Greg Rucka - Critical Space

The signal turned to green, the cars in front of me began to move, and I turned left, activating the transmitter once more.

"I'm rolling. Turning onto Bay Street, coming out of the terminal. No way to tell where she wants me to go. I don't even have compass points to work with, just left and right turns."

"Damn," Corry muttered.

"That solves that, " Bridgett said. "I'm staying with him until we know where he's going. Anybody have a problem with that?"

"No," Corry said.

Moore didn't transmit anything.

"Stay out of sight of the car," I said. "I'll radio you with the street names as I have them, follow at a distance. Corry?"

"Still here. "

"You've got the map?"

"Hagstrom page 63, baby."

"All right, try to plot me on that, maybe you can figure out where I'm going."

"Confirmed. Have to say, we're way behind you. If something goes down, we may not be able to close the distance in time."

"How far out are you?"

"Maybe another fifteen minutes before we hit the Verrazano, even the way Dale's driving. Morning traffic."

"Don't worry about it, " Bridgett said. "I've got your back."

The instructions led me from the ferry onto Victory Boulevard for almost three miles, past rows of dingy houses made dingier by the lack of color in the sky. Either the air conditioner in the Passat was broken or I didn't understand the controls, because the atmosphere in the car was thick and dead. I rolled down the window as I came up to Silver Lake Park, trading the security of a closed vehicle for the hope of air.

There was a grotesque monument to modern architecture opposite Silver Lake Park, a block of apartments that looked like it'd been built by the same firm that handled most of the U.S. Army's bunkers in foreign lands. My instructions had me continuing another 1.3 miles before a turn, and as I came over the crest of a small hill, with the Silver Mount Cemetery on my right, I caught a glimpse of the Porsche in my rearview mirror.

"You're still too close. Give me more room."

"There's plenty of room," Bridgett said.

"Give me at least half a mile, more if you can."

Her grunt was sullen in my ear.

I had another left coming up, and as the odometer confirmed the distance, I signaled the turn. "Left onto Clove. Heading roughly south now, maybe southeast."

Bridgett radioed a confirmation. Corry came back on the air, but there was a lot of interference, and I had to ask him to repeat.

"Said it looks like you're actually coming in our direction."

"Hope it stays that way," I said.

The traffic on Clove was busier than it had been on Victory, and I went another half a mile before hitting a light and checking the directions. I was on Step 11 now, and had another left coming up, in less than a tenth of a mile. Ahead of me, past the light, the intersection had been constructed around the Staten Island Expressway, and it looked like I had two choices: I could either make an almost immediate left or I could continue past the highway and make the left there. The odometer wasn't helping much.

The light changed, and I decided to err on the side of caution, making the left onto Narrows Road, then relaying the decision by radio to the others. Everyone acknowledged.

Step 12 said to continue.86 of a mile and then to make a right. Behind me, a black Camaro made its presence known by leaning on its horn. I ignored it, knowing that I was driving like a little old lady, and unwilling to take things any faster. The odometer ticked off eight-tenths of a mile, and I didn't see a right turn onto anything. The Camaro tried to get around me, found that it was blocked by a truck, and gave me more horn. The odometer was about to roll over another mile before I saw a right I could take, a busy intersection onto Richmond Road.

"Right onto Richmond," I radioed. If I had made a mistake, if I had taken the wrong turn when I'd gotten onto Narrows, there wasn't much of a point in sharing that.

Confirmations came back, and once again, Corry's and Moore's transmissions were snarled with static.

Step 13 instructed me to continue 2.4 miles before making another turn, a left. The Camaro had gotten around me when I turned onto Richmond, and I drove, trying to monitor the odometer. If it was off, I was screwed, I'd have to double back to Narrows and try again. The road wasn't easy, either; Richmond was just as crowded as Narrows had been, and getting worse as more and more people left their homes to head to work. The Passat had a radio and CD player, and the digital clock informed me that it was now four minutes to eight in the morning.

I'd gone 2 of the 2.4 miles indicated when Richmond did a strange kind of left bank, merging with another road, and try as I might I couldn't get a glimpse of any sign telling me if the names had changed. On my right-hand side I could see a huge and well-tended golf course, but nothing said what I should call that, either.

"I think I'm off Richmond," I radioed. "I've got a golf course on my right, now, but I don't know what it's called."

There was a storm of static, and Corry's voice came through choppy, the words broken. I heard "Richmond" and "club," but the rest of it was garbage.

"Corry, you're breaking up, I've got you at five by two, best. Can you hear me?"

More static, and this time I didn't understand anything he said.

She can't be doing this, I thought. She can't be jamming us like this, not unless she's very close.

"Bridgett?"

"Still here."

"Corry and Moore must have hit a dead zone."

"Could be on the bridge, it could be eating the signal. I'm still with you, don't fret. "

"I've got another right coming up, Step 14, here…" I braked to a stop on the side of the road and stared at where Drama meant me to turn. I double-checked the paper and the odometer to be certain.

"Atticus?"

Once again, despite everything that was happening, I had to admire the skill of it. She'd picked the perfect place, just secluded enough to keep wandering eyes at bay, just public enough that our presence wouldn't raise suspicion. Large open areas, and over the stone wall along the side of the road I could see the tops of trees, and that meant there'd be cover at the fringes, too.

"Atticus, please respond, " Bridgett said, her voice harsher.

I put the car back into drive and moved forward, taking the right turn dictated on the paper.

"It's a cemetery," I said.

Steps 15 through 29 came quickly, one after another, miles in tenths, left and right turns along narrow roads that wound through the tended grounds. The entrance was past a set of wrought-iron gates into a wide gravel semicircle, with smaller roads spanning off it like spokes jutting from a broken wheel. To the left I could see the administration buildings, the chapel, painted a depressing and smudged white. The cemetery was sprawling, and the plots spaced across sculpted hills and valleys, planted with grass and hundreds of trees of varying sizes. At one point a small bridge spanned a shallow pond with a fountain spewing a fan of water into the air. Picturesque. Most of the roads were unmarked, but a couple were named – Moldavia, Centennial, Restoration.

Cute.

Step 28 had me parking by a marble mausoleum on a slope, in the shade of several trees. I was at least half a mile from the entrance, and the buildings, the pond, all of it was hidden behind the foliage and monuments spread along the grounds. I killed the engine and set the emergency brake. A breeze had started up, making the leaves around me shiver. Through the open window, that was the only sound. There was no sign of anyone else, no mourners, no attendants, no one.

I got out of the car, and the pager started beeping.