Mad Dog Justice (16 page)

At the Fordham station, a group of college kids boards the train. The car is now crowded with people; many are standing in the aisle. The noise escalates to a stentorian level. Roddy can still see Slavic Guy through occasional gaps in the crowd filling the aisle.

The train crosses the bridge over the Harlem River and rumbles along a trestle toward the Harlem–125th Street station. It passes four-story tenement houses crouched alongside the elevated tracks. A crowd of kids congregates at the doors. Roddy stands, grabs his canvas bag, and moves toward the front of the car to the first set of doors. If anyone’s watching, it looks as though
he’ll get off at 125th Street. He edges toward the door but doesn’t look back to where Slavic Guy sits. As the train pulls to a stop, the kids wait for the doors to open. Their yelling and laughter are at an ear-splitting level. When the doors slide apart, the group clamors en masse onto the platform. Roddy slips out with them, glances about, and darts into the car in front of the one he exited.

The next-to-last car is nearly empty. Roddy huddles into the last seat on the right side. Looking out the window, he scans the platform, looking for Slavic Guy. There’s no sign of him. The train remains stationary as the pack of kids makes its way noisily to the exit stairwells.

Roddy waits for the train to leave the station and make the last lap to Grand Central Terminal, ten minutes away.

T
he train lurches and starts moving.

Roddy’s heart thunders as he wonders if Slavic Guy is following him. He looks out the window at tenement buildings and housing projects. The train picks up speed and hurtles toward Grand Central Terminal. At 97th Street, the tracks dip and the train barrels into the tunnel beneath Park Avenue. The whooshing and clacking intensify within the tunnel’s confines. About thirty seconds into the tunnel, the overhead lights flicker and the train goes dark. When the lights come back on, Roddy hears the rear door behind him slide open.

Slavic Guy moves slowly into the car, walks down the aisle, and sits on the left side of the car, three rows in front of Roddy. He no longer carries the newspaper.

Roddy’s skin prickles as gooseflesh crawls over his arms and neck. It feels like a wire hums in his chest. Its thrumming radiates down his arms to his fingertips. Objects look sharply etched in the car’s fluorescence as the train speeds through the darkened tunnel.

He’s sitting between me and the nearest door, so when I leave the train, he’ll be right behind me. The bastard’s following me. He’s gonna get close and put a bullet in my head
.

Roddy can almost
feel
his pupils dilate. Adrenaline pumps through him, leeching into every part of his body. He slips his
hand inside his jacket pocket; the heft of the revolver feels reassuring. He gets up from his seat and moves down the aisle toward the front of the car. People look up at him as he passes. At the front of the car, he looks directly into the Plexiglas window. In the reflection, he sees Slavic Guy sitting impassively, peering into the tunnel’s blackness to his left. Roddy’s certain the guy’s doing just what Roddy did—using the window’s reflection as a mirror—to watch Roddy.

With his body jangling, Roddy slides the door open and stands in the cramped compartment between cars. Dank air rushes by as the train moves through the acrid, fume-filled maze leading to the terminal. Red and white lights flash eerily on the tunnel walls.

Opening the rear door of the car in front of him, Roddy moves forward, walking quickly up the aisle. This car is more crowded than the last two. It makes sense since most people prefer being toward the front of the train. They’ll be able to get quickly to the main concourse. Threading his way through the thickening crowd, Roddy gets to the first door of the car. He resists the temptation to glance back; he just keeps moving forward.

He passes through two more cars, heading toward the front end of the train. He looks back through the Plexiglas window of the door at the head of each car. The crowd makes it difficult to get a clear view, but at one point, he spots Slavic Guy wending his way forward, half a train car behind him.

With his heart pounding, Roddy pushes through the crowded aisle as the train nears Grand Central Terminal. In the first car, he slips through the thick pack of people and gets to the forward set of doors. Looking through the door’s window, he strains to see the platform. His feet feel like they’re in motion, as though he’s running while standing still. Peering out, he can see the train isn’t yet adjacent to the platform. He hopes he’s on the side of the train where the doors will open so he can make a quick exit. If the platform is on the other side, a mass of people will stand between
him and the exit. Slavic Guy will have plenty of time to move closer. And then what?

