Dissonance (9 page)

He spotted the man at the end of the platform as a train pulled out of the station.
Not going anywhere.
The man shivered and clutched his collar tighter around his neck. A moment later he shifted, took the scarf from around his neck, and put it over his head. He moved sideways a few inches and lay down for a second, then sat up again. This time he took his jacket off and balled it up. Galen knew the drill well: the city had built the benches with wooden separators that dug into a body when you tried to sleep on them. Experienced subway dwellers got used to the discomfort.

The man sat up again and pulled the jacket back on. He noticed Galen standing there and frowned.

“What are you staring at?” the man demanded as he leaped to his feet and backed away.

Galen hadn’t expected the sudden fear or the anger he saw on the other man’s face. He never did as well with anger as he did with other emotions.
Breathe. Relax.
He took a deep breath and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. You’re British, right?”
Wonderful.
He always said amazingly stupid things when faced with anger.

“And?” the man answered after an uncomfortable pause. He glanced around as if expecting to see more people.

Running from something.

“Unusual.” Galen had always been better with silences. They helped clear his thoughts and allowed him to think.

“Last I heard there were 63 million of us. Not so unusual.” The man closed his eyes, obviously wanting Galen to leave him be.

Galen had meant that it was unusual to meet a Brit sleeping in the subway, but it wasn’t worth explaining. He’d been stupid to bring it up—the man appeared very troubled.

“I think you made a mistake,” he said as he reached into his jeans and pulled out the hundred-dollar bill the man had left for him two weeks before. He’d held onto it, knowing he needed to return it although not really understanding why. A hunch. One of those feelings he sometimes got about a person.

The man opened his eyes and was clearly about to tell him to get lost when he saw what Galen held out to him.

“No mistake.” The man glanced down.

Galen shrugged and pocketed the bill. “Name’s Galen. Galen Rusk.”

“Hmm.”

Galen waited patiently. He knew it sometimes took people time to warm up to him. He often did things people didn’t expect, and this sometimes made for uncomfortable situations. This guy probably didn’t trust him either. A good thing, given that the subways weren’t always the safest place to sleep.

“Cam,” the man said after another pause.

“Good to meet you, Cam.” Galen offered Cam his hand. Cam hesitated, then shook it. Cam held Galen’s hand a little longer than Galen expected. More signs of desperation, if Galen had needed convincing. “It’s not as cold upstairs,” he added after nearly a minute passed in silence.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Sure. No problem.” Galen knew it for a lie, but he’d expected that. He wouldn’t push any more. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Cam. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too.” Cam appeared unconvinced. Also happy to see Galen go.

Galen offered Cam what he hoped was a reassuring smile. As Cam glanced away, Galen set the hundred-dollar bill on the bench, wadded up so that a passing train wouldn’t send it flying. Then, as another train pulled into the station but didn’t stop—the MTA did track work after midnight, and the express trains ran on local tracks—he turned and walked back up the platform.

C
AM
SETTLED
onto the hard wooden bench at the end of the No. 4 platform. Downtown.
How appropriate.
He’d watched the Friday-night commuter exodus, pale-faced businessmen and women eating greasy hot dogs covered in onions and whatever else they dared pile on top as they quickly walked toward the exit for the Long Island Rail Road and Metro-North tracks. He’d never before noticed their tired expressions or how the dim station lights made the circles under their eyes appear darker. He did now.

He’d used his last three dollars to buy himself some soup at Au Bon Pain. It had come with about a quarter of a baguette. He’d finished it in five minutes and he’d felt warm. Now, four hours later, the cold had returned, as well as the empty feeling in his stomach. The expensive calfskin jacket looked great, but he hadn’t realized it wasn’t meant to keep anyone warm.

The trumpet player finished another piece. Classical. Haunting. It was getting on midnight, and Cam guessed he’d be headed to wherever he went when he wasn’t playing. Cam hadn’t heard him play on a weeknight. Maybe he played at a different station during the week. Or maybe he had a day job. Cam imagined him as one of those bicycle delivery guys who played chicken with the cabbies on 7th Avenue, hair flying about his face, the bottoms of his jeans held against his ankles with rubber bands or silver tape.

Another train stopped at the station. He moved to the end of the platform where reception was the best and turned on his mobile. He glanced at the screen, cursed under his breath, then shut it off to conserve the dwindling battery. Why the hell hadn’t Dan called him back yet? He could hide here for a day, maybe two, but he needed money. He figured he had about seventy-five cents in his pockets. Maybe a dollar. What the hell could that buy in New York City?

He shivered as the train pulled away and the temperature dropped a few degrees. Maybe there was a reason the homeless people slept in the passages that zigzagged under 42nd Street.
It’s safer here.
He lay down on the bench and tried to ignore the wood that separated the bench into individual seats.
No doubt meant to keep people like me from sleeping on the goddamned benches.

He pulled his cashmere scarf out from around his neck and draped it over his head, then scooted up a few inches so one of the wooden separators sat at his waist. Another one cut into his shoulder. He bunched the jacket up and tried to cushion the spot with limited success. His heart pounded. He couldn’t sleep like this. What if they found him?

