Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [119]
I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see Faith staring up at me.
“You’re hurt,” she says. “Wait.”
I ignore her and stumble to the top of the stairs.
I’m looking down a long, empty tunnel, ending in the well-lit maw of the subway station. I start running again but with a decided hitch in my step. The knee pain is sufficient enough that halfway down the hallway I have to pause, take a deep breath, and start hopping on my left foot.
A few seconds later, I’m at the entrance to the station. My eyes adjust to the wide-open space, with cathedral-like high ceilings, illuminated by bright light. Very bright. Another wave of nausea, one I can’t suppress. I put my hands on my knees and let out a heave, albeit mostly a dry one. I take a couple of deep breaths, and stand.
I focus again in the cavernous station. It’s all but empty. In front of me, five ticket machines line a distant wall. To my left, stairs lead down the tracks for trains heading to the beach, the direction I wasn’t traveling. To my right, four turnstiles provide exit and entrance. Next to them, in a rectangular, thick glass cage that stretches nearly to the ceiling, sits a man in blue cap, gray hair overflowing, sideburns tricking out the sides of his face, eyes turned down, lost in paperwork.
There is no drunk, or homeless man, or whatever genus and species of modern man toppled over me near the tracks. And there are no fellow travelers. In other words: no witnesses, except, potentially, the man shuffling papers in the glass cage.
I hobble to the turnstiles. Beyond them, a set of majestic stone stairs leads in and out of the station and promises a much more elegant experience than the underground train service typically provides.
I walk to the top of the stairs. Outside, I take in a couple of breaths of cool air, grateful for it, and peer into the darkness dotted by red brake lights, headlights and a stop light at the corner just to my right. It’s just past 10 p.m., rainy, cold, windy. Poor conditions under any circumstances, that much worse for trying to find someone who is trying to slip away in the darkness. There’s an empty bus parked for the night in front of the subway terminal, and a Volvo in the passenger pickup zone; its driver sits behind the wheel mesmerized by whatever is on his iPhone. But there’s no sign of a fleeing jerk.
Maybe he didn’t leave through the exit. Maybe he hobbled down the stairs to the tracks heading the other direction. If so, he probably hopped on the last outbound train. Is there another possibility? A bathroom?
I return to the turnstiles and knock on the glass cage. The blue-capped man takes a deliberate few seconds to look up, communicating his superiority over the unwashed subway goers.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I was attacked—on the inbound platform.”
This perks him up. In his beefy hand, a Snickers. He swallows a bite that causes a hitch in his throat. He gestures with the half-eaten candy bar to the side of the cage opposite where I’m standing and swivels around in his chair.
He lets me back through the turnstiles. I walk to the other side of the cage and find a small opening in his glass that allows verbal communication, albeit a labored version that forces us nearly to shout to hear one another.
“What happened?” the man asks. He’s trying to sound interested but projects weariness. He’s still got chocolate and nougat on the tips of his front teeth, the rest of which are yellowed from smoking or practiced disregard of the toothbrush.
“Did someone just come through here? Big guy wearing a leather jacket? He had a beard and maybe a limp.”
“You were mugged?”
Was I mugged? I paw my right front jeans pocket and feel the outline of my phone. My wallet is still in the right back pocket. The urbanite’s reflex.
Not mugged.
“Your bag is open,”