Kim Robinson - Fifty Degrees Below

The blond man’s hair caught a gleam of firelight. He picked up the jacket, hefted it. Then the shirt. Now came the test. Was there still a tick on Frank? The three men turned in circles, looking outward, and as they did the blond man checked his wrist. Frank stayed frozen in place, waiting for a sign. The blond man’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell. He was winded. Frank tried to imagine his thoughts, then fell squeamishly away. He didn’t want to know what went on in a mind like that. Plots, counterplots, chipping people—spying on his own wife—out here in Rock Creek Park in the middle of the night, chasing people down. It was an ugly thing to contemplate.

Frank felt the frozen air as if he were clothed in an invisible shirt made of his own heat. Outside that it was obviously cold, but inside his shell he seemed okay, at least for now. When he moved he pushed through the shell, out into the chill.

Up on Ross came the sound of people walking, then Zeno’s nicotine voice. Frank shifted down, pulled his phone from his pocket and punched the “repeat call” function.

“Hey Blood, wassup?”

“Zeno they’re back at your picnic table,” Frank whispered. “They’ve got guns.”

“Oh ho.”

“Don’t go down there.”

“Don’t you worry. Do you need help?”

“No.”

“We’ll deploy anyway. Ha—too bad you can’t call the jaguar out on these guys, eh?”

“Yeah,” Frank said, and thought to add that he was going to be the jaguar tonight; but Zeno wasn’t listening. Frank could hear over the phone that he was telling the bros the situation. In the open air their noise had abruptly died away.

Then: “Hey fuck that!” Andy exclaimed, carrying both over the phone and through the air.

On the phone Frank heard Zeno say, “Fucking a, Blood, here comes the cavalry—”

Then the forest filled with howls, the crash of people through the forest— and from down near the creek, BANG BANG BANG!

The men at the picnic tables had dropped out of sight. But their conference was brief; after about five seconds they burst to their feet and ran away, south on Ross. Shrieks and howls in the darkness behind them.

Frank took off after them. High howling marked where the bros were in their pursuit on Ross, and thunks and crashes made it clear rocks were being thrown.

Frank darted from tree to windrow to tree, keeping above and abreast of the running men. When they came down the slope to Glover, two of them turned left, while the blond man turned right. Frank followed him, worrying briefly that the two others would come back and jump on the tail of any pursuit. Hopefully Zeno and the bros had already laid off. Nothing to be done about that now. He needed to concentrate on following the blond man.

Stalking prey at night, in the forest. How big the world got when you could taste blood. The frigid air cut through the radiance of his body heat, it drove into him, but it was only part of the chase, part of what made him utterly on point. All the hours he had spent out here filled him now, he knew where he was and what he needed to do. It all came down to pursuit.

The trees lining Glover were thick, the ground covered with branches, leaves, patches of new snow. He had trailed feral animals along here before. A human would be both more aware and more oblivious. The blond man was striding rapidly up the road, stopping from time to time to look back. He appeared to be holding a pistol in his right hand. Frank froze when he looked around, then darted from tree to tree, moving only when the man’s back was to him. Stay parallel to him but always behind his peripheral vision; be ready to freeze, stop when his head turned; it was like a game, feet lightly thrusting forward, feeling their way to silent landings, over and over, on and on, freezing to check the quarry from behind a trunk, one eye out, as in all the hide-and-seek games any child has ever played, but now performed with total concentration. On the hunt, yes, huge areas opening inside him—he could see in the dark, he could gazelle through the forest over downed branches without a sound, freeze faster than a head could whip around, all with a fierce cold focus. When the man whipped his head around Frank found himself as still as a statue before the blond head had moved even an inch, before Frank himself knew it had moved; and he could barely see it in the dark, just a gleam reflecting distant streetlights through the trees.

At Grant Road the man turned west. He walked out on the street, to Davenport and west toward Connecticut. Now they were under streetlights again, and very few people were out at this hour—none visible at this moment. Frank had to drop back, move across people’s front lawns. The man continued to whip his head around to look back from time to time. Frank lagged as far as he could while still keeping him in sight, but still, if he could see the man, the man could see him. His van was one block over, on Brandywine; he could drop down to it on 30th, unlock by remote as he approached, snatch out a sweater and windbreaker, put them on as he walked, then continue out to Connecticut and hope to relocate the man on his way to the Metro station. He was out of sight for the moment, so Frank crossed the street and took off in a dash, tearing around the corner and ripping open his van door, getting the clothes on as he took off again west on Brandywine.

He slowed as he approached Connecticut. And there was the blond man, hurrying past him down the big avenue, glowering.

Frank fell in behind him. They were approaching the Van Ness/UDC Metro station. At the top of the escalator the man glanced one last time over his shoulder, a sneer twisting his face, the petulant sneer of a man who always got what he wanted—

Frank snatched the hand axe from his pocket and threw it as hard as he could. The stone spun through the air on a line and flashed past the man’s head so close to his left ear that the man lurched reflexively to the right, disappearing abruptly from view as the stone whacked into the concrete wall backing the escalator hole.

Frank ran to it, slowed, looked down into the big oval tunnel, caught sight of the blond man running down the last risers into the station below. Around the opening, pick up his hand axe lying on the sidewalk. It looked the same, maybe a new chip on one edge. There was a deep gash in the concrete wall. He felt it with a finger, found his hand was trembling.

Back to the escalator, down behind a pair of students, pass them on the left. Windbreaker hood over his head? No. Nothing unusual. But it was cold. He pulled the hood over his head, put his hands in the windbreaker’s pockets, axe cradled in the right hand. His hands were cold, ears too. Nose running.

Down into the station, buy ticket, through the turnstiles. Look over the metal rail, assuming that the blond man would be going toward Shady Grove: yes. There he was, blond hair gleaming in the dim light of the station.

Frank grabbed a free paper from a trash can, descended to trackside, sat on one of the concrete benches pretending to read. The blond man stood by the track. The lights in the floor flashed on and off. In the dim warmth they felt the first blast of wind from the coming train.

Frank got on the car ahead of the one the man entered. He was pretty sure the man would get off at Bethesda, as Caroline had that first time. So when they rolled into Bethesda he got off a little before the man did, walked to the up escalator ahead of him, took it up without looking back. Through the turnstiles, up the last long escalator, standing to the right as so many people did.

Near the top the blond man brushed by him on the left, already talking on his cell phone. “We’ll find her,” he said as he passed. “I know she did it.”

Frank stayed on his big riser, teeth clenched. He followed the man across the bus level of the station to the last short escalator, up that. Then south on Wisconsin, yes, just the way Caroline had gone that first time, right on a side street, yes. The man was still talking on his phone, not looking around at all. Barking an order, laughing once. An ugly sound. Frank tried to relax his jaw, he was going to break a tooth. He was hot inside his windbreaker. Breaking a sweat. A few blocks west of Wisconsin the man clapped his phone shut and soon after that turned up the broad stairs of a small apartment building on Hagar, pulling keys from his pocket and shaking his head. He entered the building without looking back.