutes but had confirmed for him that his car was none the worse for wear. More important, he felt as if he’d tipped over the last domino, effectively eliminating the growing existential threat that Sue Passero, Cherine Gardener, and Jack Stapleton represented. As he pulled out into the street on his way to the MMH, he reached out with his right hand and patted the Cherokee’s dash. “Thank you, my buddy,” he said. “You and I make one hell of a team.”