His voice trailed off as he read something on his screen. His eyebrows raised slightly. There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairwell. Farrentino looked over his shoulder; a trio of paramedics trooped through the door, carrying a folded stretcher. They barely noticed us as they went straight for the man on the floor, but Farrentino seemed relieved. He let out his breath, then looked back at me.
“I just received an APB,” he said very quietly. “There’s a ten-ninety-four out for you.”
“What, I didn’t pay my parking tickets? I don’t even have a car-”
“Shut up.” Farrentino’s eyes were like black ice. He closed his PT and slipped it into his coat pocket. “No fucking around now,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder again. “It was issued by ERA, and it means that you’re wanted for immediate pickup … possibly as a militant, an armed suspect, a mental case, or all of the above.”
“What the-”
“Truth. The feds want your ass and they want it now.”
Now it was my turn to feel the cold chills. I shot a glance at the parameds and cops gathered around the gunner; none of them seemed to be paying attention to us, but that could change any second.
“When did this happen?” I whispered.
“Just now.” He cocked his head toward the two patrolmen. “You don’t have to worry about those guys … they’re going to be busy for a few minutes … but you’re wanted by the feds now. I don’t think I have to tell you why.”
No, he did not; I could make a pretty good guess on my own. The moment Hinckley had cut open the tracer and left it in the restaurant, whoever had been monitoring my signal had realized that I was wise to them. That’s when Barris told his killer, who had already tracked down Hinckley with my unwitting cooperation, to snuff me as well-and since the killer had failed, Barris now wanted to have me brought down to the Stadium Club for one last meeting.
This time, there wouldn’t be any easy release. If they got me, then they got Joker as well, and with it the interview Hinckley had given me just before she was killed. Even if I threw Joker into a garbage can and surrendered myself, there was little chance I would ever emerge from the stadium again. Not alive, at least.
I took a deep breath, trying to control my panic. The area outside the building was already crawling with cops; no doubt they would soon be joined by ERA troopers. “Okay, Mike,” I said, my voice suddenly raw in my throat, “it’s up to you …”
“Uh-uh.” Farrentino shook his head. “I’ve already done all I can do. I’ve questioned you in front of two other officers and determined that you’re not a suspect, so now you’re free to go. If Barris comes to me, my hands are clean. I’m just the dumb cop who let you slip. I’m sorry, but that’s it.”
“Aw c’mon, Mike …”
He jerked his head toward the door. “Get out of here,” he murmured. “Hit the street. Don’t go back to your apartment or your wife’s place, those are the first places they’re going to look for you. And stay the fuck off the net-”
“Mike,” I said, “how-”
“Go!” he whispered. “Move your ass!”
I started to argue some more, but he turned his back on me. Trailing cigarette smoke, he began to saunter across the room. Conklin looked up at him as he approached; for a moment, he stared past the homicide detective at me, then he looked away again.
A helicopter roared over the rooftop, breaking the spell. I took one last look around, then I eased out of the room and headed for the hallway. The window leading to the fire escape was still open. I stuck my head out, saw that no one was in the alley below, then climbed out the window and began to scurry down the cold iron stairs.
I was on the run, and I hadn’t the slightest clue where I was supposed to go.
PART FOUR
19
(Saturday, 2:00 A.M.)
Beep-beep …
Beep-beep …
Beep-beep …
I awoke to a steady electronic pulse from somewhere in the darkness.
My first thought was that it was the phone on my desk. Then I remembered that I was not in my apartment but instead hiding out in an abandoned house on the south side.
It had taken me the better part of the afternoon to make my getaway from Clayton. I rode the Yellow Line as far south as I could, then got off the MetroLink at the Gravois Avenue station and hiked as far as I dared into this dangerous part of the city. The police seldom ventured this far south except in Russian APCs, and even ERA troopers were reluctant to patrol the edges of Dogtown save by helicopter; perhaps the dragnet wouldn’t extend into this combat-zone neighborhood not far from the Mississippi River.
I hadn’t encountered any heat either on the train or on foot during my long journey through the city, but I was exhausted by the time I had found the house. Even after my close brush with the ERA Apache earlier tonight, I had soon fallen back asleep on the couch, trusting the stray dog who had adopted me to wake me up again if the chopper returned. The mutt had curled up on the floor next to the couch; he raised his head now, his brown ears cocked forward in curiosity as he stared at the source of the noise.
Joker lay on the bare floor where I had left it after I had finished dictating my notes, its red LED flashing in time with the annunciator. The dog got up and padded across the empty living room to sniff at it, then he looked up at me: Well, what are you going to do about it?
Someone-or perhaps something-was trying to get my attention.
“I dunno what it is either, buddy,” I murmured. “Let me see what’s going on.”
Drawn by the blinking diode, I swung my stiff legs off the couch and shuffled across the room to where the FT lay. Kneeling on the hardwood floor, I picked up Joker and opened its cover, expecting to find another mysterious IM displayed on its screen.
What I saw instead was a ghost: the face of my dead son, stolen from the video I had made of him a little over a year ago, now outlined in tiny animated pixels. Across the bottom of the screen was a message bar.
›Gerry Rosen, I need to talk to you.‹
›Daddy, I need to talk to you.‹
›Please talk to me, Gerry.‹
“No!” I yelled. “Leave me alone!”
I raised the PT over my head, about to hurl it across the room. Frightened by my surge of anger, the dog danced backward, whining a little as its tail crept down between its hindquarters. If nothing else, the dog’s reaction helped check my impulse; instead of dashing Joker against the wall, I lowered the PT and stabbed its vox button with my forefinger.
“Listen, you shit,” I snarled, “you’ve done enough to me already! Leave Jamie out of this!”
Jamie’s face didn’t vanish from the screen. Instead, the image blinked at me, somehow managing to assay a childish pout. God, it was scary; computer generated or not, it looked exactly like my kid.
Jamie’s voice emerged from Joker’s speaker. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to get your attention in the best way I can. Does this form and voice displease you?”
“God, yes!” I yelled at the screen. “Don’t you understand? This is my son you’re using! He’s dead! Don’t you realize what this does to me?”
Jamie’s face assumed a confused expression. “Jamie Arnold Rosen,” it intoned; it was as if Jamie himself were reciting his life history, except in words, that a six-year-old would never have used. “Born March 2, 2006. Died May 17, 2012.Killed during the New Madrid earthquake while riding the MetroLink train across the William Eads Bridge. The Eads Bridge collapsed, resulting in the deaths of seventy-three passengers including twelve members of the first-grade class of Bo Hillman Elementary School, who were returning from a field trip to-”