Робин Кук - Brain

Rolling over, wondering if perhaps she’d just had a bad dream, she realized she had to go to the bathroom. The pressure on her bladder slowly augmented until she could no longer ignore it. As distasteful as the idea was, she had to get up.

Pulling herself from the warm bed, Denise padded into the bathroom. Gathering up her nightgown in a bundle on her lap, she sat down on the cold toilet seat. She didn’t turn on the light nor did she close the door.

The adrenaline in her system seemed to have inhibited her bladder and she was forced to sit for several minutes before she could urinate. She had just finished when she heard a dull thud that could have been someone hitting her wall from another apartment.

Denise strained her ears for any other sound but the apartment was quiet. Marshaling her courage, she moved silently down the hall until she had a view of her front door. She felt a sense of relief when she saw that the police lock was securely in place.

She turned and started back toward the bedroom. It was at that moment that she felt the draft along the floor and heard a slight rustle of some of the notes tacked to her bulletin board. Reversing her direction, she returned to the foyer and glanced into the dark living room. The window to the fire escape in the air well was open!

Denise tried desperately not to panic, but the possibility of an intruder had been her biggest fear since coming to New York. For almost a month after her arrival, she’d had great difficulty sleeping. And now with her window ajar her worst nightmare seemed to be unfolding. Someone was in her apartment!

As the seconds ticked by, she remembered that she had two phones. One by her bed, the other on the kitchen wall just ahead of her. In one step, she crossed the hall, feeling the aging linoleum under her feet. Passing the sink, she grabbed a small paring knife. A glint of meager light sparkled off its small blade. The tiny weapon gave Denise a false sense of protection.

Reaching past the refrigerator, she grasped the phone. At that instant, the old refrigerator compressor switched on and with a sound similar to a subway, chugged to life. Startled by the noise, her nerves already drawn out to a razor’s edge, she panicked, letting go of the phone and starting to scream.

But before she could make a sound, a hand grabbed her neck and lifted her with great power, causing her strength to drain away. Her arms went flaccid and the paring knife clattered to the floor.

She was whisked around like a rag doll and rapidly propelled down the hall with her feet just touching the floor. Stumbling into the bedroom there were several flashes, a sensation of searing heat on the side of her head, and the sounds of a pistol with a silencer.

The bullets slapped into the mound of blankets on her bed. A final rude shove sent Denise to her knees as the blankets were yanked back.

“Where is he?” snarled one of the attackers. The other pulled open the closets.

Cowering by the bed, she looked up. Two men dressed in black with wide leather belts were standing in front of her.

“Who?” she managed in a weak voice.

“Your lover, Martin Philips.”

“I don’t know. At the hospital.”

One of the men reached down and lifted her up high enough to throw her onto the bed. “Then we’ll wait.”

For Philips, time had passed as if in a dream. After the last rifle shot he’d heard nothing. The night had remained still except for an occasional car on the city street beyond the playground. He was aware that his pulse had slowed to normal, but he was still having trouble collecting his thoughts. Only now, as the rising sun imperceptibly brushed over the playground, did his mind begin to function again. As the dawn brightened he was able to make out more details in the landscape, like the series of concrete wastebaskets that were fashioned to look like the surrounding natural rock. Birds had suddenly convened on the area, and several pigeons wandered over to the sprawled body in the dry wading pool.

Martin tried moving his stiff legs. He gradually realized that the dead body out in the playground was a new threat. Someone would soon call the police and after last night Martin was understandably terrified of them.

Heaving himself to his feet, he steadied himself against the wall until his circulation returned. His body ached as he cautiously made his way back up the cement stairs, scanning the area. He could see the path down which he’d made his terrified plunge just hours before. Way off he could see someone walking his dog. It wouldn’t be long before the body in the playground was discovered.

He descended the stairs and hurried toward the far corner of the park, passing close to the body of the derelict. The pigeons were feasting on bits of organic matter that had been sprayed by the bullet. Martin looked away.

Emerging from the park, he turned up the narrow lapels of the tramp’s overcoat and crossed the street, which he saw was Broadway. There was a subway entrance on the corner but Martin was frightened of being trapped below the ground. He had no idea if the people who were after him were still in the area.

He stepped into a doorway and scanned the street. It was getting lighter every minute and the traffic was beginning to pick up. That made Philips feel better. The more people, the safer he should be, and he didn’t see any men loitering suspiciously or sitting in any of the parked cars.

A taxi stopped at the traffic light directly in front of him. Martin dashed from the doorway and tried to open the rear door. It was locked. The driver turned around to look at Philips, then accelerated despite the red light.

Martin stood in the street bewildered, watching the cab speed into the distance. It was only as he walked back to the doorway and caught sight of his reflection in the glass that he realized why the cabby had pulled away. Martin appeared to be a veritable tramp. His hair was hopelessly disheveled, matted on the side with dried blood and bits of leaves. His face was dirty and sported a twenty-four-hour growth of whiskers. The tattered chesterfield coat completed the derelict image.

Reaching for his wallet, Philips was relieved to feel its familiar form in his back pocket. He took it out and counted the cash. He had thirty-one dollars. His credit cards would be useless under the circumstances. He kept out one of the fives and replaced the wallet.

About five minutes later another cab pulled up. This time Philips approached from the front so the cabby could see him. He’d made his hair as presentable as possible and opened the overcoat so that its shabby condition wasn’t immediately apparent. Most important, he held up the five-dollar bill. The cabby waved him in.

“Where to, Mister!”

“Straight,” said Philips. “Just go straight.”

Although the cabby eyed Martin a little suspiciously in the rear-view mirror, he put the car in gear when the light changed, and drove down Broadway.

Philips twisted in the seat and looked out the back window. Fort Tryon Park and the small playground receded rapidly. Martin still wasn’t sure where to go, but he knew he’d feel safer in a crowd.

“I want to go to Forty-second Street,” he said finally.

“Why didn’t you tell me before,” complained the driver. “We could have turned on Riverside Drive.”

“No,” said Philips. “I don’t want to go that way. I want to go down the East Side.”

“That’s going to cost about ten bucks, mister.”

“It’s okay!” said Martin. He took out his wallet and showed ten dollars to the driver, who was watching in the rear-view mirror.

When the car began to move again Martin let himself relax. He still could not believe what had happened in the last twelve hours. It was as if his whole world had collapsed. He had to keep stifling his natural impulse to go to the police for help. Why had they turned him over to the FBI? And why on earth would the Bureau want to annihilate him, no questions asked? As the car flashed down Second Avenue his sense of terror returned.