Randy White: Dead Silence

I pivoted toward the Explorers Club. I’d been dragged about fifty yards. A couple of men were jogging toward me, calling, “You okay?” My Brit friend, Hooker, wasn’t one of them.

Near the entrance was a cluster of people, none obviously female, none the obvious center of attention. U.S. senators are usually the center of attention, whether they welcome it or not. She was gone.

Goddamn it!

On the opposite side of the street, I saw a man walking fast toward Madison Avenue, head down. People who don’t want to be noticed also attract attention. He wasn’t wearing coveralls, but he could’ve trashed them.

I stepped into the street, interested in his reaction. The man glanced, then walked faster.

When he snuck another look, I followed. It was the Spanish-looking guy, Choirboy.

He ran.

I dropped the ax and ran, sirens close now.

I was losing ground until Choirboy fell when he tried to vault a stone wall that bordered Central Park. I was on the other side of Fifth Avenue, lanes of fast traffic separating us.

I got another break when a car actually pulled over for law enforcement vehicles threading their way from uptown, blue strobes pinging off a dome of falling snow. It stopped one lane of traffic and slowed others. I used the hole to juke my way across, ignoring the horns. I almost made it clean.

Almost.

A car locked its brakes and got rear-ended. As drivers swerved, I jumped behind a power pole and watched the chain reaction, cars skidding, spinning and colliding. The soft-metal percussion of fenders traced a firecracker progression.

When it was safe, I stepped back into the street as drivers got out to inspect the damage. Choirboy had disappeared into the park. The smart thing to do, I decided, was flag down a cop. I was cold and needed help. They needed information.

It wasn’t easy. Squad cars were snaking through the mess, sirens howling, fixated on getting to the Explorers Club. No time for fender benders. No time for the big tan tourist, alternately waving his arms, then blowing on his hands for warmth.

Then I heard someone yell, “That’s the guy! The stupid sonuvabitch that caused it!” A guy was pointing in my direction. People stared.

It took a moment. Me, the stupid sonuvabitch.

“Dumbass- you. You’re not going anywhere!”

Yes, I was.

I went over the wall, into the park, where the tree canopy was dark above, silver beneath.

The snow was candescent.

In the distance, horses pulled carriages over asphalt trails, and I could see a small building. Some kind of concession. People had gathered there, music playing.

I could also see Choirboy’s snow trail. I jogged and skidded, following his tracks downhill. Soon I got a glimpse of him through the trees. He had resumed the role of innocent stroller. He was walking. It looked like he’d been headed for the music but changed his mind. Not enough people there for him to disappear. So now he was angling north, where it was darker, but also where a white, unlighted space showed, a pond.

He hadn’t spotted me, so I circled uphill, keeping trees between us. I jogged, watching his shadow appear, then disappear. The footing was iffy and my feet were freezing. Also, my right knee was throbbing where my khakis were torn, blood-splattered from road rash.

Adrenaline was losing its kick. I couldn’t outrun him now. I needed to surprise him.

I found a fountain near the pond. The pumps were off. Stone encircled a potage of ice and maple leaves. A footpath curved along the pond where lamps created pools of light that followed the path uphill to the carriage road.

I knelt behind the fountain.

After a couple of minutes, I began to worry the guy had changed directions again. But then he appeared, hands in his pockets, still checking over his shoulder every few seconds. As he neared the fountain, I could see that he wore slacks and a windbreaker.

I crouched-an atavistic reflex incongruous with the Manhattan skyline. I wished now I hadn’t left the ax behind.

The best place to jump him was at the edge of the pond. The surface was frozen but not solid. In the middle, a pump maintained a melted-water space, where ducks and geese squabbled. With the pond at his back, Choirboy had fewer options.

As he neared, I crept toward him along the wall of the fountain. Because of the damn geese, I didn’t hear a policeman on horseback approaching until he was close enough to zap me with his spotlight.

“You lost, mister? Or running from something?”

Two men were with him, civilians, both on foot-probably because their cars were being towed.

The cop told me, “Turn and face this way. Show me your hands.”

Caught in the same beam of light, Choirboy reacted before I did. I saw him straighten, hesitate, then raise his hands.

I got my hands up, too, fingers wide, but didn’t take my eyes off Choirboy, as one of the civilians said, “That’s the asshole. Me with a brand-new Chrysler, this jerk runs into the street like he’s drunk.”

Choirboy looked at me, then at the cop, his brain putting it together, as I said, “My name’s Ford. I’m a friend of Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento-the FBI will confirm that.”

The cop leaned toward me, interested, as the man pissed off about his Chrysler said, “FBI-hear that? He’s not drunk, he’s crazy.”

I continued speaking directly to the cop. “The senator was abducted about ten minutes ago. They used two taxis. Four to eight men, maybe one of them posing as her limo driver. The guy in the windbreaker-this guy-was involved. I was chasing him.”

When I used an index finger to point, the cop snapped, “Keep them where I can see them,” shifting the spotlight to his left hand so he could unsnap his holster. His tone was different now. He was dealing with a crime that carried the death penalty. Less volume, more edge.

“You heard the call go out about a kidnapping?”

I said, “No. As I just explained, I was-”

“You work in law enforcement? That was a clean report you gave.”

I shook my head to mask exasperation. “I’m a marine biologist. I’m here on vacation from Florida.”

“Just a tourist doing his civic duty, huh? How do you know four people were involved?”

“Four, but as many as eight, I’m guessing. The point is-”

“Two taxis and a limo-another lucky guess? You know a lot of details.”

The cop had drawn his weapon, holding it against his riding boot, barrel down, so it wasn’t obvious. A revolver, not a Glock 9, which told me the guy had been with NYPD a lot of years. The civilians could see the gun. They were backing away

“You’re a close personal friend of this U.S. senator, is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m a friend.”

“Friends with the FBI, too?”

“I said they can confirm my story. If agents aren’t already interviewing people, they will be.”

Staring at me, the cop said, “Cops and criminals-no one understands the system better. And you’re not a cop.”

I waited.

“Why’d you cause that pileup, running across Fifth Avenue?”

Before I could answer, Choirboy attempted a finesse. “This man was not chasing me. I was walking. I hear order to stop, I stop. I have read about the police of New York. They say you are the finest.”

Spanish-speaking, but from South America, not Spain.

Looking at me, the cop said to Choirboy, “I suppose you’re on vacation, too?”

He answered, “No. I am here for the United Nations. The Embassy of Venezuela.”

It was tough not to react. Even if the man was lying, it was a clever lie. Diplomats can be detained but not arrested.

“As a diplomat, I must protect myself for my safety, so I notice things. I think he is a robber, this man. Or a crazy person. I ask myself, why is he not wearing a coat?”