The October List

  He looked at the note that accompanied the gift.

  Dear Frank. Thinking of you...

  Oh, man...

  Then Frank revised the fantasy. In the remake, a slightly more risque version, they sat on the couch, knees touching, and watched an old movie on cable, instead of going to the film festival. The present--he found himself actually stroking the box now--would play a role in this fantasy too. A central role.

  They'd pick something noir to watch, of course. Maybe The Asphalt Jungle. Or Pulp Fiction. It would be like Travolta and Uma Thurman dancing. He loved that movie (though he always wondered: If Travolta was such a brilliant hit man, why the hell did he leave his machine gun outside the bathroom, for Bruce Willis to find it, when he went to take a dump?).

  They could watch that, or Reservoir Dogs or Inglourious Basterds.

  Or hell, they'd watch anything that Gabby wanted to watch.

  They'd talk, they'd fuck. He pictured her crying with pleasure, maybe with a little pain.

  And then they'd talk some more. She'd learn all about him, she'd learn who was the real Franklin Walsh.

  He flopped down on the saggy bed and sent her a text. He thanked her for the present and then--he couldn't resist--described what he had in mind for their date next Tuesday. He included a few suggestions about apparel.

  All very tasteful, he decided.

  Then he replayed in his mind the knife fight. Once, twice, again and again. The blood, the screams, the body twitching.

  Mostly the blood.

  CHAPTER 28

  1:00 P.M., SUNDAY

  40 MINUTES EARLIER

  IN HIS RHYTHMIC, PURPOSEFUL GAIT, Joseph Astor walked through the maze-like streets of this curious neighborhood like a tourist, eyes constantly moving.

  He'd swapped the long black trench coat for black cargo pants, T-shirt and leather jacket. He was making his way back to the apartment he'd been to earlier this morning, though via a different route. This part of town was confusing. Avenues going every which-away. His GPS app was helpful but he wasn't moving in the most direct route, of course. He was taking his time, doubling back, striking through alleys and vacant lots. This confused the smartphone app girl Siri but there wasn't an option for picking routes to "avoid spots where some asshole is waiting to put a bullet in my head."

  The air was chill and clouds ganged on the horizon, sending bands of long, dim shadow over the sidewalks and streets and buildings here. The earlier sunlight was history. This was too bad because, believe it or not, bright light made witnesses' accounts less reliable than overcast; glare could be wonderfully obscuring. Victims too might not even see you or the gun when you approached.

  He looked around once more. The residences were small, many of them red brick or dirt-brown stone that had once been white or light gray. A lot of soot and grime. He passed a bookstore for the gay-lesbian-transgendered crowd, a Laundromat, apartments with elaborate wrought-iron security bars. You could look right into the minuscule, street-level living rooms, which would fit no more than four or five people. Who'd live like that?

  Plenty, Joseph reflected, to judge from the number of the cells he passed.

  Manhattan...

  In his mind Joseph once more ran through the complex scheme he was orchestrating this weekend. Many parts, many challenges, many risks. But, being in a reflective mood, he was thinking that men are born to work. It didn't matter how difficult your job, how filthy your hands got--in all senses of that phrase. It didn't matter if you were a poet or a carpenter or a scientist or whatever. God made us to get off our asses and go out into the world and do something with our time.

  And Joseph was never happier than when he was working.

  Even if, as he was about to do in a few minutes, that job was murder.

  The silent GPS sent him around the corner and he paused. There was the brown brick building where his victim lived.

  Thinking of how the night would unfold, Joseph again pictured Gabriela, her beautiful, heart-shaped face, her attractive figure, all of which jarred with the edgy voice. He thought too of the man with her, Daniel Reardon. He'd seemed smart and his eyes radiated confidence, which diminished only slightly when Joseph had displayed the butt of his pistol.

  He thought too of the October List.

  A complicated night lay ahead. But nothing he couldn't handle.

