Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"Why am I not hearing the others?"

"They cut out about three minutes ago. Could be signal loss, could be the batteries went dead."

"You have your cell phone?"

"I do."

"Call Natalie, see if they've checked in."

"Will do."

I turned to the fore, exited through the double doors onto the observation deck. We'd already left the terminal and I was surprised I hadn't even felt us go into motion. Continuing forward, I could look over the wall at the water beneath us, the short waves slamming into the ferry. The wind off the water was surprisingly cold, and the clouds had gone high again. Although the sky made the water look green and gray, visibility across to Staten Island was clear. On the starboard side, I could see the Statue of Liberty, stoic and stern and glorious, and she looked more to me like a guardian at the gate than an usher to the shore.

Behind me, under the awning and against the wall to the main cabin, I saw the ladder Drama had directed me to, marked with a sign warning that no one was admitted above. Attached to the awning, stowed above the beams that crisscrossed above my head, were old life jackets, faded safety orange, and nothing to trust your life to, from the looks of them. Faded paint noted that they were to be used in emergencies only.

I moved to the ladder and turned to face out again, waiting, listening to the wind and the gulls. The clump of tourists from the aft had moved forward, were emerging on my right, snapping photographs and talking in broken English and fluent German.

My radio crackled, and Corry came on, saying, "Check, check, anyone read?"

"Where the hell have you been?"

"A repeater went down somewhere, something, we lost communications when we left the Island. How are you reading?"

"Five-by," I said. "Where's Moore?"

"I'm here, " Robert said.

"I'm on the ferry," I said.

"We heard, " Corry said. "Bridgett gave Natalie the update, we called in to let her know what was going on. You know your next stop?"

"Other than Staten Island, no, not yet."

"We're just getting into Brooklyn, the bridge traffic nearly killed us. We're going to try and come across on the Verrazano. Keep us in the loop. Out."

"Out," I said. Off to the port side, I could see the bridge spanning the Verrazano Narrows, linking Brooklyn to Staten Island. It would take them at least another twenty minutes to reach it, by which time we'd be pulling into the St. George Ferry Terminal. Depending on what happened next, we'd either end up moving closer together or farther apart.

The tourists decided it was too cold and went back inside, and as they did, Bridgett came out, zipping up her biker jacket. She was wearing sunglasses, and she went to the railing and leaned over it, half of her six feet one dangling over the deck below, and with the wind blowing off the water making her hair fly, she looked impressive, and I knew she was posing. Then she pushed back off the railing and reached into a pocket. I guessed Altoids, but she came out with Cherry Life Savers and started chomping them down.

Something was beeping, and it took me a couple seconds before I realized that it wasn't coming over my radio, that it was a pager going off nearby, but there was nobody nearby with a pager as far as I could see. With my earpiece in, the sound was impossible to pinpoint, and I yanked it free, listening, then looked up.

One of the life jackets was paging me. I tried reaching for it and couldn't find anything, resorted to using the ladder, and on the second rung reached again. It was on top of the life jacket at the back, beside the opening onto the deck above, and I pulled it down, looking it over. It was black, new, with an LCD readout on the side for alpha-numeric messages.

I dropped off the ladder and turned it off, then used the buttons on the side to scroll through the message.

When I looked up again, Bridgett was at my shoulder and the St. George Ferry Terminal was looming large off the bow.

"Got all that?" I asked.

"Yup. Make sure I'm behind you when you leave the terminal."

"Keep your distance. She'll be watching, and if she thinks you're threatening her plans, she'll move against you."

She gave me a grin to humor me, then gestured that I should lead the way back down to the cars. As we worked our way back down I got on the radio and told Corry and Moore to stand by, that I'd have more information shortly. Bridgett stayed with me as I searched for the VW, even though I told her to back off, and we were about to hit the terminal before I found it. When she saw where it was parked, Bridgett swore, echoing curses off the walls around us.

"Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch!" Bridgett said, and then she kicked the Passat for good measure.

It was the last car in the third row. Bridgett's Porsche was parked several cars ahead, and the way the vehicles were packed in, there was no way she'd be able to fall in behind me as we left the terminal. It meant she'd have to pull out as fast as she could and then circle back around, and hope that she'd be able to catch me before I got out of sight.

The ferry hit Staten Island with a gentle bump, and Bridgett shook her head once, then ran to her car. I tried the door on the Passat, and of course it was unlocked. It took me a few seconds to find the keys, checking the ignition, then the glove compartment, before I found them wedged between the roof and the passenger-side sun visor.

As I started the car, the pager began beeping.

I bent and lifted the mat, found a folded sheet of paper, typed in the same font as the others had been. Before I had a chance to read it, the pager went off again.

Cars were beginning to move off the ferry. I dropped the pager in my lap, put the car in gear, and edged forward, then hit the transmit button in my left palm.

"Bridgett, you're going to have to back off."

"Like hell."

"I got another page. She just threatened you."

"Let her. "

"Whoa, " said Corry. "She just what? "

"Drama just warned Bridgett to back off," I said. "I'm getting messages by pager."

"Then Bridgett had bloody well better back off, " Moore snapped. "If Drama's twitchy, Wendy could end up dead. "

"You're assuming Wendy's still breathing, " Bridgett retorted hotly. "And Wendy isn't my fucking priority at this moment. "

I slammed the transmit button down again, breaking in before Moore could get a response off, snarling, "God dammit, that's enough! I want radio silence now, I don't want anybody saying anything until I come back on the line, is that understood?"

There was silence in my ear. The light at the intersection changed to green, and Bridgett's Porsche didn't move.

"Confirmed," Corry said.

"Confirmed," Moore said.

The cars behind the Porsche began honking their horns.

"Con-fucking-firmed, " Bridgett said, and she must have popped the clutch, because the Porsche ripped out of the intersection with a squeal and smoke. She took the left too hard, the 911 hugging the road, and then braked into the parking lot of a nearby BP station.

The Passat was an automatic, and I edged it forward until the light turned to red and the line stopped, then took the opportunity to review the sheet of instructions. Skimming them gave no hint of my next destination. Unlike the previous instructions, these were both incredibly vague and yet, at the same time, dictatorial.

There were twenty-nine separate steps I was to follow, given in distance and relative direction, no compass points. Number 29 itself was, "EXIT CAR. ANSWER PAGE." At the bottom of the page she'd typed, "DON'T WASTE TIME."