Jason Pinter - The Mark

“Parker’s at a pay phone two goddamn blocks east from here. NYPD’s on the way.” Mauser thought he saw a disappointed look on Denton’s face as he threw the door open and raced into the stairwell.

Denton said, “Joe, we gotta find this kid before anyone else does.”

Mauser looked over his shoulder and smiled as he felt the reassuring weight of his Glock against his ribs. “Tell the NYPD to throw a fucking vise on this entire city. If anyone lays a goddamn finger on Parker before I fucking find him, I’ll be bringing two bodies to the morgue today.”

I shouted into the phone, “Mya? Mya? What happened?” Run, she’d said.

Not a simple Please go, Henry. She was pleading with me, warning me.

I stepped away from the phone booth like it had contracted the plague. My cheeks felt hot. I looked left and right, saw nothing out of the ordinary, only the familiar sounds of traffic horns and pedestrian conversation.

Run.

It didn’t make sense. What had made Mya so afraid? A rumbling in my gut said I needed to get out of there. I’d come uptown with the hope of seeing Mya, but I also had a backup plan in case she couldn’t help. Now I’d have to scrap them both. I wasn’t safe. Unease swept over me like a frigid wave.

Then I heard a sound that froze my blood. Footsteps. Not just the pitter-patter of feet stepping in tune to their bodies’ rhythm, but the hard pounding of sprinting strides. I listened closer. There was more than one set of feet.

I spun around, and to my horror saw two men running toward me, less than a block away, their eyes deadlocked on mine. One of them held a gun. Light glinted off another object that I instinctively knew was a badge.

Run.

“Henry Parker!” the taller, thinner one yelled. “Don’t you move a fucking muscle!”

My feet moved before I could think, and suddenly I was sprinting east down 116th Street, cutting between two lanes of traffic. The honking of horns filled my ears, drivers cursing at me in foreign languages. A car’s bumper sideswiped my leg, knocking me off balance. I pulled myself together, saw a turbaned man in a taxi giving me the finger.

I darted to the other side of the street, rounded a corner, then wound my way through stunned pedestrians. Heads turned in unison as I sprinted past. My lungs felt ready to explode, the wind ripping at my face. I had no concept of how close the cops were, the pounding in my ears as loud as thunder.

Suddenly an arm shot out and grabbed me, tearing a large hole in the fabric below my armpit. I managed to spin away as a muscular man in a sweatshirt yelled, “That’s Henry Parker! Stop, you fucking cop killer!”

My only salvation was the subway. No chance I could make it anywhere on foot. I had to get out of New York. People had begun to recognize me. Even if I could outrun the two cops, I couldn’t outrun an entire city.

I dodged a line of garbage cans on the corner of 115th and Madison. Bracing myself, I shoved the cans one by one, sending them rolling down the street, littering the sidewalk with foul-smelling debris, creating a makeshift rolling barricade.

“Parker! Stop where you are!” a voice shouted. It was close; too close. I weaved in and out of traffic, my body a strange mixture of burning heat from the sweat and cold from the wind and fear. Every nerve in my body was on fire.

I beat the next traffic light, running as fast as I could, legs churning, my bruised ribs throbbing.

“Parker!”

“Henry!”

I made out two distinct voices. Both angry, vigilant. They weren’t going to stop.

Between Lexington and Park, I finally reached the entrance to the downtown 6 train, my sides aching, ready to collapse.

Then a terrifying crash ruptured the air, like lightning on a clear day, and pedestrians around me ducked for cover. I felt something pinch my leg, like a bee sting.

Jesus… what was that?

I leapt down the stairs three at a time, knocking over a Hispanic woman who called me horrible names. No time for apologies.

I slowed down as I entered the station, reached for my wallet. Jumping the turnstile would draw unwanted attention. The station manager would see me, call the transit cops. Finally my slippery fingers ripped the MetroCard out and ran it through the scanner.

“Please swipe card again.”

Oh, God. Not now.

I swiped it again, and a beep confirmed the fare was paid.

Breathing hard, I walked quickly to the end of the platform, trying to stay inconspicuous to strangers buried in newspapers and paperback books.

I went to the far end of the platform and ducked behind a column, my lungs heaving. I leaned over the yellow line and peered into the dark tunnel. Two bright lights were visible, and they were drawing closer. The train couldn’t get here fast enough. I looked at my thigh, saw the hole in my jeans, my blood reddening the blue cloth. There was no pain, as though my nervous system had shut down. Oh, God…

Please let it get here before they do. Just give me more time.

Glancing at the turnstiles, my heart sank as I saw the two cops run onto the platform, their eyes darting back and forth. I plastered my body against a grimy pillar, trying to slow down my breathing. I couldn’t hear any footsteps; the train was too close, the screeching of metal drowning out all other noise.

The first car of the giant metal snake rushed past, the air around me shattered in an instant, damp hair plastered against my forehead.

Come on!

Then the train began to slow down. Brakes grinding against the tracks, the wind subsiding.

When the train came to a halt and the doors slid open, I waited for the passengers to exit then slid inside the last car. I took a seat next to a young woman in a navy pinstripe suit wearing headphones, her head bobbing to a silent rhythm. A man across the aisle was reading a folded newspaper. Neither of them looked at me. I took slow breaths, my heart rate mercifully dropping.

I exhaled as the doors began to close. I knew exactly where to go next. It would only be a short few minutes before I got there.

Then right before the doors sealed shut, they sputtered open. Someone was trying to enter the train at the last second. Nobody in my car was holding the doors, so I stood up and peered through the windowpane into the adjacent car.

No.

Two pairs of arms were prying the door open like spiders caught in a Venus flytrap. I recognized the glint of a badge, then saw the faces through the window. The cops were coming inside.

Trying to act casual, I stood up and inched toward the opposite end of the car.

The conductor’s scratchy voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Let’s go, people! There’s another train right behind us!”

I had no time to think. When the doors opened again, right as the cops entered the train, I bolted back out onto the platform. I sprinted toward the subway entrance, noticed a gun barrel jammed between another set of doors. The cops had seen me leave and were trying to pry their way back out into the station. The conductor’s irritated voice echoed once more as the subway doors again flung open, the cops spilling back out onto the platform. Less than twenty feet away from me.

Run.

I followed the exodus of people who’d gotten off the train at 116th, ducking between two men, then sidestepping a woman lifting a baby carriage. I ran up a flight of steps to the upper platform. The musty smell of spilled coffee and extinguished cigarettes coated my nostrils with every sharp breath. The entrance to the street loomed just past the turnstiles, but I wouldn’t make it outside. The cops had surely called for help. Any minute now they’d be circling the station like sharks aching for blood. In this situation, evasion was better than confrontation.