  Now, no police in sight, he strode nonchalantly past the apartment building's door, glancing in. Yes, the doorman he'd seen earlier was still on duty. Joseph was a bit irritated at the old man's presence at the desk, which added a complication, but no matter. Anything could be worked around with enough determination and ingenuity. And Joseph was well fitted with both. He circled around to the back and counted windows, recalling the diagrams from the NYC Buildings Department of the structure's layout. Yes, his target was home. He could see movement and the flicker of light, as if from a TV or computer monitor. Shadows. A light spread out and a moment later shrank and went out; probably from a refrigerator door, since the glow came from the kitchen.

  This reminded him he wanted a long sip or two from his Special Brew. But later. He was busy now.

  Work to be done.

  Joseph went to the service door. It was locked, naturally. Verifying that he couldn't be seen from any of the windows, he removed a screwdriver from his inside pocket and began to jimmy. This was all you needed 90 percent of the time; lock-picking tools were usually more trouble than they were worth.

  He double-checked his pistol, then concentrated again on his task of cracking the lock, irritated that his target, Gabriela's friend Frank Walsh, lived on the sixth floor. His breath hissed out softly as he reflected that the last thing he needed right now was a climb up that many stairs.

  CHAPTER 27

  11:50 A.M., SUNDAY

  1 HOUR, 10 MINUTES EARLIER

  I DON'T SEE HIM."

  Daniel Reardon was referring to the man who'd been following him and Gabriela from the chaos on Madison Avenue--the man in the rumpled gray suit and a bright yellow shirt, the man with the eyes of a hunting dog.

  Gabriela said, "Who the hell is he? I don't think he's a cop."

  "No. He would've called for backup. There'd be a thousand cars here if he was."

  They were moving quickly south on Second Avenue. The wind was now brisk, clouds were coagulating low in the sky. The cross streets were still in the high digits--fewer stores, more residences--so the sidewalks were less crowded than closer to Midtown. They looked behind once again. "Maybe it was just a coincidence we saw him a couple of times."

  "You really think that?" Daniel asked.

  "No," she gasped. "But, frankly, I don't know what to think anymore." She winced as she held her side and stopped.

  "Still hurts?"

  "Does, yeah," she said. She touched away a dot of blood on her cheek.

  "Doctor?"

  "No. The police might've contacted the emergency rooms. Let's just keep going."

  "If you broke a rib and pierced a lung," he said, troubled, "that could be a real problem."

  "I'll have to live with it," she shot back. Then softer: "Until we have Sarah. I'll live with it."

  They started again, making as much speed as they could away from the site of the incident just moments before. Daniel asked, "What could he want? That man?"

  "In the yellow shirt?"

  "Yeah."

  Gabriela shrugged, as if it was obvious. "If it isn't a coincidence, he wants the October List. What else? Joseph can't be the only one after it, I'm sure."

  Daniel was silent, head tilted. After another scan of the sidewalks behind them, he said, "There's another possibility, about Yellow Shirt."

  "What's that, Daniel?"

  "He's working for Charles Prescott."

  She frowned. "Working for my boss? What do you mean?"

  Daniel continued, "Your boss sent this guy to track you down--to find out what you could have against him, information, evidence. To talk you out of testifying and going to the p
olice."

  Gabriela shook her head. "Charles would just call me up and talk to me."

  Daniel replied, "The Charles Prescott you worked for, the Prescott you thought you knew might do that. But that's not the real Prescott. After what you've learned about him, don't you think he's capable of calling somebody up to do his dirty work for him?"

  "Dirty work?" She clutched his arm. "You don't think he'd hurt me?" Emphasis on the verb, as if it was too difficult to say "kill."

  Daniel's voice was soft as he said, "It's a possibility, Mac. We've got to consider it. You're the perfect witness. You can place Prescott at locations he doesn't want to be associated with. You know his girlfriend. You can testify about all kinds of things. And now--you found the October List."

  And when she said, "No," this time her tone suggested even she didn't believe Charles Prescott was incapable of hurting her. Gabriela looked behind them, down the wide sidewalk. "Yellow Shirt... where is he? I don't know where he is!" Her voice crackled with panic.

  "It's all right. We lost him in the crowds. I'm--"

  "No! There he is!"

  Daniel's head swiveled too. "Right." Yellow Shirt was a block away, dodging pedestrians, moving steadily forward.

