14

“Where the fuck is he going?” Thompson said in a peeved tone. “We must have walked ten miles already.”

Ernst glanced at him. Sweat beaded his face. The hair at the nape of his neck was dark with moisture.

“More like half that,” Ernst said, but he knew how Thompson felt.

The heat of the day was growing and he was not dressed for this sort of activity. He’d unbuttoned his vest and loosened his collar, but none of that had helped. Plus he wasn’t used to physical activity. He wished he’d done more to stay in shape.

Darryl had led them up Bowery and then up Broadway through Times Square. Now he seemed headed toward Central Park. The stores weren’t open yet, so car and pedestrian traffic were light. Good thing. Because Darryl did not stop for anything. He seemed to have a specific destination in mind and was relentless in his progress toward it. He paid no heed to WALK or DON’T WALK signals, simply stepped off the curb and into the street without breaking stride, sometimes to a chorus of shrieking tires, blaring horns, and screamed curses. He didn’t seem to notice. His pale skin, sunken eyes, stained clothing, and stiff, plastered-down hair lent him a frightening look that caused the scattered Sunday morning pedestrians to allow him plenty of room.

As they neared Central Park South, the street and pedestrian traffic thickened. Something was going to happen. A collision with a car or a person seemed inevitable.

“Maybe we should walk ahead of him,” Ernst said.

Thompson nodded. “Just thinking the same thing. Only a matter of time before—”

A woman screamed and fell away from Darryl, dropping to her knees and clutching her forearm as a teacup-size puff of scarlet smoke evaporated in the air between them.

“My arm!” she wailed. “He burned my arm!”

Ernst hurried past without looking at her, his eyes fixed on Darryl’s back. He edged by those deadly swinging arms and positioned himself a dozen feet in front of him. He began waving his own arms as he matched his pace to Darryl’s.

“Make room! Make room! Coming through!”

He didn’t know how badly that woman was hurt, but had no doubt Emergency Services would be called. Police would arrive with them, and soon they’d be searching for Darryl. The last thing needed now was a melee between Darryl and the NYPD. He didn’t think anyone or anything could stop Darryl, but they could impede him, throw him off course, perhaps make him miss a window of opportunity for whatever he was supposed to accomplish.

They’d have a much harder time finding him without a trail of wounded pedestrians to follow.

People seemed to be listening to him, because they were moving to the sides to let him pass. Ernst kept glancing over his shoulder to check on Darryl’s position. He wanted to keep a safe distance between them.

He came to 58th Street. The orange don’t-walk hand was lit. He knew Darryl would ignore it. He looked left and saw a black stretch limo racing his way, trying to make the light. Another backward glance shot Ernst’s heart rate into the stratosphere: Darryl and the limo were on a collision course.

He stepped out into the street and began waving at the car, but it didn’t slow. If anything, it picked up speed as it began to honk at him. Darryl was closer now. Ernst held his ground and waved his arms more frantically. The car never slowed. The honks became one prolonged blare. The maniac was going to hit him.

Ernst jumped out of the way just as Darryl stepped off the curb and into the street.