Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [128]
“Oh, Arch, they killed him. They killed Anton this morning. They killed him as if he was nothing. What’s happening now? What’s going to happen?”
Carroll shivered as he got up from bed. He dressed, then hurried down to Broadway, where he bought the Daily News, The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal.
All the front-page stories about Anton Birnbaum contained respectful eulogies. They also contained lies. At best, the newspapers revealed a small fragment of the truth.
At the newsstand, Carroll read the articles with trembling fingers. It was as if nothing real had ever happened. There was no high-placed traitor in the FBI. There was no Monserrat, no mention of the whereabouts of Colonel Hudson.
That same morning, trudging back to the hotel from Broadway, Carroll saw the two men following him.
There was no way anyone connected with Green Band could live.
Chapter 101
ESCAPE. It was the only possibility left.
On the night of December 23, Carroll, Caitlin, the four children, and Mary Katherine tightly locked hands. They walked down Columbus Avenue. There had to be a way for three adults and four small children to escape a surveillance team. So far, Carroll had found none. But the New York crowds would provide temporary safety.
Columbus Avenue was still buzzing with holiday music and a festive bustle at night. The energetic crowd—every other person holding a bright Christmas bundle, a tree, a Lincoln Center program—parted reluctantly for the family.
It wasn’t like any Christmas that Carroll had ever known before—it was as if a terrible, unfathomable darkness lurked in the shadows between the bright lights and the fir trees. Caitlin, Mary K., the kids—how could he shield them when he felt that some unknown gunmen lingered in every doorway?
“Can we please stop running, Daddy? Please?”
A tiny voice trailed after Carroll, echoing thinly inside the symphony of the New York City street noise. The bizarre cacophony of Christmas sounds wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let up for a moment of relief. Why did he think it would?
Four-year-old Lizzie was dragging herself along on the hem of his sports coat. “Please, Daddy. Just for a minute? Please?” Up ahead of them, Caitlin and Mary Katherine had the three other children in tow. They were bravely hurrying the children forward.
Carroll finally stopped and stooped to wrap his arms around his little girl. He whispered soothingly against Lizzie’s chilled, red-rimmed ear. “Please, baby, please be good. Just a little longer, sweetheart.”
Carroll immediately straightened again. It was so sad— what he was almost certain was going to happen next. It was so unfair. He had reached the most hollow place of his existence, a terrible numbness hung around his heart.
He gazed north, then down the bright lights of Columbus Avenue. His weary eyes brushed over colorful signs that said Sedutto’s, Dianne’s, Pershings, La Cantina.
Columbus Avenue had changed dramatically since he’d last been above 72nd Street. The area had once been crowded with Spanish food stores as well as transient hotels, and oriental rug dealers. Now it was a trendy, self-conscious version of Greenwich Village.
Carroll glanced over his shoulder again. The same pair of men was still following. Now, though, there were more than two. There were as many as five men following the Carroll family.
And they were closer—no more than half a city block away.
Where in the name of God do we go? Somebody help us, he thought to himself.
The back of Carroll’s neck was soaking wet, even in the chill air. His skin, his brown hair, was plastered against his shirt collar.
He was hopelessly tired. He felt he could lay down on a parked car, sleep right there in the middle of Columbus Avenue.
The passersby looked so preoccupied, so self-interested and city cool. Would any of them help?
Carroll’s mind was silently screaming, pleading for some form of reason to finally prevail.
This is happening, he thought. Whether I choose to believe it or not, this is happening.
Escape was the only reality.
He had one idea, a kind of prayer, which