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"Sure. I . . . Sure."
He left the bag and started to ease through the window.
She said into her radio, "This's Sachs. I'd expand the perimeter, Bo. He's going to be real cautious."
What the hell
was going on? Williams didn't waste time speculating. He awkwardly climbed back into the basement and walked upstairs. Once there he headed straight into the bathroom. He lifted the lid off the back of the toilet and dropped the gun in. He walked to the window, going to peek out once more. But then paused and ran back to the toilet just in time to be painfully sick.
*
A curious thing to say, given this fine day--and given what I've been up to with Myra 9834--but I miss being in the office.
First, I enjoy working, always have. And I enjoy the atmosphere, the camaraderie with the sixteens around you, almost like a family.
Then there's the feeling of being productive. Being involved in fast-paced New York business. ("Cutting edge" one hears, and that's something I do hate, the corporate-speak--a phrase that is itself corporate-speak. No, the great leaders--FDR, Truman, Caesar, Hitler--didn't need to wrap themselves in the cloak of simple-minded rhetoric.)
Most important, of course, is how my job helps me with my hobby. No, it's more than that. It's vital.
My particular situation is good, very good. I can usually get away when I want to. With some juggling of commitments I can find time during the week to pursue my passion. And given who I am in public--my professional face, you could say--it would be very unlikely for someone to suspect that I'm a very different person at heart. To put it mildly.
I'm often at work on weekends too, and that's one of my favorite times--if, of course, I'm not engaging in a transaction with a beautiful girl like Myra 9834 or acquiring a painting or comic books or coins or a rare piece of china. Even when there are few other sixteens present at the office, on a holiday, Saturday or Sunday, the halls hum with the white noise of wheels moving society slowly forward--into a bold new world.
Ah, here's an antiques store. I pause to look into the window. There are some pictures and souvenir plates, cups and posters that appeal to me. Sadly I won't be able to return here to shop because it's too close to DeLeon 6832's house. The odds of anyone making a connection between me and the "rapist" are quite minimal, but . . . why take chances? (I only shop in stores or scavenge. eBay is fun to look at, but buying something online? You'd have to be mad.) For the time being cash is still good. But soon it'll be tagged, like everything else. RFIDs in the bills. It's already done in some countries. The bank will know which $20 bill was dispensed to you from which ATM or bank. And they'll know you spent it on coke or a bra for your mistress or as a down payment to a hit man. We should go back to gold, I sometimes think.
Off. The. Grid.
Ah, poor DeLeon 6832. I know his face, from the driver's license picture, a benign gaze at the civil-servant camera. I can imagine his expression when the police knock on his door and display the warrant for his arrest on rape and murder charges. I can see too the horrified look he'll give to his girlfriend, Janeece 9810, and her ten-year-old son if they're home when it happens. Wonder if he's a crier.
I'm three blocks away. And--
Ah, wait . . . Here's something unusual.
Two new Crown Victorias parked on this tree-filled side street. Statistically it's unlikely that this sort of car, in such pristine shape, would be seen in this neighborhood. Two identical cars are particularly unlikely, and factor in that they're parked in tandem, with no flecks of leaves or pollen, unlike the others. They've arrived recently.
And, yes, a casual look inside, normal passerby curiosity, reveals that they're police cars.
Not predicted procedure for a domestic dispute or break-in. Yes, statistically those infractions occur pretty frequently in this part of Brooklyn, but rarely, the data show, at this time of day--before the six-packs appear. And you'd probably never see hidden unmarkeds, only blue-and-white squad cars in full view. Let's think. They're three blocks away from DeLeon 6832. . . . Have to consider this. It wouldn't be inconceivable for their commander to tell the officers, "He's a rapist. He's dangerous. We're going to go in in ten minutes. Park the car three blocks away and get back here. Pronto."
I casually glance down the closest alley. Okay, getting worse. Parked there in the shade is an NYPD ESU truck. Emergency Service. They often back up police arrests of people like DeLeon 6832. But how did they get here so soon? I dialed 911 only a half hour ago. (That's always a risk but if you call too long after a transaction, the cops might wonder why you were only now reporting screams or that you'd seen a suspicious man earlier.)
Now, there are two explanations for the police's presence. The most logical is that after my anonymous call they did a database search of every beige Dodge over five years old in the city (1,357 of them as of yesterday) and that somehow they lucked out with this one. They're convinced, even without the evidence I was going to plant in his garage, that DeLeon 6832 is the rapist and murderer of Myra 9834 and they're arresting him right now, or lying in wait for him to return.
The other explanation is far more troubling. The police have decided that he's being set up. And they're lying in wait for me.
I'm sweating now. This is not good this is not good not good . . .
But don't panic. Your treasures are safe, your Closet is safe. Relax.
Still, whatever's happened I have to find out. If the police presence here is just a perverse coincidence, having nothing to do with DeLeon 6832 or with me, then I'll plant the evidence and get the hell back to my Closet.
But if they've found out about me they could find out about the others. Randall 6794 and Rita 2907 and Arthur 3480 . . .
Cap down a little more over the eyes--the sunglasses pushed high on my nose--I change course completely, circling well around the house, moving through alleys and gardens and backyards. Keeping the three-block perimeter, which they helpfully established as my safety zone by parking the Crown Vic beacons there.
This takes me in a semicircle to a grassy embankment leading up to the highway. Climbing up it, I'm able to see the tiny backyards and porches of the houses on DeLeon 6832's block. I begin to count dwellings to find his.
But I don't need to. I see clearly a police officer on the roof of a two-story house behind the alley from his place. He has a rifle. A sniper! There's another, with a pair of binoculars too. And several more, in suits or street clothes, crouching in bushes right next to the structure.
