Robin Cook - Contagion

“Hey, man, hold up or you’re gone!”

Jack could tell from the sound of the man’s voice that he was at the foot of the stairs. At that range Jack had no choice. He stopped.

“Turn around!”

Jack did as he was told. He could see that his pursuer had a huge pistol leveled at him.

“Remember me? I’m Reginald.”

“I remember you,” Jack said.

“Come down here!” Reginald ordered in between breaths. “I’m not climbing another stair for you. No way.”

Jack descended slowly. When he got to the third stair he stopped. The only light was a suffused glow from the surrounding city reflected off the cloud cover. Jack could barely make out the man’s features. His eyes appeared to be bottomless holes.

“Man, you got balls,” Reginald said. Slowly he let his hand holding the Tec pistol fall until it was dangling at his side. “And you’re in shape. I gotta hand you that.”

“What do you want from me?” Jack asked. “Whatever it is you can have it.”

“Hey, I’m not expecting anything,” Reginald said. “ ’Cause I can tell you ain’t got much. Certainly not in those threads, and I’ve already been to that shithole apartment of yours. To be honest, I’m just supposed to ice you. Word has it you didn’t take Twin’s recommendation.”

“I’ll pay you,” Jack said. “Whatever you’re being paid to do this, I’ll pay you more.”

“Sounds interesting,” Reginald said. “But I can’t deal. Otherwise I’d have to answer to Twin, and you couldn’t pay me enough to take on that kind of shit. No way.”

“Then tell me who’s paying you,” Jack said. “Just so I know.”

“Hey, to tell you the truth, I don’t even know,” Reginald said. “All I know is that the money’s good. We’re getting five big ones just for me to chase you around the park for fifteen minutes. I’d say that’s not bad.”

“I’ll pay a thousand,” Jack said. He was desperate to keep Reginald talking.

“Sorry,” Reginald said. “Our little rap is over and your number’s up.” As slowly as Reginald had lowered the gun, now he raised it.

Jack couldn’t believe he was going to be shot at point-blank range by someone he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. It was preposterous. Jack knew he had to get Reginald talking, but as glib as Jack was, he couldn’t think of anything more to say. His gift for repartee had deserted him as he watched the gun rise up to the point where he was staring directly down the barrel.

“My bad,” Reginald said. It was a comment that Jack understood from his street basketball. It meant that Reginald was taking responsibility for what he was about to do.

The gun fired, and Jack winced reflexively. Even his eyes closed. But he didn’t feel anything. Then he realized that Reginald was toying with him like a cat with a captured mouse. Jack opened his eyes. As terrorized as he felt, he was determined not to give Reginald any satisfaction. But what he saw shocked him. Reginald had disappeared.

Jack blinked several times, as if he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he looked more closely he could just make out Reginald’s body sprawled on the paving stones. A dark stain like an octopus’s ink was spreading out from his head.

Jack swallowed but didn’t move. He was transfixed. Out of the shadows of the arcade stepped a man. He was wearing a baseball hat backward. In his hand he held a pistol similar to the one Reginald had been carrying. He went first to Reginald’s gun, which had skidded ten feet away, and picked it up. He examined it briefly, then thrust it into the top of his trousers. He stepped over to the dead man and with the tip of his foot turned Reginald’s head over to look at the wound. Satisfied, he bent down and frisked the body until he found a wallet. He pulled it out, pocketed it, then stood up.

“Let’s go, Doc,” the man said.

Jack descended the last three steps. When he got to the bottom he recognized his rescuer. It was Spit!

“What are you doing here?” Jack asked in a forced whisper. His throat had gone bone dry.

“This ain’t no time for rapping, man,” Spit said. He then indulged in the act that had been the source of his sobriquet. “We gotta get the hell out of here. One of those bums back on the hill was only winged, and he’s going to have this place crawling with cops.”

From the moment Spit’s gun had gone off in the arcade, Jack’s mind had been spinning. Jack had no idea how Spit happened to be there at such a crucial time, or why he was now hustling him out of the park.

Jack tried to protest. He knew leaving a murder scene was a felony, and there had been two murders, not one. But Spit was not to be dissuaded. In fact, when Jack finally stopped running and started to explain why they shouldn’t flee, Spit slapped him. It wasn’t a gentle slap; it was a blow with vengeance.

Jack put his hand to his face. His skin was hot where he’d been struck.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Trying to knock some sense into you, man,” Spit said. “We got to get our asses over to Amsterdam. Here, you carry this mother.” Spit thrust Reginald’s machine pistol into Jack’s hands.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Jack asked. As far as he was concerned it was a murder weapon that should be handled with latex gloves and treated as evidence.

“Stick it under your sweater,” Spit said. “Let’s get.”

“Spit, I don’t think I can run away like this,” Jack said. “You go if you must, and take this thing.” Jack extended the gun toward Spit.

Spit exploded. He grabbed Reginald’s gun out of Jack’s hand and immediately pressed the barrel against Jack’s forehead. “You’re pissing me off, man,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? There still could be some of these Black King assholes hanging around here. I tell you what: If you don’t get your ass in gear I’m going to waste you. You understand? I mean I wouldn’t be out here risking my black ass if it hadn’t been for Warren telling me to do it.”

“Warren?” Jack questioned. Everything was getting too complicated. But he believed Spit’s threat, so he didn’t try to question him further. Jack knew Spit to be an impulsive man on the basketball court with a quick temper. Jack had never been willing to argue with him.

“Are you coming or what?” Spit demanded.

“I’m coming,” Jack said. “I’m bowing to your better judgment.”

“Damn straight,” Spit said. He handed the machine pistol back to Jack and gave Jack a shove to move out.

On Amsterdam Spit used a pay phone while Jack waited nervously. All at once the ubiquitous sirens heard in the distance in New York City had a new meaning for Jack. So did the concept of being a felon. For years Jack had been thinking of himself as a victim. Now he was the criminal.

Spit hung up the phone and gave Jack a thumbs-up sign. Jack had no idea what the gesture meant, but he smiled anyway since Spit seemed to be content.

Less than fifteen minutes later a lowered maroon Buick pulled to the curb. The intermittent thud of rap music could be heard through the tinted windows. Spit opened the back door and motioned for Jack to slide in. Jack complied. Events were clearly not in his control.

Spit gave a final look around before climbing into the front seat. The car shot away from the curb.

“What’s happening?” the driver asked. His name was David. He was also a regular on the b-ball court.

“A lot of shit,” Spit said. He rolled his window down and noisily expectorated.

Jack winced each time the bass sounded in one of the many stereo speakers. He slipped the machine pistol out from under his sweater. Having the thing close to his body gave him a distinctly unpleasant feeling. “What do you want me to do with this?” Jack asked Spit. He had to talk loudly to be heard over the sound of the music.