Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"I'm out of the car," I radioed. "Moving around the back of a mausoleum marked Griffith."

"Wait!" Bridgett snapped. "I'm not there yet, get back in the fucking car! Damn you, wait for me! I'm almost there!"

"She knows I'm here," I said. "I don't have a choice."

"I'm coming up on the entrance, I'll be there in a minute, less, just wait for me, dammit!"

"Can't," I said.

A short stone bench, its back to the mausoleum, was positioned to look over a row of headstones running along the slope. As I was sitting down another page came through.

It took half a second before the letters carved in the granite made sense to me, and the fear burst so hard and intense it tried to steal my breath, tried to double me over. In my ear, Bridgett was snarling at me to stop, to wait, saying that she was past the gate, she was parking, she was getting out.

The name on the headstone was Logan.

I pressed my transmit button. "Get out of here."

"Fuck you, I'm coming to…" and then she shrieked, a noise I'd never heard her make, part fear and part surprise and so loud and so unexpected that I jerked my head instinctively to get away from the sound. She had kept her line open, and in my ear I heard the sound of breaking glass, a distant noise like the popping of a paper bag, and I was on my feet, turning to run, to try and reach her and in my hand the pager was shrieking, too.

"…shot at and took out the window. I don't know where it came from."

"Just stay in the car, stay down!"

"Like I have a fucking choice."

I silenced the pager, read the message. My hands were shaking as I pressed the button to scroll the LCD.

"Bridget!:."

"I can't see her, Atticus. "

"You've got to go."

There was a pause, and then she asked, softly, "What'd she say?"

"She's got a headshot. You've got under a minute."

"Oh. " She said it as if I'd told her something of only minor interest.

"You've got to go," I repeated.

"Corry and Dale and Moore, they're not here yet, they're not responding to the radios, if I leave you alone… "

"She'll kill you."

"Atticus."

"Go. There's no time."

Seconds passed, marking her life.

I repeated myself, I shouted, I said, "Go!"

And she said, "I'm going. "

Through the trees, I heard the growl of the Porsche starting again. I closed my eyes, listening for the gunshot.

Another page came.

I set the pager on the bench, pulled the radio off my belt and switched it off. I disconnected the leads, pulled the cords from inside my sleeve and under my shirt. I put them on the bench, added my cellular phone to the pile, switching it off first. On my hands and knees I looked under the bench, found a clear plastic bag stuck to the granite with duct tape. Inside the bag was a set of three keys and another printed note, cut into a small strip.

Up the slope. Ford Escort. Start the engine.

Leave the pager.

The car was last year's model, black, used, and parked just out of sight over the lip of the slope. One of the keys opened the door, and the same key started the engine. As soon as the power came on, there was a click from the cassette player, and her voice filled the car.

"Put it in drive. Accelerate to twenty. Follow the road, second right. Do it now."

The Escort was another automatic. She fell silent as I started moving, and I took the second right, and as soon as I did, she spoke again.

"The timing on this is absolute. No delays. I am watching you. Accelerate to thirty. "

I was still in the cemetery, the roads still narrow, rising and falling, and thirty seemed about ten miles too fast for me. There was a bend at the foot of a long hill, and I moved my foot to the brake.

"Don't slow down, " she warned.

It took an effort to get my foot back to the gas. The Escort sunk on its shocks as I made the bend, the wheels whining softly.

"First left, then straight. Accelerate to fifty until the gate. "

The edge of the cemetery came into view, a service entrance. The gate was open. I slowed as I approached, and her voice told me to make a left and go with the flow of traffic. At the first light she told me to make a right again, and then, three blocks later, a left.

"Get on the Expressway, we're going to Brooklyn, " she said. "The traffic is going to be bad, so take your time with it. We've got all day, now, don't we? You should have a nice view of Far Rockaway as you cross."

Her voice was soft and sure, very conversational. Her accent stayed mid-Atlantic, but when she said "Brooklyn" and "Rockaway," she rolled her "r"s almost imperceptibly.

"How about a little music?"

Her voice faded, and the Beatles filled the car, singing "Magical Mystery Tour."

"I like the classics, " she said.

"Oh, shut up," I said, and after it was out of my mouth I realized that I was expecting her to answer.

She didn't.

Just as I hit the Verrazano, the music faded out.

"Traffic is going to be difficult once you get into Brooklyn, so don't worry about stopping or rewinding the tape if you get confused or fall behind. I want you to get where you 're going, and I think you do, too. Now that I've got you alone, we have a little more time to get everything in order.

"I know you can't possibly bring yourself to believe me, but if you keep following my instructions, if you keep doing as I say, you will get her back intact. It should go without saying what will happen if you don't.

"You're wondering where I am right now. That will be answered soon enough. You're also wondering about her. That answer is coming, as well. You're certainly wondering how you can make contact with your friends, if, perhaps, you can risk stopping at a pay phone to make a quick call. Believe me when I tell you that you can't. I'm monitoring you right now, Atticus, and if you stop anywhere other than the destination of my choosing…"

From the speakers there came the crack of a gunshot followed by a very stereotypical-sounding scream, both too clear to be anything but sound effects.

"Just so we understand each other. One last thing. Whatever it is you think is going on, you 're wrong.

"Just something for you to think about.

"You're going to come off the Verrazano and exit onto Ninety-second Street. At the light, turn left…"

It took until three minutes past ten for me to reach the destination, and she was right; the traffic was bad, and I had to stop the tape four times to keep from getting lost. Twice while driving through Brooklyn I saw NYPD cars, and each time I toyed briefly with trying to get their attention, but each time I thought better of it. How Drama was monitoring me I didn't know – there could be a tracer in the car, a microphone, even a camera sending her live video – but I absolutely believed that I was being watched. In its own bizarre way, we'd entered into a game of trust; Drama was trusting me not to do anything stupid, and I was trusting her to keep her word.

It seemed one-sided to me.

The directions took me through Bay Ridge, then north past Greenwood Cemetery and into the nicer homes of Park Slope. She kept me off the main thoroughfares, and several times had me making turns that reversed my direction or even took me in a complete circle. It was annoying; she'd already succeeded in cutting me from the rest of the herd, there was no longer any need to make certain that I wasn't being followed.

Finally the directions became more straightforward, and I went east through Prospect Heights, crossing Flatbush Avenue, and then south once more past Prospect Park, and it was then that I realized where she was taking me. The last time I'd been to this part of Brooklyn Natalie had driven, and at our journey's end we'd found the body of a man named Raymond Mosier. Mosier had worked for Natalie's father, part of the detail protecting Pugh before I'd been hired to take over, and he had been a glory-hound, the worst kind of guard. Drama had tricked him into accessing our security, and when she'd finished with him, she'd clipped the loose end by killing him.