  "What are we going to do? If he stops us, Sarah's gone. I can't let that happen." Her wide eyes, rimmed red, stared toward Daniel.

  "Just keep going. Faster."

  But only two blocks later, she pulled up abruptly and arched her back, wincing and moaning. Her knees sagged and only Daniel's strong arm kept her from rolling onto the sidewalk. "It hurts, Daniel. My chest hurts... I have to rest. Just for a minute." She looked around. "There. He won't see us there."

  Daniel helped her out of the crowds into the shadowy space she'd indicated, between two parked trucks. Noisy traffic zipped past. Daniel looked out, back in the direction where they'd last spotted the man. "I don't see him."

  Gabriela leaned against the hood of the Mercedes truck, a Sprinter, and cradled her chest.

  Another glance behind them. "Nothing," he assured her. "No cops either. We'll give it a minute then keep going. We'll get to the apartment. You can rest. Find out how badly you're hurt."

  "He's probably turned down a side street, don't you think? We tricked him."

  Daniel said, "Could be."

  "Okay," Gabriela whispered. "Then let's go. I need to rest. I need to think."

  "There's a Lexington line station a block away. Can you make it?"

  "Sure. I'm better now."

  They turned to the sidewalk.

  "Wait!" a man's voice called. "I want to talk to you!"

  They swiveled around. Yellow Shirt had appeared from the traffic side of the gap between the trucks. The skin on his fat face was sweaty. He walked up fast, starting to speak and lifting his hands in an ambiguous way--could be a greeting, could be a threat.

  Then he was reaching into his breast pocket.

  Gabriela reacted fast. She stepped away from Daniel, placed both hands on the man's chest and shoved. As he stumbled back--into traffic--she said to Daniel, "Let's go, run!"

  But before they could start down the sidewalk, there came a squeal of brakes and a large delivery truck struck Yellow Shirt at close to forty-five mph. He tumbled beneath the wheels and a sickening, crumpled-box sound filled the air around them. No time for the driver to hit the horn, no time even for the man to scream.

  Gabriela cried out, staring at the shattered figure. "Oh, Jesus. No, no, no!" A thick wash of dark blood spread out behind the truck, which had slammed into a cab trying to avoid the man. "No."

  Shouts, screams, people running toward the man's crushed body, people running away. Cell phones appearing for 911 calls... and for pictures.

  Daniel Reardon took her arm. "Mac! We have to leave. Now!"

  "I didn't... I didn't mean to do it! I just reacted." She stared, shaking.

  "Listen to me!" Daniel gripped her face and turned it toward him, ignoring her wince of pain. "We have to go."

  "But--"

  "He was a threat. He had to be a threat. He wouldn't've followed us if he wasn't. You didn't have any choice. It looked like he was going to attack you. He was reaching into his pocket. Maybe he had a gun!"

  "You don't know that! Look, he's still moving. His foot. It's moving!"

  She stared at the blood, choked a cry.

  Daniel's strong arm encircled her shoulders like a vise and he was walking her away. She half stumbled, half jogged beside him. It was as if she could barely remember how to walk.

  His voice was tinted with panic too. "I know you're upset. I know you're hurting, but we have to move, Mac."

  "I--" she began, shaking. "I don't think--"

  But Daniel interrupted. "It's all about your daughter. Remember what you keep saying, 'Focus.' Well, focus on your daughter."

  "My..." she gasped.

  "Sarah." He said the name firmly. "I'm sorry, Mac. It's a fucking shame this happened. But it did and we're not going to be able to help Sarah if you go to jail. There'll be a time to deal with it--later."

  Her face a pale mask, Gabriela nodded.

  "Keep moving."

  She followed as if she were a toddler unsure how to walk.

  Suddenly he froze. "No, wait, go the other way. We'll circle around the block to the subway."

  "Why, what's wrong?"

  "The way we were going, there's a meter maid at the corner."

  "Meter maid?" she asked. "What difference does that make?"

  Daniel leaned close and whispered, "Gabriela, everybody in New York City, from dogcatchers to the FBI, is looking for you now."

