Rick Mofina - The Panic Zone

After today, the world will never be the same.

She positioned her laptop to enter the complex code.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” A man’s voice boomed through the sound system. “May we have your attention please for a very important announcement?”

Sutsoff stopped typing and stared at the nearest large screen.

It filled with pictures of her and the baby, images showing them exiting the Tellwood hotel. There were several photos that changed every four seconds in a slide show. Crisp head-to-toe color shots credited to the World Press Alliance.

Sutsoff was stunned.

“We have a serious medical situation,” the voice boomed, “for Mary Anne Conrad who is traveling with her grandson William John Conrad. We need to locate them immediately. We believe they may be here, so please look around you. If you see her, please point her out to the nearest security or medical official. Please, do it now.”

Waves of mild concern rolled through the park as people looked around them and back at the giant screens displaying Sutsoff’s photos, now being enlarged to show details of the stroller and the baby’s shoes.

Still wearing her large hat and dark glasses, Sutsoff turned to the group of teenaged boys on the lawn beside her.

“I think she’s right over there.” Sutsoff pointed to the east.

“What?” a boy with metal rings in his nose said.

“The lady they’re looking for-see, by the man with the flag?”

“Big deal, whatever.”

Sutsoff paused her work, closed her laptop, gathered the baby and her things then headed west to the nearest exit. She remained calm. All she needed was to find a safe place for five minutes to enter the code. She had to get out of the park now and get as far away as possible.

Gannon and Emma stared at the screen, then each other.

“That’s pretty good,” he said.

In the vicinity of the southwest quadrant, an NYPD detective locked onto the woman pushing a stroller among the crowd. He compared the stroller shown on the big screen to the stroller he saw a short distance away. They were the same blue color, and the same dancing elephant patch and the same wheels. Then he focused on the baby’s shoes.

It was them.

He lifted his radio to his mouth.

Gannon and Emma were not far from the Delacorte Theater when Gannon’s cell phone rang.

“Jack, it’s Mike. We just heard on the scanner that they spotted them near West Drive not far from Seventy-ninth.”

“We’ll head there now. Alert the photographers.”

Gannon and Emma started running.

Lancer and several NYPD officers bolted from the police command point on West Drive, at the Eighty-third Street level. They navigated their way through the park toward Central Park West, while above them a police helicopter rolled into position to offer support. Radios crackled with updates from the breathless detective who was now running.

“She’s on foot on Central Park West, north of the museum. She’s moving fast, I could lose her if she gets in a cab. Goddammit, am I the only one watching her? Wake up, you guys!”

Gannon and Emma worked their way from the park. Mike Kemp called as a chopper thudded above them.

“Give me your location,” Kemp said.

“Uh-” Gannon looked around quickly “-Central Park West, around Eighty-first.”

“Okay, go south, Jack. You’re close! Keep the line open.”

Gannon could hear Kemp crank up the scanner volume.

At that moment, he and Emma saw a CBS news crew running to a parked news van, a reporter with a phone pressed to his ear, just ahead of a camera operator.

Kemp was shouting in Gannon’s phone.

“She’s crossing from the east to the west side of Central Park West!”

As Gannon and Emma crossed to the west side and ran south, they saw flashing emergency lights several blocks away. Two parked NYPD patrol cars had swung into the street, their tires squealing as they headed north toward them.

Closer to them but a few blocks away, Emma glimpsed a woman pushing a stroller across the traffic lanes of Central Park West.

“I see her! I see Tyler!” Emma screamed.

Two blocks ahead, Sutsoff, pushing the stroller, heard the sirens and saw the chopper. Her ears were ringing from the blood rush of her racing heart.

Her medication was wearing off.

All she needed was five minutes.

“NYPD, freeze!”

A man behind her was running, gaining on her. She saw the badge on a chain around his neck. Police cars were roaring toward her. She glimpsed a hotel entrance a block ahead. If she could make it, then get up the elevator in time to hide for five minutes.

She just needed five minutes.

“NYPD. Freeze or I’ll shoot!”

Gannon and Emma, racing south, were a block away when they saw Sutsoff, who was approaching them, throw a look over her shoulder at the man chasing her.

From her position, Emma saw the stroller, saw the little face of the baby strapped in it and saw the shouting cop behind Sutsoff draw his gun.

“No! Don’t shoot!” Emma screamed.

Emma thrust her palms out just as Sutsoff pushed the stroller into the street against the red light and the chrome grill of a ten-ton Brooklyn Gravel Service dump truck catapulted Sutsoff thirty feet, onto the windshield of a Mercedes, before she bounced into the middle of Central Park West.

Her bag with her laptop tumbled down the street.

The impact had clipped the stroller, sending it toddling into Central Park West traffic and into the path of the two pursuing NYPD patrol cars, their sirens wailing and lights flashing.

Jack moved toward the stroller, but Emma, her arms, hands, reaching, was quicker, seeing the fear in the baby’s eyes as wig-wag lights and bumpers roared toward him.

“Noooo!”

Emma’s fingers clamped the stroller handle and pulled it to her just as the officers braked, skidding to within inches of the baby’s foot.

The child was unharmed.

“Tyler!”

Emma thrust her face to his, gasping as his eyes brightened with recognition. She lifted him from the stroller, sat on the street and sobbed.

“Mommy’s got you! I’ll never let you go, never!”

Adhering to training and using their doors as shields, the officers put their hands on their weapons.

“Don’t move, lady! Don’t harm the baby. My partner’s going to approach you slowly. You give her the baby.”

“No!”

“Lady, you have to give us the baby!”

Gannon tried to help. “She’s the mother.”

“Back off, sir!” one cop said, taking in the gathering crowd. “Back off, everybody!”

Other officers took charge of the scene and one shouted into his shoulder microphone for an ambulance as the smell of burning rubber, the wail of more sirens and the hovering helicopter filled the air.

When Lancer and the other NYPD officers arrived, Gannon pleaded to him.

“Lancer, tell them it’s her baby!”

Lancer held up his ID and slowly defused the situation.

Police gathered around Sutsoff, while others rerouted traffic and sealed the scene, clearing the way for the ambulance as spectators and other reporters arrived.

Lancer picked up Sutsoff’s bag, pulled out her laptop and took it to a patrol car. Gannon nodded to a WPA photographer to get pictures.

“I didn’t see them,” the truck driver said. “I swear. I had the green!”

His rig was deep into the intersection. Sutsoff was a few feet away.

Her neck was broken, rib shards had speared her heart and she didn’t hear the paramedics working to save her. They slid an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her head lolled and she met the eyes of Emma Lane, rocking her baby.

Emma stared at her.

As Gretchen Rosamunde Sutsoff lay in a growing pool of blood staring at the sky, a warm wave rolled over her.