Critical Space (21 page)

Behind me, under the awning and against the wall to the main cabin, I saw the ladder Drama had directed me to, marked with a sign warning that no one was admitted above. Attached to the awning, stowed above the beams that crisscrossed above my head, were old life jackets, faded safety orange, and nothing to trust your life to, from the looks of them. Faded paint noted that they were to be used in emergencies only.

I moved to the ladder and turned to face out again, waiting, listening to the wind and the gulls. The clump of tourists from the aft had moved forward, were emerging on my right, snapping photographs and talking in broken English and fluent German.

My radio crackled, and Corry came on, saying,
"Check, check, anyone read?"

"Where the hell have you been?"

"A repeater went down somewhere, something, we lost communications when we left the Island. How are you reading?"

"Five-by," I said. "Where's Moore?"

"I'm here, "
Robert said.

"I'm on the ferry," I said.

"We heard, "
Corry said.
"Bridgett gave Natalie the update, we called in to let her know what was going on. You know your next stop?"

"Other than Staten Island, no, not yet."

"We're just getting into Brooklyn, the bridge traffic nearly killed us. We're going to try and come across on the Verrazano. Keep us in the loop. Out."

"Out," I said. Off to the port side, I could see the bridge spanning the Verrazano Narrows, linking Brooklyn to Staten Island. It would take them at least another twenty minutes to reach it, by which time we'd be pulling into the St. George Ferry Terminal. Depending on what happened next, we'd either end up moving closer together or farther apart.

The tourists decided it was too cold and went back inside, and as they did, Bridgett came out, zipping up her biker jacket. She was wearing sunglasses, and she went to the railing and leaned over it, half of her six feet one dangling over the deck below, and with the wind blowing off the water making her hair fly, she looked impressive, and I knew she was posing. Then she pushed back off the railing and reached into a pocket. I guessed Altoids, but she came out with Cherry Life Savers and started chomping them down.

Something was beeping, and it took me a couple seconds before I realized that it wasn't coming over my radio, that it was a pager going off nearby, but there was nobody nearby with a pager as far as I could see. With my earpiece in, the sound was impossible to pinpoint, and I yanked it free, listening, then looked up.

One of the life jackets was paging me. I tried reaching for it and couldn't find anything, resorted to using the ladder, and on the second rung reached again. It was on top of the life jacket at the back, beside the opening onto the deck above, and I pulled it down, looking it over. It was black, new, with an LCD readout on the side for alpha-numeric messages.

I dropped off the ladder and turned it off, then used the buttons on the side to scroll through the message.

BLACKVWPASSAT... NJNADGAR...

KEEPWATCHINGTHISSPACE...

When I looked up again, Bridgett was at my shoulder and the St. George Ferry Terminal was looming large off the bow.

"Got all that?" I asked.

"Yup. Make sure I'm behind you when you leave the terminal."

"Keep your distance. She'll be watching, and if she thinks you're threatening her plans, she'll move against you."

She gave me a grin to humor me, then gestured that I should lead the way back down to the cars. As we worked our way back down I got on the radio and told Corry and Moore to stand by, that I'd have more information shortly. Bridgett stayed with me as I searched for the VW, even though I told her to back off, and we were about to hit the terminal before I found it. When she saw where it was parked, Bridgett swore, echoing curses off the walls around us.

"Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch!" Bridgett said, and then she kicked the Passat for good measure.

It was the last car in the third row. Bridgett's Porsche was parked several cars ahead, and the way the vehicles were packed in, there was no way she'd be able to fall in behind me as we left the terminal. It meant she'd have to pull out as fast as she could and then circle back around, and hope that she'd be able to catch me before I got out of sight.

The ferry hit Staten Island with a gentle bump, and Bridgett shook her head once, then ran to her car. I tried the door on the Passat, and of course it was unlocked. It took me a few seconds to find the keys, checking the ignition, then the glove compartment, before I found them wedged between the roof and the passenger-side sun visor.

As I started the car, the pager began beeping.