Fuck this. They won’t find you here.
This wasn’t a manhunt. He’d found a discarded newspaper on one of the benches. Nothing about him. Nothing about the investigation. He’d be safe here. Still, he felt anxious enough that he decided to sit up again. He’d sleep upright. Or maybe he wouldn’t sleep at all. At the sound of a train in the distance, his gaze strayed to the tracks. That was when he noticed the trumpet player watching him from a few feet away.

“What are you staring at?” Cam demanded, getting to his feet and backing up toward the wall.
And then what? If he’s FBI, are you going to frighten him away with your blinding personality?
He took a deep breath. This man wasn’t FBI. Cam had seen him before the entire mess of a situation, before the FBI had even been a blip on his radar. The man was irritating but harmless.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. You’re British, right?”

Cam waited for more, but the man just kept looking at him.
Fucking brilliant.
He’d heard of savants who could play but couldn’t manage to feed themselves. “And?” he replied at last, after the man said nothing more.

“Unusual.”

“Last I heard there were 63 million of us. Not so unusual.” Cam closed his eyes. Maybe he’d go away and leave Cam in peace.

“I think you made a mistake,” the man said.

Cam opened his eyes again, about to tell the twit to get stuffed, but he stopped. The trumpet player had moved closer to him and was holding something out in his left hand. A bill. A hundred-dollar bill, judging by Ben Franklin’s cheery face peering back at him. The hundred-dollar bill Cam had dropped into the trumpet case the week before? He’d kept it? Cam could eat for a week on a hundred dollars, if he was careful.

“No mistake,” Cam said. Well, it hadn’t been, had it? And if he took the bill, he’d be admitting to this stranger that he was skint.

The man shrugged, then pocketed the bill. “Name’s Galen. Galen Rusk.”

“Hmm.”

Galen didn’t respond, clearly waiting for Cam’s response.

Fine.
“Cam,” he said.

“Good to meet you, Cam.” Galen offered Cam his hand. Cam hesitated, then shook it. A firm handshake. Confident and warm. In another reality, he’d have wanted to keep holding that hand. Take away the grunge clothing, and Galen would have been someone Cam might have noticed. Cam released Galen’s hand.

“It’s not as cold upstairs,” Galen said after nearly a minute passed in silence.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

If Galen knew it for the lie it was, he didn’t let on, and for that, Cam was thankful. “Sure. No problem.” Galen paused, then added, “Maybe I’ll see you around, Cam. Take care of yourself, okay?”

Why did Americans insist on being so informal? As if the guy cared at all what happened to him. “You too.” Seemed like the proper response. Bollocks, of course.

Galen smiled to reveal a set of dimples Cam hadn’t noticed before, then turned and walked back up the platform and disappeared around the corner. Cam shivered and pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck.

Another train pulled into the station but only slowed down a bit. An express train on the local track. Cam decided Galen was right: he’d be warmer upstairs. More exposed too, but warmer felt like a higher priority. He got to his feet and wrapped his scarf around his neck. That was when he noticed something on the bench at his side.

A hundred-dollar bill.

“G
ET
UP
!”
someone shouted in Cam’s ear.

Heart pounding, momentarily unsure of where he was, Cam sat bolt upright.
The subway platform. Right.
When his eyes focused, he saw a half-dozen young men standing around the bench where he’d been sleeping.

“What do you want?” Cam demanded angrily. They’d scared the shit out of him. Did they think that was funny?

One of the men—the one standing in front of Cam so he couldn’t get up from the bench—looked at his companions and laughed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said in a pathetic, mocking attempt at an English accent, “let’s start with any credit cards or cash you have.”

“Fuck off,” Cam hissed. He’d had enough shit, he didn’t need any more.

The man hauled Cam to his feet by the collar of his jacket. Cam kneed him in the groin and, in return, got slapped across the face.
Bollocks!
Where the hell was everyone? It was a Saturday afternoon, for God’s sake.

“Now are you going to give us what we need, you fucking
queen
”
—
this drew several sniggers from the man’s friends—“or am I going to have to cut you?”

Cam saw the glint of steel out of the corner of his eye. He knew better than to mess with a knife. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Not that the credit cards would do them any good, but his wallet had what was left of his money. The hundred-dollar bill and a handful of change. One of the other men pulled the wallet out of his hand.

“Gimme the jacket,” the man said after one of his buddies high-fived him. Apparently the gold and platinum credit cards were a good haul.

Cam hesitated, and for that he got a knee to the gut. He bent over and coughed a few times while one of the men pulled the jacket from his shoulders.

Fucking hell.
It’d be damn cold without that jacket.

“You got a phone?” one of the other thugs asked as Cam struggled to catch his breath. His gut hurt, and if he’d had anything in his stomach, he might have vomited.
Thank heaven for the little things.

“Of course he’s got a phone,” the first man said. “Hand it over.”

“No.” He couldn’t give up his phone. Without his phone, he’d have nothing at all. And if Duncan called—

He won’t call. You know that already.
Still, he needed to hold on to the hope that Duncan’s silence was a huge misunderstanding, or he’d be totally lost.

The second slap hurt more than the first. “Gimme the fuckin’ phone,
fag.
” More snorts from the rest of the men.