The crash occurred on the
FDR. Strange thing, Joe had just been driving along Manhattan's East
Side and thinking it was amazing that there weren't more accidents on
the busy—and outdated— highway when, right in front of him, a crash
caused the car a few lengths ahead of him to slam into someone else. The
sounds of screeching tires, shattering glass, grating steel and several
massive impacts were evidence that the domino effect had come into play.
Someone almost stopped in the aftermath of the first collision, but then
that car was pushed into the next lane, and the driver coming up didn't
have time to stop. He slammed into it hard and careened into the next
lane. The car that hit that driver bounced over the median and into the
oncoming traffic going south.
Joe somehow made it off to the side, threw his car into Park and hit
9-1-1 on his cell phone. He reported what he saw and his position,
dropped the phone and hurried out to help.
The car that had caused the initial crash was fairly far ahead of him,
but there was a line of disabled vehicles stretching back from it almost
to where he was.
The people in the car closest to him were fine, and so were the people
in the next vehicle, and the driver of the third probably had nothing
more than a broken arm.
The smell of gas around the car that had hopped the median was strong,
though—a bad sign.
People had stopped all around, talking, shouting, while other drivers
were trying to get around the wreckage no matter what.
"Hey, it's going to blow up!" someone called to Joe as he approached the
car. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment but kept going. He wasn't a
superhero, he'd just worked lots of accident scenes when he'd been a
cop, and an inner voice was assuring him that—death-defying or not—he
had time to help.
The car was upside down. There was blood coming from the driver's head,
which was canted at an awkward angle. The man's eyes were closed.
"Hey. You have to wake up. We've got to get you out of there. I'm going
to help you," Joe told him.
"My niece," the man said. "You've got to help my niece." He grabbed Joe,
his grip surprisingly strong.
"Trish," the man said.
Then Joe saw the little girl. She was in the back. Not really big enough
for the seat belt, she had slipped out of it and was on the roof—now the
f loor—with silent tears streaming down her face.
Joe said with forced calm, "Come on, honey. Give me your hand." She had
huge, saucer-wide blue eyes, and she was maybe about seven or eight and
just small for her age, he decided. "Trish," he said firmly. "Give me
your hand."
He sighed with relief when she did so. He managed to get her out, even
though she had to crawl over broken glass on the way. As soon as he had
her in his arms, someone from the milling crowd rushed forward.
"Get the hell out of here now, buddy!" the man who took the child told
him. "The car is going to blow."
"There's a man in the car," Joe said.
"He's dead."
"No," Joe said. "He's alive. He talked to me."
Joe was dimly aware that the air was alive with sirens, that evening was
turning to night. He was fully aware of the fact that he didn't have
much time left.
Flat on his stomach, he shouted to the man who had taken the child from
him. "Get them back—get them all back!"
"Trish?" the man in the car said.
"It's all right. She's out. She's safe. Now, get ready, because I'm
releasing your seat belt. You've got to try to help me."
He did his best to support the guy's weight after he released the seat
belt, but it was a struggle. An upside-down crushed car didn't allow for
a lot of leeway, especially when it was about to explode.
But he got the man out. He could only pray that he hadn't worsened his
pain or any broken bones.
"Help me!" he roared, once he had the man away from the car. The same
Good Samaritan who had taken the child came rushing up. Together, they
started to half drag and half carry the man from the wreckage.
Just in time.
The car exploded, f lames leaping high over the FDR. They would have
been easily seen over in Brooklyn, and probably even halfway across
Manhattan.
The blast was hot and powerful. He felt it like a huge, hot hand that
lifted him, the victim and his fellow rescuer, and tossed them a dozen
feet so that they crashed down hard on the asphalt.
Joe rolled, trying to take the brunt of the impact, knowing he was in
far better shape to accept the force than the victim of the crash.
For a moment he didn't breathe, since there was nothing to breathe but
the fire in the air.
Then he felt pain in almost every joint, and the hardness of the road
against his back. He became aware of the screams around him, which he
hadn't heard before; the blast had sucked all the sound out of the air
along with the oxygen.
"You all right, buddy?" he asked the man who had helped him.
"Yeah—you?"
"Fine."
The next thing he knew, there was a young EMT hunkered down in front of
him. He tried to struggle up.
"Take it easy. Don't move until we're sure you haven't broken something,
sir," the med tech said.
"There's nothing broken. I'm good," Joe told him. "The guy who helped
me—"
"He's being taken care of."
"The man in the car—I think he was hurt pretty bad," Joe said.
