The October List Part 8

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, perhaps 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 a 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 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.

'Be careful,' the vendor said, his voice deflating, as if he wanted to append the word 'Father,' but was recalling that Dixon wasn't one. 'If they've done a crime they might not understand you want to help them. They might be desperate, dangerous.'

'I've made my peace with G.o.d,' Dixon called breathlessly as he broke into a trot, tapping his chest to make sure the small Bible was seated firmly in his pocket.

CHAPTER.

25.

11:10 a.m., Sunday

25 minutes earlier

'The gun just went off,' Gabriela whispered, her voice the tone of hysteria. 'I didn't mean to do it.'

Daniel remained silent. He steered her quickly down the sidewalk away from the scene of the shooting.

She asked desperately, 'He didn't die, did he? What did you see, Daniel? What did you see?'

Still, no response.

Sirens filled the air around them as they headed east from Madison Avenue. There were lights too, piercing white and blue flashers. And reflections of white and blue flashers in windows. Lights seemed to be everywhere. Daniel and Gabriela kept their heads down. They didn't dare look up.

Then he directed her quickly to the side, a ninety-degree turn. She nearly stumbled but he held her firmly.

'What?' she gasped.

A car skidded to a stop, an unmarked police car. Two detectives in suits leapt out and headed into a crowded specialty food store, displaying their badges.

'Do they think we're in there?' she asked.

'Just keep walking.'

Manic, Gabriela asked, 'He didn't die, did he? He was so young! Please, tell me!' Her grip must have hurt. He frowned. She relented.

'I don't know, Mac. I'm sorry, but I don't know. It's possible.'

Walking as fast as they dared without drawing attention, they moved east, leaving the unmarked car behind. She glanced back. The officers didn't appear. She and Daniel hurried south, then east again.

To anyone else's eye, they resembled a typical couple. Not particularly jovial, not particularly conversational. Harried. A relationship limned by stress, money woes, child woes, s.e.xual woes. Life in Manhattan, professionals. Yet every glance their way seemed tinted with suspicion.

But no one pointed, no one called out, no one seemed about to rip cell phones from holsters and speed-dial 911.

No one fled from the homicidal auburn-haired woman and her actor look-alike companion.

'I didn't think, Daniel. There was the gun. It was just there. I grabbed it! It went off. I've never even touched one before. I was just ... Oh, Jesus. What've I done?'

A look behind revealed a half-dozen pedestrians, but no police. Still, Gabriela focused on a man in a suit a rumpled gray one, of thin cloth, which seemed inadequate in the chill. He was walking in their direction. She noticed him because of his yellow shirt. His stride seemed purposeful though he wasn't paying particular attention to them.

Gabriela nudged Daniel. 'That guy? Yellow shirt? Look carefully.'

'Got it.'

'I've seen him before, I think. On Madison.'

'He followed us from the shooting?'

'I don't know-' Gabriela winced, gasped, then stopped abruptly, her hand on her side.

'It's bad?' he asked, gesturing down toward her ribs.

A nod.

'Can you walk?'

'Yes.' Though she frowned when they began again.

They kept their heads down, not looking anywhere but at the sidewalk. Suddenly Daniel took her arm and guided her quickly into a Korean deli, where they paused to examine the fresh-cut flowers and a tub of ice in which nested plastic bottles of orange and mango juice.

'What?' Gabriela asked in a whisper.

'Cops.'

A police cruiser sped past, silently, but its lights pierced as harshly as a siren.

Blue and white ...

A moment later they took to the sidewalk again. They dodged through traffic and bicyclists and joggers and more pedestrians. When they hit the uptowndowntown street, another police car sped past.

She looked back and said urgently, 'I thought I saw him again. The yellow shirt guy.'

When they reached the next intersection, another police car sped past. It didn't slow, but the officers were looking around. He said, 'We need to get out of sight. There's a place we can stay.'

'Where?'

'The Norwalk Fund has an apartment, for out-of-town clients.'