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 it's 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.
Forty-second Street provided the anonymity Philips needed. Six hours earlier the area had been alien and threatening. Now, the same aspects were comforting. These people wore their psychoses up front. They didn't hide behind a facade of normality. The dangerous people could be recognized and avoided.
Martin bought a large fresh orange juice and polished it off. He had another. Then he walked down Forty-second Street. He had to think. There had to be a rational explanation for everything. As a doctor, he knew that no matter how many disparate signs and symptoms there were in an illness, they could invariably be traced to a single disease. Nearing Fifth Avenue, Philips walked into the little park by the library. He found an empty bench and sat down. Pulling the dirty chesterfield around him, he made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to go over the events of the night. It had started at the hospital…
Martin woke with the sun almost overhead. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. There were lots of people in the park now, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. It had gotten warm and he was sweating heavily. When he stood up he was aware of his heavy ripe smell. Walking out of the park he glanced at his watch and was shocked to learn it was ten-thirty.
He found a Greek coffee house several blocks away. Balling up the old coat, he put it under the table. He was famished and he ordered eggs, home fries, bacon, toast and coffee. He used the tiny men's room but decided not to clean up. No one seeing him would ever guess he was a doctor. If he were being sought he couldn't have a better disguise.
As he finished his coffee he found the crumpled list he'd made of the five patients: Marino, Lucas, Collins, McCarthy and Lindquist. Was it possible that these patients and their histories were related to the bizarre fact that he was being pursued by the authorities? But even so, why would they be trying to kill him; and what had happened to these women? Had they been murdered? Could the affair be somehow related to sex and the underworld? If so, how did radiation fit in? And why was the FBI involved? Maybe the conspiracy was national, affecting hospitals all across the country.
Getting more coffee, Martin was certain the answer to the puzzle lay in the Hobson University Medical Center, but he knew that was the one place the authorities would expect him to go. In other words, the hospital was the most dangerous place for Martin, yet the only place where he had a chance to figure out what was happening. Leaving his coffee, Philips went back to use the pay phone. His first call was to Helen.
"Doctor Philips! I'm glad you called. Where are you?" Her voice was strained.
"I'm outside the hospital."
"I guessed that. But where?"
"Why?" asked Martin.
"Just wanted to know," said Helen.
"Tell me," said Martin. "Has anybody been looking for me…like…the FBI?"
"Why would the FBI be looking for you?"
Martin was now reasonably certain that Helen was under observation. It was not like her to answer a question with a question, especially an absurd one about the FBI. Under normal circumstances she would have simply told Martin he was crazy. Sansone or one of his agents had to be there with her. Philips hung up abruptly. He would have to think of another way to get the charts and other information he wanted from his office.
Martin next called the hospital and had Dr. Denise Sanger paged. The last thing he wanted was for her to go to the GYN clinic. But she did not pick up her page and Martin was afraid to leave a message. Hanging up, he placed a final call to Kristin Lindquist. Kristin's roommate picked up on the first ring, but when Philips introduced himself and asked about Kristin the girl said she could not give him any information and that she'd prefer he didn't call. Then she hung up.
Back at his table, Philips spread the list of patients in front of him. Taking out a pen he wrote: "strong radioactivity in the brains of young women (? other areas); Pap smears reported abnormal when they were normal; and neurological symptoms something like multiple sclerosis." Philips stared at what he'd written, his mind racing in crazy circles. Then he wrote: "Neurological-GYN-police-FBI," followed by "Werner necrophilia." There didn't seem to be any possible way all these things could be related, but it did seem as if GYN was in the middle. If he could find out why those Pap smears were reported abnormal, maybe he'd have something.