It seemed an eternity before they reached the door that led out to the subway tunnels. He had forgotten to lock it when he came through, but he didn’t forget to lock it now. His hands shook so much that he dropped the keys twice, once onto Edison’s back, but he finally slotted the key in. It was a stout metal door in a solid frame. That would buy him time.
The cooler air of the tunnel dried the sweat on his skin, but he didn’t feel cold. He was running too fast for that. He had no idea how long he ran, wanting to do nothing but put distance between himself and the killer.
Eventually, he slowed down, out of breath. In a few feet they’d be at the first tunnel intersection. Not far after that the tunnels split again. Each turn would make it harder for Saddiq to guess where they’d gone. Once he got to the train track, they wouldn’t leave footprints. They could get away.
When he reached the first intersection, he swung left.
“We’re OK,” he said, looking down to where Edison always ran next to him.
He wasn’t there.
Joe stopped dead and looked around. The tunnel was dimly lit, but light enough that he would have seen Edison if he were anywhere close, but he wasn’t. Joe was alone.
“Edison,” he called, heedless that the sound would draw Saddiq to him.
Silence.
He hurried back the way he had come, calling the dog’s name.
Pounding echoed down the tunnel. Saddiq was beating against the inside of the door to the steam tunnel. Joe shut up. If he could hear the killer, the killer could hear him.
He was out of breath, but pushed himself to run faster back to that door. That was where he had last seen Edison. Saddiq might break through at any moment and start shooting. Joe kept running. He had to find Edison, no matter what the cost.
Breathing hard, Joe got to the door. A yellow mound lay stretched in front of it.
Heart in his mouth, he ran to it and turned it over.
Edison.
“Boy?” Joe’s voice cracked.
The dog whimpered, and Joe’s heart rose. He was still alive. Joe had to keep it that way.
“It’ll be OK,” he whispered.
“When I get out of here, you are in a world of pain,” shouted a voice from behind the door.
Joe flinched. The killer was a few feet away. If he got through, they were both dead.
Working fast, he slid his hands over Edison, searching for a wound. His right hand came back wet with blood. Joe clicked on the flashlight and held it in his mouth.
Edison had been shot.
The bullet had grazed his right shoulder. Dark, wet blood spilled across his golden fur.
Joe pressed his palm against it. Direct pressure. The first rule of first aid.
The killer kicked the door savagely, and it bowed outward. He would get through it soon, and then he would kill them, probably in a painful way. Joe would fight back as best he could, but he was no match for a military-trained assassin with a gun. That only worked in movies.
Think, Joe told himself. Think.
Years ago, he’d held another wounded dog in his arms. She, too, had trembled with pain and fear. Roxy — a trained poodle and the centerpiece of his act. They had been miles from circus grounds, out on a hike with Farnsworth, the old man who took care of the animals.
Farnsworth drank too much to hold down a real job, but managed to fit into the nomadic life of the troupe. He cleaned out cages and set up tents. He was quiet and smart, and Joe liked spending time with him.
Farnsworth had had the answer then.
Joe dug in his backpack with his free hand, pulling out his dirty T-shirt. It was the cleanest article of clothing he had with him. He folded it into a rectangle and pressed it against the dog’s wound. Edison whimpered.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he whispered. “I know it hurts.”
Another volley of kicks bent the door outward about an inch. It couldn’t hold much longer.
With his free hand, he fumbled the roll of duct tape out of his backpack. He scrabbled to find the end of the tape, lifted it up a bit, and held it with his teeth. He wished for three hands as he unrolled it.
He spat out the end of tape, careful to hold it away from the floor, and tore off the strip with his teeth. Carefully, he fitted the tape atop the makeshift T-shirt bandage as he’d seen the drunken vet do years before. Back then, the bandage had held until they’d gotten Roxy back to the trailers. He hoped that this one would hold up as well.
Edison watched him with no hint of reproach in his eyes. He trusted Joe to make him well. Joe hated himself for what had happened to the dog. He should never have been down here playing detective. He should have been able to go to the police and let his lawyer sort it out. Only possible if he could outside.
A thud came from the door. Steam leaked out under it.
Moving fast, Joe shrugged on his backpack, wrapped Edison in the blanket and held him against his chest. He jogged away from deafening bangs from the killer’s gun. He was shooting his way out.
Joe redoubled his pace. Edison’s seventy-five pounds weighed heavy in his arms. Joe tightened his grip and kept going. He would carry this dog until he dropped.
His original plan had been to lose the bad guy in the tunnels and circle back to Platform 36 to find out all he could about toxoplasmosis and Ronald Raines. But he couldn’t do that now. He had to get Edison to help, and fast.
He slowed. Edison grew heavier with every step. Joe’s legs and back ached with every step. He staggered to a stop.
He had nowhere to go.
Chapter 31
Vivian jogged across the dimly lit park to the bank of phone booths. Phone booths were getting rare in the city, and she had a call to make that she didn’t dare make from her cell. Thanks, again, to Tesla.
Frozen leaves crackled underfoot, and the sky glowed dark golden from the streetlights. It was a beautiful night. She swung her gloved hands as she ran, keeping loose and ready in case anyone thought that a woman alone in the dark was easy prey. That anyone would have serious regrets.
The temperature had dropped since the sun had gone down, and she pulled her black knit cap down over her eyebrows. Tesla had told her that most facial-recognition software used the eyes to make identifications — the distance between them, the depth of the eye socket, the color. The old surveillance cameras trained on the phone booths were black and white, low resolution, so maybe they’d be easier to fool.
As she got closer to the camera, she pulled up her black scarf so that it covered her nose. Being bundled up didn’t look out of place here, with the cold frost nipping at everyone’s nose this time of year.
The phone booths were empty. She aimed for the one on the end and wished that it had a door so she’d have privacy. Once inside the tiny room, she changed her mind. The smells of stainless steel and urine and cold assailed her — the bouquet of the city. Better to have one side open to the fresh air than keep all this penned up behind a door.
The walls were pocked with dents where people had kicked them or punched them, either because they hadn’t liked whatever they’d heard on the other end of the line or to let the metal know who was boss. Any way you looked at it, the phone booth had seen hard use.
Like almost everyone else, she never used phone booths. She had a cell phone to make and receive calls, but she’d turned it off before she left the house. Right now, she was under the radar, like everyone else who used these phones.
A glance into the deformed metal wall told her that her face was still concealed. She dialed the number and faced the opening of the booth again. She had no intention of turning her back on the dark park.
A slender Hispanic man in a denim jacket walked toward the phones, and she tensed. His hands were empty, and his stride was tired. Probably a guy who’d finished work and wanted to make a call. He took the booth next to hers and dialed a long number, somewhere overseas, and dropped quarter after quarter into the coin slot.