  CHAPTER 26

  11:35 A.M., SUNDAY

  15 MINUTES EARLIER

  IN THE TRENCHES...

  Think, figure this out, Hal Dixon told himself.

  You work in the trenches. Improvise.

  He looked around the streets, spotted someone he thought could help.

  Dixon strode up to the hot dog vendor, who guided away the smoke of the coals warming chestnuts and pretzels in his cart with the wave of a hand. The smoke returned instantly.

  The smell made Dixon hungry but he was on his mission and he ignored the sensation.

  "Please, I need to ask you something," he said to the skinny vendor in jeans and a Mets T-shirt. "A couple came by here, a man and a woman. Just a few minutes ago."

  The man glanced at Dixon's wrinkled gray suit and bright yellow shirt and maybe came to some conclusion about the color combination. Then he was looking back at Dixon's sweaty face. "Man and woman?" A faint accent.

  Dixon described them.

  The hot dog man was instantly uneasy. "I didn't see anything. Nothing. No."

  "It's okay. I'm a deacon." Trying to calm him.

  "A...?"

  "In a church, Presbyterian," the rumpled man said breathlessly. "In New Jersey. A deacon."

  "Uhm," said the street vendor, who seemed to be a Muslim and would probably have no idea what a deacon was but might appreciate devotion.

  "Religious. I'm a religious person."

  "A priest?" the man asked, becoming confused. He was again regarding Dixon's old suit and yellow shirt.

  "No. I'm just religious. A deacon's a layperson."

  "Oh." The vendor looked around for somebody he could sell a hot dog to.

  Mistake. Dixon said, "I'm like a priest."

  "Oh."

  "A private person who helps the priest. Like helping the imam."

  "Imam?"

  "Look." Dixon reached into his breast pocket and took a small, black-bound Bible from it.

  "Oh." The man said this with some reverence.

  "I was just on Madison Avenue." He gestured broadly though the vendor would obviously know where Madison Avenue was.

  "Yes."

  "And what happened was, I saw this woman commit a crime, a bad crime. The woman I just described."

  "A crime?"

  "That's right."

  The vendor touched his chest with his fingertips, p
erhaps a form of prayer. Dixon noted his hands were filthy. He decided he'd never get a hot dog from a street vendor again. The man asked, "All the sirens? Is that what's going on?"

  "Yes, all the sirens. Lots of sirens."

  Dixon pulled a napkin out of the holder, then two more. He wiped his face.

  "You want some water, Father? I call you 'Father'? Is that what you say?"

  "No, I'm not a reverend," Dixon said. "I don't want any water. A deacon. It's like a priest."

  "Okay, but if you do, just ask. A bottle. Or a soda."

  "Here's what I need--"

  "You don't have cell phone and you want to borrow mine?"

  "No, no. I need to find out where they went--she and this other man, a friend of hers, I guess. I'm going to talk to them, help them give themselves up."

  The vendor blinked, waved at the smoke again.

  Dixon repeated, "She should surrender to the police. I'll help her. But she has to do it now. If they run, the police will think they're guilty and they may just shoot them down. They're panicked. I know they are."

  "You're... what do they call that, people in your bible? Who help other people?"

  What? Oh. "Samaritan," Dixon said, wiping more sweat. The pits of his shirt were grayish yellow.

  "Yeah, that's it."

  My bible...

  "I guess I am. I don't know. They came this way."

  The vendor was more comfortable now. "Yes, these people you're talking about? I saw them. A few minutes ago. I saw them because they were walking fast. And they were rude too."

  Dixon's heart beat a bit faster. "Where did they go?"

  "They went into that store there. Do you see it?"

  "On the corner."

  "Next to the corner. The souvenir store."

  It was only forty or so feet away.

  "Did you see them leave?"

  "No, I think they're still in there. But I wasn't paying too much attention. They might've left."

  "Thank you. I think you've saved some lives."

  Dixon started across the street, then paused. The couple slipped from the store. They were wearing hats and she had a different bag, Dixon believed. But it was clearly them. They gazed up and down the street, spotted Dixon and froze for a moment. Then they vanished in the opposite direction. He noted the woman seemed to be limping.

  Dixon started after them.