"We, uh, we got it," the med tech told him. "And," he added gently, "the
girl is fine. Everyone's already talking about how you saved her life."
"Great, good," Joe said. "But the man needs—"
"Sir, I'm sorry to tell you, but he's dead."
"I thought he had a chance."
The med tech was silent for a minute. "You did a good thing," he said
very softly. "But that man—he died on impact, sir. Broken neck."
"No—he talked to me."
"I think maybe you hit your head, sir. That man couldn't have spoken to
you. I'm sure his family is going to be grateful you got the body out,
but he's been dead since the first impact. Honest to God. It was a
broken neck. He never suffered." As he spoke, the med tech got a
stethoscope out; apparently he wasn't taking Joe's word that he was
okay.
Joe had his breath back. He pushed the stethoscope aside and sat up,
staring at the med tech. What did the kid know? He wasn't the coroner.
"He was alive. He spoke to me. I wouldn't even have seen the girl if he
hadn't told me she was in the car."
"Sure."
Joe knew damned well when he was being humored. "I'm telling you, I'm
fine."
He knew the EMT was all good intentions, but he was just fine—except for
this kid trying to tell him that the man had died on impact.
"Sir, let me help you," the med tech said.
"You want to help me? Get me the hell out of here," Joe told him.
"Fast."
"Just let me get a stretcher."
"Sure," Joe said, figuring anything that would get the guy out of the
way was fine.
As soon as the med tech went off for a stretcher, Joe took a deep breath
and made it to his feet. Damn, it hurt. Well, he'd been pretty much
sandblasted when he skidded down on the roadway, and he wasn't exactly
eighteen anymore.
He saw that there was no way in hell he would be leaving the scene in
his own car. But it wasn't blocking anyone, so the thing was just to
start walking, to get away.
He did. It was easier than he'd imagined, but then, he was walking away
from a scene of chaos, and everyone's attention was on the wreck, not on
one lone pedestrian. He could hear voices—most alarmed and concerned,
some merely excited—surrounding him as he escaped the scene. More and
more cop cars and ambulances passed him.
He headed south along the shoulder, and at last he followed an entrance
ramp down to the street, where he hailed a taxi. The driver didn't even
blink at his appearance. Hey, this was New York.
He suggested a route to Brooklyn that didn't involve the FDR.
He got home eventually, where he showered and changed, then went out
into his living room and turned on the television, looking for the local
news.
The accident was center stage.
"Twelve were injured and are being given care in various area
hospitals," the attractive newscaster was saying. Her face was grave.
"There was one fatality. Adam Brookfield was killed when his car f
lipped over the median. The medical examiner reports that Mr. Brookfield
died instantly, though a heroic onlooker, who f led the scene, carried
the man's body from the automobile just instants before the car
exploded. That same man rescued Mr. Brookfield's six-year-old niece,
Patricia, who is doing well at St. Vincent's Hospital, where her parents
are with her."
The woman shifted in her chair to look into a different camera. The
somber expression left her face. She smiled. "This weekend, we welcome
the All American Chorale Union to Kennedy Center, and for those of you
with tickets, remember that tonight's the night for the special showing
of ancient Egyptian artifacts at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. All
those pricey meal tickets will pay for more archeological research right
here in New York. And now…"
Joe no longer heard her. He was irritated.
That man, Adam Brookfield, had been alive; he had spoken to Joe. It was
bull about him dying on impact. He couldn't have spoken if he'd been
dead.
Joe glanced at his watch. It would be hours before he could reasonably
go for his car, which meant it would probably be towed anyway. Screw it.
He had been on his way to attend tonight's fund-raiser at the Met when
he'd gotten sidelined by the accident, but now he decided he no longer
cared. He was heading to Manhattan and a bar that had become one of his
favorites.
* * *
"Congratulations, she's just beautiful, Senator," Genevieve O'Brien said
to Senator James McCray and his wife. They had been showing her pictures
of their new grandson, Jacob. She had done the right thing, "oohing" and
"aahing."
Frankly, the baby looked like a pinhead at the moment. As bald as a
buzzard. Squinched up and…newborn.
But the senator was a supporter of the Historical Society, and had a
paid great deal for his meal and a walk through the museum. Naturally
she was going to say all the right things about his grandchild. Of
course, if she'd met him on the street, she still would have said the
same things, she realized.
She damned digital cameras.
The senator had not had just one picture but at least a hundred.
"You need to get married and have children yourself, young lady," James
McCray said.
His wife elbowed him. She'd suddenly gone pale.