Roddy peers back but can no longer see his pursuer. But there’s no doubt the guy is right there, less than twenty feet away, hidden in the mass of people. The crowd begins pressing toward the doors. Roddy’s in luck; he sees the platform as the train slides adjacent to it. The doors on the side where he’s standing will open, and he’ll hustle off.

He can tell the train is pulling into the lower level of the terminal. Those passengers still sitting collect their belongings and begin filling the aisle. The conductor’s voice announces the arrival at track 102. The train slows to a crawl. Roddy waits. He can nearly
feel
Slavic Guy edging closer through the crowd.

The train stops. The doors don’t open. Roddy waits, pressed against the door. His entire body feels like it’s throbbing. His feet want to move, but there’s nowhere to go. People in the crowd mutter; they press closer. The doors stay closed. Roddy looks through the door’s window; the platform leads to a long ramp at his left. He feels a sudden urge to pound his fist on the door.

It must be a full minute before the doors slide open. When they do, people gush from the train. Amid the horde, Roddy lunges onto the platform. He swivels left and strides quickly up the ramp toward an archway leading to the terminal’s lower level.

The lower concourse is mobbed with commuters. It’s nearly five o’clock; the place is a maelstrom of movement and noise. Throngs of people stream in every direction. Roddy’s heart rate accelerates as he picks up speed, passing Zaro’s Bakery and a shoeshine concession. He casts a glance back at the mass of humanity vomiting forth from the ramp. No sign of Slavic Guy.

Every sense is primed as Roddy keeps going. He feels that inner surge of readiness he felt back in his army days. He’s pumped, galvanized, even wired. He was trained for this—to take in his surroundings in a second, to hear, smell, and feel everything
around him. It’s a state of total arousal. He moves past people wheeling rolling suitcases and carrying duffel bags and backpacks, briefcases, shopping bags, travel gear, and packages.

He passes the center food concession and the ramp leading to the Oyster Bar. The food court is filled with the steamy scents of pita, hummus, chipotle sauce, croissants, and baked bread. He sees and smells it all in a half second. He passes Junior’s—jammed with people eating—gets to the stairway at the Vanderbilt Avenue side of the terminal, and scrambles up three flights of steps, taking two at a time, thankful he’s stayed in shape.

The main concourse roars in an oceanic rumble. It’s a cavernous expanse with a vaulted turquoise ceiling displaying the zodiac constellation. The space is filled with a roiling sea of people—crisscrossing tides of humanity. Long lines snake from the ticket windows; people mill about the information booth; others prattle on cell phones, text, snap pictures, and fiddle with their smart phones. A group of Asians smiles as one snaps a picture of the others in front of the famous clock above the information booth. Waves of commuters head for the train tunnels amid the roaring echo.

Roddy’s eyes rove over everyone, gathering information in a primal state of readiness. He heads toward the Lexington Avenue side of the concourse. Glancing up at the east balcony, he sees a mobbed Apple outlet. He’s jolted by the memory that the last time he was at this spot, he was having dinner with Tracy in a restaurant where the Apple store now stands.

National guardsmen in camouflage fatigues and black boots are everywhere. Strapped to each soldier’s waist is a holstered Glock. He’s reminded of the Taurus in his pocket. A quick flash of Danny in the ICU and then of Walt McKay floods him: guns, bullets, blood, death, and the mob. He passes a soldier standing with a leashed German shepherd, a black beast with tawny markings—no doubt, a bomb sniffer.

Passing the Hudson News concession, almost trotting, he strides into the Lexington Passage, a store-filled arcade with people streaming in both directions. He comes to a wide stairway leading to the Lexington Avenue subway line where the 4, 5, and 6 trains run. He scrambles down the stairs and swipes his MetroCard through the turnstile’s slot.

Crossing an overhead walkway, he gets to the uptown side of the station. Glancing back, he sees nothing suspicious. It seems he’s lost Slavic Guy. But there’s no way to be certain amid the throbbing mass of humanity. He scampers down a stairway to the Lexington line’s northbound platform. A mob of people wait for the uptown trains—the express on the middle track and the local on the side track. A vented duct blows heat over the platform. It emits an oily odor. Squeezing through the crowd, Roddy hunches down to make himself a little shorter; he tries to blend in. He looks about: no sign of Slavic Guy. Roddy waits, knowing he’ll jump on whichever train arrives first: local or express.

