He breathed in the smell of engine oil, creosote, and urine. And dog. Kneeling, he lowered his bundle carefully to the stone-covered ground, wishing it were softer. “How you doing, old friend?”
His heart caught in his throat as he waited for the dog to respond. Was he still alive? Then, the blanket moved as Edison tried to wag his tail.
Edison opened his eyes and looked at Joe, but didn’t lift his head. He was weak and tired. Joe had to get him help right away.
First, he needed to make sure that the dog could be transported further. Joe eased the dirty blanket from around the dog, lifting him as little as possible. He needed to see the wound. The dim light of the platform verified that the blood that had once run down Edison’s shoulder had dried. He stroked the area around the wound lightly, checking to see if blood had seeped out from beneath the duct tape. Edison’s fur was warm and dry. So, the duct tape was holding — no leaks.
“That’s very good,” he told Edison. “You’re going to be OK.”
Edison’s ears perked up at the sound of his voice, but that was all the movement he had in him.
Joe began to wrap the blanket around the dog’s limp body, thinking as he worked, keeping his motions gentle and slow.
He couldn’t make it up the stairs and into the outside world. He wished that his life were more like a movie — that his love for the dog would let him overcome his handicap, but he knew better. Whatever quirk had settled into his brain chemistry, wishing that it would go away wasn’t going to fix it.
If he tried to go out, he would have a panic attack. Edison would be needlessly upset, and even if people stopped to help Joe, Edison’s needs might get ignored. He had to come up with a strategy that was all about the dog.
During his run through the tunnels, he’d realized that he had to call someone for help. His cell phone was surely monitored by now. The second he turned it on, cops would descend on him. For all he knew, Saddiq would receive his location information, too. Everyone would focus on arresting him, and Edison’s needs would get lost.
He’d have to try a pay phone. Many stations in the system still had pay phones, although he’d read that more than half didn’t work anymore. Maybe he’d get lucky. If not, he’d have to ask a commuter to borrow a cell phone. Maybe that guy would take pity on a man with a wounded dog.
He finished wrapping the dog and picked him up like a baby. Time to go.
In less than a minute, he was up the stairs. He expected someone to yell his name, to come and arrest him, but no one did.
He hurried to the pay phone and gently set Edison next to a metal post painted bright yellow. He tried not to think about how dirty the floor was, how dirty the blanket was. Edison would pull through this. He would.
While he’d run through the tunnels with the wounded dog in his arms, he’d made a list of people who might help him. It was a short list, and made shorter by the fact that the police likely knew most of the people on it — Celeste, Leandro, Vivian Torres. He doubted that any of them had a secure phone line anymore. He could try Mr. Rossi, but didn’t want to waste time being lectured about why running and hiding in the tunnels was too dangerous.
That left his dog walker — Andres Peterson. He always paid the man in cash so there would be no credit card trail to link the two of them. Andres never stayed long enough at the Hyatt to talk to the staff. Celeste was the only link, and she would never tell the cops anything.
He rubbed his palms together to clean off the dried blood, watching the flakes fall to the concrete floor, then picked up the filthy handset, and dropped in a quarter. The phone burred once (cyan), twice (blue), three times (red) before it was answered.
“Andres? It’s Joe Tesla.”
“I came to the Hyatt, Mr. Tesla, but you were not there.” Andres’s tone was frosty. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to cancel the dog walker. This was not the best day to have alienated him.
“I’m sorry, Andres.” He cut to the most important information. “Edison has been hurt. Badly.”
“The friendly dog? No!”
Joe didn’t have time to explain, and any explanation might make it less likely that Andres would help him. “Can you come to the Thirty-Third Street subway station to pick him up and take him to the veterinarian? It is an emergency. Life or death.”
A crashing sound came through the phone. “I come at once.”
Joe gave him directions on where to meet and told him to hurry before hanging up the black plastic receiver.
“Andres is coming, Edison,” he told the dog as he lifted him again, happy to see his ears move at the sound of Andres’s name. “He’s going to help you.”
Joe wished, again, that he could help the dog himself. That he could trot up those stairs, hail a cab, and save the creature who had given him more than any other, who had never asked for anything beyond basic care in return. Letting down Edison was worse than letting down the rest of the world.
No self-pity.
What he needed to do was find a way to wait in a busy subway station with a wounded dog without drawing attention to himself, even with God knew how many cops searching for him. That was easy.
Becoming invisible was all about the props. He snagged a Starbucks cup from an overflowing garbage can and made for the exit where he had instructed Andres to meet him. People walked by him, heads hunched into their warm coats, ignoring Joe completely.
Once he was as close to the outside as he dared to get, he put the dog on the cold floor. “Just a minute, Edison. I’ll pick you back up in a minute.”
Edison’s brown eyes followed his every move.
Joe slid the backpack off his back and turned it upside down so that no one could see that it was fairly clean and in good shape. Then he sat down. He emptied the last few drops of cold coffee onto the ground and dropped in a couple of quarters. He sat the cup in front of him, picked up the dog and held him carefully in his lap.
Now he wasn’t a millionaire murder suspect on the run. He was far easier to recognize and dismiss — a beggar with a dog. New York City had an army of invisible street people. One more would never be noticed.
People walked by him, eyes averted from the dirty man with the dog wrapped in a blanket. They didn’t want to have to think about him, to weigh whether or not they should give him money, or feel sorry for him or the dog. And that suited him just fine.
What he most wanted to do was sit and hold his dog in peace. He wanted Edison to feel how much he loved him, know how sorry he was, and take strength and hope from his touch. It was a lot, too much, to project onto the dog, but he didn’t care.
“It’s going to be OK,” he promised him in a low, crooning voice. “Andres will get you to a vet. Then you can stay with him for a while, or Celeste.”
Joe pushed the image of Edison’s lifeless body from his mind. Instead, he stroked the dog’s head, his soft ears, and stared into those patient brown eyes. Edison didn’t deserve this. He deserved walks in the park and steak sandwiches and warm evenings by the fire.
“Once I’ve sorted this out, I’ll get you back. I promise.”
He kept up a steady dialogue while petting the dog, trying not to think of anything but the moment. No future. No past.
A figure knelt next to him and Andres’s familiar voice spoke softly. “I’m here.”
“Thank you.” Joe had never felt such gratitude toward anyone. “Thank you.”
“I could not let Mr. Edison down.” Andres petted the dog’s head gently.
Joe pulled all of the money out of his pocket and handed it to Andres. It was more than five hundred dollars. “This should cover the vet bill and the taxi there. If it runs over, Celeste can pay you.”
Andres took only one hundred dollars and handed back the rest. “If it is more, I will ask Celeste. I think you need this more than she.”