Fifty Degrees Below - Kim Stanley Robinson [205]
He passed hole eight and turned up cross trail 7, and soon they were out onto Brandywine, and rising to Connecticut.
Just short of the avenue, where there was still some darkness to huddle in, he stopped her, held her. As they hugged he felt for the Acheulian hand axe, there in his jacket pocket against her side.
“What is that?” she asked.
“My lucky charm.”
“Pretty heavy for a lucky charm.”
“Yeah, it’s a rock. I like rocks.”
They stood there, arms around each other, poorly lit by a distant streetlight. Her face twisted with distress; why couldn’t it be simple? her look seemed to say. Why couldn’t they just be here?
But it wasn’t simple.
“The Van Ness Metro is just down there,” Frank said, pointing south on Connecticut.
“Thanks.”
“And where will you go?”
“I’ve got a place set up.” Then: “Listen, I heard what you said to those guys, but don’t you stick around and mess with him,” she said, waving to the east. “He’s dangerous. He really is. And we don’t want him to know you had anything to do with this.”
“I know,” Frank said. They hugged again. Briefly they kissed. He liked the feel of her in his jacket.
“Here,” she said, “you should take your jacket back. I’m going to get in the Metro, and then I’ll be into my little underground railroad setup, and I won’t need it. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He took the jacket from her, put it on, put the hand axe back in its pocket. “Where will you go?”
“I’ll contact you as soon as I can,” she said. “We’ll set up a system.”
“But—”
“I’ll let you know! Just let me go—I have to go!”
“Okay!” Frank said, frustrated.
Then she was off. Watching her turn the corner and disappear he felt a sudden stab of fear. God damn this guy, he thought.
He walked north to Delhi Dhaba and passed it, glanced into the laundromat next door. It was almost empty, only a couple of young women folding clothes together at the tables, no doubt UDC undergrads. Caroline’s black ski jacket was already there, hanging from the open door of a dryer. No sight of Zeno or any of the rest of the bros. Frank walked down to the corner and stood at the bus stop, then sat on the bench in its little shelter, consciously working to slow his breathing and pulse.
Ten minutes passed. Then three men in black leather jackets approached the laundromat, hands in their pockets. One, a tall, heavyset blond man, appeared to be checking a very heavy watch. He looked at the other men, gestured inside the laundromat. One turned and settled at the door, looking up and down Connecticut. The others went in. Frank sat there looking across the street away from them. The man guarding the door registered him along with the three others waiting at the bus stop, then he turned his attention to the various people walking up and down the sidewalks.
The two men reappeared in the doorway, the blond man holding Caroline’s jacket. That was him, then. Frank’s teeth clenched. The three men conferred. They all surveyed the street, and the blond man appeared to check his watch again. He looked up, toward Frank; said something to the others. They began to walk down the sidewalk toward him.
Shocked at this turn of events, Frank got up and hustled around the corner of Davenport. As soon as the buildings at the corner blocked their view of him he bolted, running hard east toward the park. Looking back once, he saw that they were there on Davenport, also running; chasing him down. The blond man ran with his right hand in his jacket pocket.
Frank turned on Linnaean, running harder. East again on Brandywine, a real burst of speed, unsustainable, but he wanted to get into the trees again as soon as he could. As he pounded along, gasping, he thought about the man spotting him by way of his wrist device, and decided that his down jacket must be compromised now too. Caroline had worn it, she had been chipped with a tick, these ticks were probably not used alone but in little swarms; she