Standing at the platform’s edge, he hears a sound from deep within the tunnel: an express train is approaching. He cranes his neck and peers into the tunnel where a nimbus of light appears on the darkened wall. He feels a distant rumble and a slight shuddering of the platform. The crowd senses the approaching train and presses closer to the platform’s edge.

Roddy spots a heavily built man with dark facial stubble. Squinting, Roddy sees the edge of a blue-black tattoo on the man’s neck above the collar of a black anorak—no doubt, part of the Russian mob’s body markings. A shock-like surge ramps through Roddy. The guy is tough-looking: wide faced, grizzled, with deep-set, dark eyes. He’s steep-jawed and has prominent cheekbones. He stands only a few feet away. A Bluetooth device angles over his right ear. His eyes roam over the crowd, bypassing Roddy. Does he know Roddy’s seen him? Is he trying to blend in and appear benign?

Jesus, there’s more than one. And they’re in telephone contact. Or am I going crazy?

Roddy peers into the tunnel and sees the train’s light approaching rapidly. Suddenly, he realizes he’s in danger at the platform’s edge.

With the train rocketing toward him, he could be pushed onto the tracks. It’s so easy to do in a thick crowd. The guy could then melt away.

Roddy pivots and moves back from the edge.

The subway throttles into the station with a gust of air, a roar, and a faint odor of ozone. It screeches to a halt. A loud speaker announces its arrival. A horde of passengers pours from the train onto the platform. They thread through the waiting crowd, and the platform is a chaotic mass of people. When the clot of humanity has exited, those waiting press forward into the car. Roddy is swept along with them. People push and press; everyone is compacted into the car’s confines.

The doors slide shut and then snap open. The train is so packed, the doors can’t close. People press together more forcefully. Roddy squirms deeper into the car, stepping on someone’s toes. He spots Bluetooth Guy near the door, so he threads his way deeper into the throng.

The doors close again, open, and close once more. A voice over the PA system says, “Step into the train and watch the closing doors.”

Roddy tries pushing through the crush of people—maybe he can get to the other side of the car—but it’s impossible. The people are packed shoulder to shoulder and chest to back. There’s barely room to breathe. Roddy writhes his way deeper into the mass. A man next to him mutters, “Jesus, guy. Take it easy.”

It’s impossible to change position or move away.

Roddy’s in the middle of the car. And Bluetooth Guy is right behind him, amid the crush, getting nearer—only a few feet
away—unseen, angling closer. Roddy can’t even reach into his pocket for the pistol. A solid wall of humanity prevents him from moving an inch. The hairs on his neck bristle as the subway roars through the tunnel’s darkness.

It nears 59th Street and slows. As the brakes engage, the train comes to a squealing halt. Passengers begin pushing, shoving, squeezing out of the car, disgorging onto the platform. A horde of people wait outside, ready to stampede into the train once it partially empties. Roddy is swept toward the door by the departing mass. He elbows his way out and finds himself on the platform.

He races to a nearby escalator. People are packed two abreast on the moving stairway. It rises slowly. A frantic glance back tells him Bluetooth Guy is at the bottom of the escalator. He’s shoving people aside, moving upward, his eyes staying on his quarry. Roddy turns and pushes past people, taking two steps at a time. Slipping around them, he moves like liquid up the escalator and makes his way toward the top, where the local train runs.

He glances back and sees a commotion on the escalator. It’s Bluetooth Guy pushing his way toward him. Rising slowly on the moving stairway, Roddy can now see a train disgorging passengers on the upper platform. It’s a local, heading toward the Bronx. If he can shove his way past this last group of people, he’ll be on the platform and can slip into the train before the doors close. Bluetooth Guy will be left behind amid the crowd.

He’s blocked from jumping ahead on the escalator—too many people jammed in close together.
Jesus, this is taking forever
. The escalator continues its slow rise. Roddy’s heart stampedes as he reaches the top and bolts toward the train—just as the doors slide shut. The train stands still. Roddy slams his palm against the door, hoping the conductor will open the doors. The train doesn’t move. Roddy pounds his fist on the door.