Genevieve sighed and tried not to show her feelings in her expression,
but she was so weary of this. Anything that so much as hinted of sex was
considered taboo around her. She'd been the victim of a maniac who'd
been stalking New York's streets and targeting prostitutes, the same
prostitutes Gen worked with. Everyone knew what she'd been through and
that it was a miracle she was alive.
She had stayed alive because she had realized quickly that her attacker
was actually incapable of sex. She had played on his own psychological
makeup, providing the bolstering and ego boosts that he needed, and
though she had been a prisoner and abused, she wasn't suffering as
shatteringly from the experience as the world seemed to think she should
be. If she faced an inward agony, it was knowing that someone
incredible, her friend Leslie MacIntyre, had died.
"I would love to have children one day, Senator, Mrs. McCray," she said
cheerfully. "When the right person to be a dad comes along. You enjoy
that beautiful baby. But now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see to a
few things."
Yes, she needed to see to an escape.
She walked quickly into a side hall, opened only for the convenience of
the Historical Society, which was hosting the event. There was a bench,
and she sat on it.
He hadn't shown.
She let out a sigh, wondering why she had even thought Joe would show
up. He was a fascinating guy, intrigued by almost everything in the
world. He hadn't come from money, but if anyone out there knew that
money really wasn't everything, it was her. Joe was one of those people
who lived life, and he'd done well enough for himself. He could look
like a million dollars in a suit. Definitely a striking guy.
And her friend, she thought.
When he wasn't avoiding her.
She smiled to herself. If she was in trouble, if she needed rescuing, he
would be right there. Thing was, she didn't need rescuing. And she
didn't want to need rescuing, either.
Her smiled faded.
She did want help.
She had hoped he would show tonight because she wanted to ask him about
the current worry dogging her life.
A murder.
The media had dubbed it the Poe Killing, because the victim, Thorne
Bigelow, had been president of the New York Poe Society, a readers and
writers group whose members studied the works and life of Edgar Allan
Poe, and called themselves the Ravens, and the killer had left a note
referring to the famous author.
She looked around the room. Most of the members were involved with
things that were considered either literary or important educationally
in the city of New York. There were several of the Ravens here tonight;
like her own mother, they also supported various groups interested in
history and archeology. Among them she noticed newspaper reporter Larry
Levine, who had come to cover the event. Then there was Lila
Hawkins—brassy and out-spoken and very, very rich. Quite frankly, she
was obnoxious, but she did do a lot of good things for the arts in the
city. Just a few minutes ago, Gen had seen Lila with Barbara Hirshorn,
another Raven and the complete opposite of Lila; Barbara was so timid,
she had difficulty speaking to more than one person at the same time.
She had noted that even Jared Bigelow had made a brief appearance with
Mary Vincenzo, his aunt, on his arm. He was gone now, and she hadn't had
a chance to speak to him. He had shown up just to support the cause
tonight; he was still in mourning for his father.
From her seat on the bench she could hear the booming voice of Don
Tracy, the one Raven who'd taken Poe to the masses. He was an actor, a
good one, even if he'd never become a household name. He loved the stage
and had performed Poe's works on numerous occasions.
None of them seemed to be frightened by the note that had been found
with Thorne's body.
Thorne Bigelow had been a very wealthy man. A well-known man. And though
murder happened all too often, it was the sad truth that a murder with a
hook—like a victim who was regularly in the headlines and a mysterious
note making reference to a long-dead storyteller and poet—intrigued the
media more than most deaths did.
It was only happenstance that Thorne Bigelow had been a very rich Raven.
The Ravens didn't demand that a member be wealthy, published on the
topic of Poe's life and works or world-renowned, though sometimes they
were. Thorne Bigelow had written a book on Poe that was considered to be
the definitive work on the man. Bigelow was honored far and wide for his
knowledge.
And he had been poisoned. Poisoned with a bottle of thousand-dollar
wine.
He loved wine, perhaps even to excess. And he had died of it.
À la Poe.
"The Black Cat."
Or perhaps "The Cask of Amontillado."
The killer didn't seem to have been too precise about which story he
meant Bigelow's death to parallel. He had made his intentions clear in
the note he'd left at the scene, though.
Quoth the raven: die.
The police were pretty much at a standstill, though why the media were
harassing them so strongly about the case, Genevieve wasn't certain.
Thorne Bigelow had only been dead a week. She knew from personal
experience that bad things could go on for a very long time before a
situation was resolved. If it hadn't been for her family's wealth and
her own disappearance, the sad deaths of many of the city's less
fortunate might have gone unsolved for a very long time.
But Bigelow was big news.
"My darling, there you are!"
