Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"I'm at the car," I told my radio.

"Confirmed, " Corry said, and immediately Moore and Bridgett echoed him.

The vehicle looked entirely in its element, complete with rust speckling its rear bumper and a dent in the front driver's-side panel. Looking through the window as I approached I saw discarded bags of fast food, empty cans of beer crushed on the floor mats. The license plate matched, and the registration sticker was current. On the dashboard there was even a precinct parking permit, a laminated eight-by-ten sheet of paper, lime green, with the NYPD crest on it and the words "Restricted Parking Plate" and beneath it, "Midtown South Precinct." The permit would expire at the end of the year.

I unlocked the car, thinking that if she wanted to blow me up, this was a hell of a place to pick to do it. But the car accepted the code without anything more dramatic than the sound of the lock releasing, and the door opened just fine. Before climbing in I gave the street another look, both sides, back and forth, and there was nothing that caught my eye, and apparently I wasn't worth looking at either. In front of the precinct, six or seven uniformed officers were drinking from paper cups and talking, and not one of them gave me any attention.

Beneath the driver's seat was a folded Triple-A map of Manhattan, with a paper clip holding it shut. I opened the map, and a transit card fell out, along with a slip of paper.

One fare on the card.

Subway stop at the corner of 7th Ave.

Number 9 South to the Ferry Terminal – be in the second car.

It is now oh-six-thirty-eight hours.

You have 18 minutes.

Oh…

Open the glove compartment.

Like the last one, the note was typed.

I stared at it, then at the glove compartment, and the butterflies in my stomach went a little crazy for a second.

In the glove compartment was a cheap Motorola walkie-talkie, yellow, the kind marketed to suburban homeowners as a neat way to keep track of one another should someone get lost while working in the yard or walking their poodle. On a pink Post-it note stuck to its face was the command, TURN ME ON written in block capitals in black ink. There was a black knob at the top, by the antenna, and I twisted it, hearing the click, and then a short squelch of static. Then silence.

I kept it in my right hand as I got out of the car, making for Seventh Avenue. "She's sending me to the Ferry Terminal," I told my radio. "Subway."

"You go down there, we'll lose you, " Corry said. "Radios will be useless, so will the cell phone. I won't even be able to track you."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know."

"We'll split it up. Dale, Moore, and I will go the long route. Bridgett, can you make theferry?"

Dale broke in over Corry. "Wait a minute. Did she tell you to get on the ferry?"

"No."

"So she could be trying to split us up, send us out to Staten Island ahead of you, then make you double back. "

"It's possible." I was at the head of the stairs down to the station, and from below I could hear the grinding of wheels on metal growing, the sound of a train coming. "Guys, I've got to move. You're going to have to work this out yourselves. I'll radio as soon as I can."

"You damn well better, " Bridgett said.

Moore was on the line as I started down the stairs, asking Dale the best route to the terminal, and then I heard static. The radios we used for business, the one on my belt running leads to my palm and ear, were UHF, broadcasting on a repeater system that could be received throughout the boroughs. Powerful though they were, they couldn't penetrate the Manhattan streets. The Motorola in my hand was another story. It used VHF, and although it wasn't very powerful, it worked on a point-to-point system, basically direct line of sight. Which meant that if Drama was planning on talking to me, she'd have to have a relatively unobstructed view of my position.

The transit card had enough on it for my fare, and I made it through the turnstiles and to the doors of the car just as they were closing. The train started moving before I was able to get a handhold on anything, and I nearly slammed into a classic punk, decked out in black leather with a spiked dog collar and a torn Sex Pistols T-shirt, all topped off with a purple Mohawk. He brought his shoulders up in defense and turned a glare on me, but it changed to curiosity when he saw my face.

"Do I know you?"

"All men are brothers," I said, and wedged myself into the corner at the end of the car. There were no open seats, and at the next stop more passengers came aboard, dressed for work downtown. I tried to catch as many faces as I could, but it was pointless. If Drama was in the car, I couldn't see her.

I put the radio to my ear and heard static, the weak signal. A couple people gave me looks, wondering what the hell I was doing. Most couldn't have cared less.

Then her voice, far away, saying my name, over and over again, almost singing, like she was on a playground somewhere, eight years old and taunting me from the swing set.

"…Atticus Atticus Atticus are you listening we've only got a few seconds you're taking the ferry John F. Kennedy it leaves at oh-seven-hundred go to the second foredeck by the ladder don't be late don't be late Atticus Atticus…"

Then more static, and then silence.

I switched the Motorola off. The broadcast had been weak, too weak to be from the train. I'd caught the train she'd specified, so the only thing I could think was that she had been standing on a platform, maybe at Fourteenth Street, broadcasting as I went past. Which meant she wouldn't be on the ferry, which meant she could be anywhere by the time I reached Staten Island. There was no way Moore or Dale or Corry or Bridgett was going to find her in time.

It hit me that I already felt tired, and I'd been at this for less than an hour.

It hit me that I had been doing a very good job of hiding my fear up until this point, and that I didn't want to lose that now.

There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Drama was trying to strip me of my protection, of my support. The message about taking the ferry clinched it, proved beyond doubt that she wanted to get me alone. This was worse than a fool's errand, and there was only one way that made it make sense, only one reason to jump me through all these hoops to get me alone, to keep Antonia alive.

Drama wanted a trade. My life for Antonia's.

I dumped the Motorola in the first trash can I found, then sprinted up the stairs out of the station, already trying to get someone to respond to my radio call. Three lines of automobiles stretched around the corner of the terminal, cars waiting for their turn to cross New York Harbor, and I stood and scanned the line, looking for any vehicle I could recognize.

"Somebody come in," I said. "I'm aboveground, I'm getting on the ferry, somebody acknowledge."

"I'm with you, already aboard. Second row, middle. Where are you?" Bridgett's voice.

I was so relieved to hear her that for a moment I couldn't talk.

"Atticus?"

"I'm boarding. Supposed to go to the fore, second deck, and wait for instructions."

"Should I find you?"

I debated. Even if she could have reached the terminal before me, Drama wouldn't risk coming aboard, wouldn't risk trapping herself anyplace where there was no easy exit. But that didn't mean she couldn't have eyes present, someone or something to watch.

"No," I told Bridgett. "Keep your distance."

She hesitated before responding. "Confirmed."

The ferry sounded its horn, and I followed the remaining stragglers as they rushed aboard. I kept talking to Bridgett as I followed the walkway, passing an enormous anchor crammed into a corner, to the stairs and then up to the second deck. Most of the benches were occupied, and I could see a clump of early-bird tourists gathered on the aft observation deck to get a look at Manhattan as we pulled away.