DIRECTIONSUNDERFLOORMAT

I bent and lifted the mat, found a folded sheet of paper, typed in the same font as the others had been. Before I had a chance to read it, the pager went off again.

SHEKEEPSHERDISTANCEORSHEGETSHURT

Cars were beginning to move off the ferry. I dropped the pager in my lap, put the car in gear, and edged forward, then hit the transmit button in my left palm.

"Bridgett, you're going to have to back off."

"Like hell."

"I got another page. She just threatened you."

"Let her. "

"Whoa, "
said Corry.
"She just what? "

"Drama just warned Bridgett to back off," I said. "I'm getting messages by pager."

"Then Bridgett had bloody well better back off, "
Moore snapped.
"If Drama's twitchy, Wendy could end up dead. "

"You're assuming Wendy's still breathing, "
Bridgett retorted hotly.
"And Wendy isn't my fucking priority at this moment. "

I slammed the transmit button down again, breaking in before Moore could get a response off, snarling, "God dammit, that's enough! I want radio silence
now,
I don't want anybody saying anything until I come back on the line, is that understood?"

There was silence in my ear. The light at the intersection changed to green, and Bridgett's Porsche didn't move.

"Confirmed,"
Corry said.

"Confirmed,"
Moore said.

The cars behind the Porsche began honking their horns.

"Con-fucking-firmed, "
Bridgett said, and she must have popped the clutch, because the Porsche ripped out of the intersection with a squeal and smoke. She took the left too hard, the 911 hugging the road, and then braked into the parking lot of a nearby BP station.

The Passat was an automatic, and I edged it forward until the light turned to red and the line stopped, then took the opportunity to review the sheet of instructions. Skimming them gave no hint of my next destination. Unlike the previous instructions, these were both incredibly vague and yet, at the same time, dictatorial.

There were twenty-nine separate steps I was to follow, given in distance and relative direction, no compass points. Number 29 itself was, "EXIT CAR. ANSWER PAGE." At the bottom of the page she'd typed, "DON'T WASTE TIME."

The signal turned to green, the cars in front of me began to move, and I turned left, activating the transmitter once more.

"I'm rolling. Turning onto Bay Street, coming out of the terminal. No way to tell where she wants me to go. I don't even have compass points to work with, just left and right turns."

"Damn,"
Corry muttered.

"That solves that, "
Bridgett said.
"I'm staying with him until we know where he's going. Anybody have a problem with that?"

"No,"
Corry said.

Moore didn't transmit anything.

"Stay out of sight of the car," I said. "I'll radio you with the street names as I have them, follow at a distance. Corry?"

"Still here. "

"You've got the map?"

"Hagstrom page 63, baby."

"All right, try to plot me on that, maybe you can figure out where I'm going."

"Confirmed. Have to say, we're way behind you. If something goes down, we may not be able to close the distance in time."

"How far out are you?"

"Maybe another fifteen minutes before we hit the Verrazano, even the way Dale's driving. Morning traffic."

"Don't worry about it, "
Bridgett said.
"I've got your back."

The instructions led me from the ferry onto Victory Boulevard for almost three miles, past rows of dingy houses made dingier by the lack of color in the sky. Either the air conditioner in the Passat was broken or I didn't understand the controls, because the atmosphere in the car was thick and dead. I rolled down the window as I came up to Silver Lake Park, trading the security of a closed vehicle for the hope of air.

There was a grotesque monument to modern architecture opposite Silver Lake Park, a block of apartments that looked like it'd been built by the same firm that handled most of the U.S. Army's bunkers in foreign lands. My instructions had me continuing another 1.3 miles before a turn, and as I came over the crest of a small hill, with the Silver Mount Cemetery on my right, I caught a glimpse of the Porsche in my rearview mirror.

"You're still too close. Give me more room."

"There's plenty of room,"
Bridgett said.

"Give me at least half a mile, more if you can."

Her grunt was sullen in my ear.

I had another left coming up, and as the odometer confirmed the distance, I signaled the turn. "Left onto Clove. Heading roughly south now, maybe southeast."

