By 54th Street, Jack apparently gave up on the bike lane, and Ronnie saw him suddenly dart out into the traffic. Ronnie allowed himself a smile as it was the change he’d hoped would happen. Now with him out in the road, things were looking rosier. Ronnie even lowered his driver’s-side window and moved his SIG Sauer into his lap. He also switched off the pistol’s safety.
At the light at 57th Street, Ronnie was a mere two cars behind Jack, who had moved up during the red light to the edge of the intersection. Sensing an opportunity, Ronnie’s pulse began to race as he waited for the light to change. His plan was to pull into the dedicated bus lane and then come alongside him, shoot him, then dart forward and make the first left-hand turn to disappear into Midtown traffic.
Unfortunately, the light seemed to take forever to turn green, and just before it did, a city bus came east on 57th Street and turned north into the bus lane. When the light turned green for Ronnie and all those people waiting with him, including Jack, the bus lane was no longer available. Accordingly, Ronnie had to stay in line while ahead Jack had upped his speed to stay a little ahead of the traffic, aided by the avenue dipping downhill to go under the approaches to the Queensboro Bridge.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Ronnie cried as he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. His simple plan had been thwarted by the damn bus because just beyond the Queensboro Bridge, the right-hand lane of First Avenue was backed up by a line of cars waiting to turn east toward the FDR Drive. Slowed to a near crawl and feeling momentarily helpless, he watched as Jack gained on him by slaloming through the mostly stalled traffic.
As soon as he could, Ronnie broke free of most of the congestion beyond 64th Street. By then he couldn’t even see Jack for certain, at least not until he’d raced ahead a number of blocks by weaving in and out of traffic and even running a few lights. Finally, near 70th Street, he came abreast of Jack, who had returned to the bike lane running along the left-hand side. Since the area was a bit less commercial and more residential, there were far fewer double-parked delivery trucks, which made travel easier both on the street and in the bike lane.
Slowing to match Jack’s pace, Ronnie hazarded a glance down at the speedometer and was impressed Jack was maintaining close to twenty-five miles per hour. As the two of them hurled northward by catching the synchronized traffic lights, Ronnie came to understand that the only way he was going to accomplish what he needed to do was to move over in the left lane and time it correctly that he and Jack would start across an intersection of a westbound cross street at the same moment. At that point Ronnie would suddenly swerve into the cross street and either impact Jack directly or, if he were slightly ahead, allow Jack to impact him. Either way, at that speed, Jack surely would be gravely and almost assuredly mortally injured, which was the goal of the whole operation.
Ronnie tensed as the two of them rapidly bore down on 83rd Street. In an attempt to gauge the upcoming collision as carefully as possible, he increased the Cherokee’s speed slightly, moving a bit ahead of Jack. He reasoned the Cherokee would have to travel a smidgen farther than Jack’s bike as it made the turn if they were to collide as planned.
At the exact moment of entering the intersection, Ronnie yanked the car’s steering wheel hard to the left and braced himself against the corresponding g-force that threatened to throw him into the passenger seat. There was an accompanying high-pitched screech of the tires bitterly complaining about the same g-force while the entire car tipped precariously and threatened to roll. Ronnie yanked the steering wheel in the opposite direction as the image of Jack and his bike loomed ahead with everything happening in a fraction of a second and a blink of the eye.
The Cherokee jolted as Ronnie fought with the steering wheel to straighten the vehicle toward the opening between the cars parked on either side of 83rd Street. After an initial shuddering thump, Jack’s body went airborne before it collided with a thud against the windshield — causing Ronnie to duck by reflex — and left a swath of blood as it caromed off the right side. Almost simultaneously, Ronnie felt a second shudder and heard a crunching sound as the Cherokee crushed the bike, undoubtedly reducing it to a mass of twisted and broken carbon steel.
Hitting the brakes, Ronnie slowed the car greatly to regain control and allow a more careful and calm drive west along 83rd Street. He was surprised that he found himself trembling as he switched on the windshield fluid and wipers to wash the blood away. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, he could see both Jack’s body sprawled out in the street along with the twisted remains of his bike. With a distinct sense of relief, he didn’t see any people who might have witnessed the supposed accident.
Coming up to Second Avenue, Ronnie began to slow, but he wasn’t going to come to a full stop. If the traffic light was still red when he got there, he planned to inch out into traffic and turn left as soon as he could. His interest was to get out of the area, although now with the bloodstain mostly washed away and no apparent witnesses it wasn’t critical. But luckily the light turned green before he got to the intersection, and he was able to continue straight ahead. When he got to Third Avenue and another green light, he turned right, and only then did he allow himself to begin to calm down. It had all happened so fast that he hadn’t realized how very tense he’d become.
Taking the next left-hand turn onto a relatively quiet residential block, Ronnie drove about halfway down to the next avenue, where he pulled over to the curb at a fire hydrant under a convenient streetlight. Leaving the car idling, he sprang out with glass cleaner and paper towels. His first order of business was to check the front of the car for damage, and except for a few minor scratches, which would be easy to rectify with the touchup paint he had back in his garage, it looked pristine. Feeling relieved, he then saw to the windshield. It took only a few moments to make sure it, too, was completely clean and bloodless. He then quickly went around, sprayed, and wiped off the water-based paint he’d used to cover the flames extending back from the wheel wells.
With his beloved Cherokee essentially back to normal, Ronnie took a moment to listen to the sounds of the city. He half expected to hear the undulations of an ambulance siren, but he didn’t. Vaguely, he wondered if Stapleton’s body had been discovered.
With a progressive sense of calmness after the excitement, Ronnie opened the back of the Cherokee. With a screwdriver he’d put in the storage area, he made short work of replacing the license plates. When he was done, he put the soiled paper towels and the outdated plates in a trash can. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, he felt elated. It was as if a new day had dawned and a heavy weight had been removed from his shoulders. His pit stop had taken a mere five minutes but had confirmed for him that his car was none the worse for wear. More important, he felt as if he’d tipped over the last domino, effectively eliminating the growing existential threat that Sue Passero, Cherine Gardener, and Jack Stapleton represented. As he pulled out into the street on his way to the MMH, he reached out with his right hand and patted the Cherokee’s dash. “Thank you, my buddy,” he said. “You and I make one hell of a team.”
Chapter 31
Wednesday, December 8, 5:49 p.m.
Ronnie was feeling chipper and whistling under his breath as he emerged from the Emergency Department’s doctors’ lounge dressed in a fresh white doctor’s coat over scrubs. He was a bit early, but he didn’t think it mattered. He walked out into the main waiting area and surveyed the scene. It was moderately busy, as was normally the case at that time of day. A handful of triage nurses and clerks stood behind the main desk and a half dozen or so patients were lined up waiting to check in. Respecting the taped markers on the floor, they were maintaining the social distancing required by the Covid-19 pandemic.