Bridgett radioed a confirmation. Corry came back on the air, but there was a lot of interference, and I had to ask him to repeat.

"Said it looks like you're actually coming in our direction."

"Hope it stays that way," I said.

The traffic on Clove was busier than it had been on Victory, and I went another half a mile before hitting a light and checking the directions. I was on Step 11 now, and had another left coming up, in less than a tenth of a mile. Ahead of me, past the light, the intersection had been constructed around the Staten Island Expressway, and it looked like I had two choices: I could either make an almost immediate left or I could continue past the highway and make the left there. The odometer wasn't helping much.

The light changed, and I decided to err on the side of caution, making the left onto Narrows Road, then relaying the decision by radio to the others. Everyone acknowledged.

Step 12 said to continue .86 of a mile and then to make a right. Behind me, a black Camaro made its presence known by leaning on its horn. I ignored it, knowing that I was driving like a little old lady, and unwilling to take things any faster. The odometer ticked off eight-tenths of a mile, and I didn't see a right turn onto anything. The Camaro tried to get around me, found that it was blocked by a truck, and gave me more horn. The odometer was about to roll over another mile before I saw a right I could take, a busy intersection onto Richmond Road.

"Right onto Richmond," I radioed. If I had made a mistake, if I had taken the wrong turn when I'd gotten onto Narrows, there wasn't much of a point in sharing that.

Confirmations came back, and once again, Corry's and Moore's transmissions were snarled with static.

Step 13 instructed me to continue 2.4 miles before making another turn, a left. The Camaro had gotten around me when I turned onto Richmond, and I drove, trying to monitor the odometer. If it was off, I was screwed, I'd have to double back to Narrows and try again. The road wasn't easy, either; Richmond was just as crowded as Narrows had been, and getting worse as more and more people left their homes to head to work. The Passat had a radio and CD player, and the digital clock informed me that it was now four minutes to eight in the morning.

I'd gone 2 of the 2.4 miles indicated when Richmond did a strange kind of left bank, merging with another road, and try as I might I couldn't get a glimpse of any sign telling me if the names had changed. On my right-hand side I could see a huge and well-tended golf course, but nothing said what I should call that, either.

"I think I'm off Richmond," I radioed. "I've got a golf course on my right, now, but I don't know what it's called."

There was a storm of static, and Corry's voice came through choppy, the words broken. I heard
"Richmond"
and
"club,
" but the rest of it was garbage.

"Corry, you're breaking up, I've got you at five by two, best. Can you hear me?"

More static, and this time I didn't understand anything he said.

She can't be doing this, I thought. She can't be jamming us like this, not unless she's very close.

"Bridgett?"

"Still here."

"Corry and Moore must have hit a dead zone."

"Could be on the bridge, it could be eating the signal. I'm still with you, don't fret. "

"I've got another right coming up, Step 14, here..." I braked to a stop on the side of the road and stared at where Drama meant me to turn. I double-checked the paper and the odometer to be certain.

"Atticus?"

Once again, despite everything that was happening, I had to admire the skill of it. She'd picked the perfect place, just secluded enough to keep wandering eyes at bay, just public enough that our presence wouldn't raise suspicion. Large open areas, and over the stone wall along the side of the road I could see the tops of trees, and that meant there'd be cover at the fringes, too.

"Atticus, please respond, "
Bridgett said, her voice harsher.

I put the car back into drive and moved forward, taking the right turn dictated on the paper.

"It's a cemetery," I said.

Steps 15 through 29 came quickly, one after another, miles in tenths, left and right turns along narrow roads that wound through the tended grounds. The entrance was past a set of wrought-iron gates into a wide gravel semicircle, with smaller roads spanning off it like spokes jutting from a broken wheel. To the left I could see the administration buildings, the chapel, painted a depressing and smudged white. The cemetery was sprawling, and the plots spaced across sculpted hills and valleys, planted with grass and hundreds of trees of varying sizes. At one point a small bridge spanned a shallow pond with a fountain spewing a fan of water into the air. Picturesque. Most of the roads were unmarked, but a couple were named -- Moldavia, Centennial, Restoration.