Thorpe smiled as he continued the mild shock. “That’s almost comical. You should see yourself… well, you will on the reruns. Kate will see it too. And Eva. And the Russians will get a laugh out of this one. God, Nick, you look like a half-wit.”
Thorpe shut off the electricity. “When I return you will tell me more about Talbot and Ann Kimberly. You will tell me what you know of O’Brien and his friends, including Katherine Kimberly, George Van Dorn, and the rest of those arrogant bastards. Also, you will tell me what you know of the Russians in Glen Cove. Your answers may determine whether or not these coming Fourth of July fireworks, picnics, and speeches will be the last.”
35
Abrams watched her as she ran ahead of him. She had a nice stride; long, easy, and graceful.
Abrams glanced around, but no one seemed to be following on foot, or by vehicle. They were near the southern end of Fourth Avenue, having traveled most of the distance from his apartment by subway. The route that Katherine had laid out, and had given to Thorpe, included a series of park runs, connected by subway, with little street running in between. It was, he thought, as if she’d picked dangerous territory on purpose. And, of course, she had.
The odd thing, he thought as he ran behind her, was that neither of them had openly acknowledged that what had started as a running date on Saturday, had become something very like police decoy duty today.
This was partly due to the sensitive topic involved. But it was also due to this refined way of speaking, where one did not say things, but indicated, implied, intimated, or alluded to them. This annoying manner of communication, he observed, was common to lawyers, corporate types, and genteel people in general. He preferred the way cops spoke.
Abrams felt the blood pounding through his veins and sensed the beginning of the runner’s high. He liked Brooklyn running; it was flat and laid back, unlike Manhattan running, which was flat but fanatical.
Brooklyn was brownstone running, quaint residential streets, with no skyblocking skyscrapers. Brooklyn was also the Borough of Churches, and Abrams was always able to orient himself by the dozens of familiar steeples whose clocks also gave him the time.
They turned into 67th Street and followed a strip of grassy panhandle toward Owl’s Head Park, their first possible rendezvous with Peter Thorpe.
Abrams looked up. Katherine was a good hundred yards ahead of him, and he called to her, “Stay close!”
She called back, “Run faster!”
Bitch. He increased his stride.
Abrams’ original intention had been to take her through the Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods where the men turned away from barelegged women runners. Why he had intended to do this, he couldn’t say for sure. In any case, she’d planned the route based more on tactical considerations than sight-seeing or social studies. Still, if they ever ran together again, that’s where he’d take her. Abrams closed the distance as they approached the park.
Another place he’d wanted to take her was one of the new Russian Jewish neighborhoods with their signs in Cyrillic lettering, and the combination of Yiddish and Russian spoken on the bustling streets. These, he recognized, were his real roots, and he was fascinated by the vitality of the neighborhood, the proliferation of emigré businesses and shops.
They entered the park along a path, and he followed her as she cut across the grass, and began the arduous run up the large hill that dominated the park. He felt the sweat collecting around his shoulder holster and the chafing of the holster straps against his skin. He thought of Peter Thorpe, and wondered when they would meet, and how it would happen. The preferred method seemed to be death by misadventure.
Abrams looked up. Katherine stood at the summit of the hill, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Seagulls circled overhead, and beyond the seagulls was a gray helicopter.
Abrams sprinted up the last twenty yards and stopped on the summit. He bent over and breathed deeply, then straightened up and looked around the sweeping, grassy hill planted with well-spaced trees and bushes. “We seem to be alone.”
She nodded as she caught her breath. She scanned the other slopes. “Early… we’ll take ten minutes here… ”
“Right.” Abrams looked north at the panoramic view of New York harbor, the Statue of Liberty, and the sunlit skyscrapers of lower Manhattan seemingly rising from the water. He turned and looked at Katherine, hair disarrayed, without makeup, sweating, her mouth open, sucking in air. He said, “You’re very beautiful.”
She laughed and tugged on his sweaty shirt. “You look very handsome yourself.”
They began walking in a circle around the crest of the hill. Katherine said, “This place is a mess.”
Abrams nodded. The park was a study in urban decay and neglect. There were broken bottles everywhere, unworkable water fountains, smashed trash receptacles, dog droppings, uncared-for trees, and graffiti on every possible surface. This, he imagined, was probably what Rome’s fabled parks looked like after the barbarians got the upper hand.
Katherine, who was watching him, seemed to sense what he was thinking. She said, “This park needs a good cleaning. It also needs better policing, tighter control.”
Abrams looked at her. She was speaking in that obscure way again, the park being a metaphor. He replied, “Perhaps. But not too much of that. There is a vitality here of people, pursuing their own lives, unburdened by government interference. The price of nearly absolute freedom is borderline anarchy.”
“A little law and order wouldn’t hurt.”
“Whose law? Whose order? Fascists and Communists have in common the desire to get everyone into lockstep. I don’t want to get into lockstep.”
She smiled. “Okay. No more politics. Ready to run?”
“No. Let’s walk awhile.”
She began walking down the hill. “I’ll get you into shape before the summer’s over.”
He gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.
They walked in silence for a while, then she said, “The next place Peter might meet us is under the Verrazano Bridge.”
Abrams didn’t reply.
They walked south along a narrow asphalt path that ran parallel to the Shore Parkway. A stiff wind began blowing off the bay, churning up whitecaps. She spoke as though she were continuing a conversation, “I mean, we have no solid proof, and what we have could be explained by the fact that he is CIA.” She waited, then added, “Your perceptions may be colored by personal considerations.”
Abrams did not reply for some time, then said, “My perceptions are influenced by fifteen years of detective work.” He added, “You people ask me to find the murderer or kidnapper of Randolph Carbury. I suspect I did. Now I’m just trying to stay alive.”
She said nothing.
Abrams looked out in the bay. A few private boats sailed along close to the shoreline. Overhead, the helicopter made another pass. A few joggers and dog walkers appeared on the strip of park. Abrams motioned toward the rising parachute-jump tower of Coney Island in the far distance. “I used to spend hours at the shooting gallery there. These little toy ducks would move across a tank of water and I’d blast away at them.”
“I’ll bet the local girls fell all over you when you got those Kewpie dolls.”
“I had to turn my rifle on them to keep them away. Anyway, when I grew up, I was assigned to decoy duty, dressed as an old man, trying to attract muggers. I walked through the parks around Coney Island, like a little toy duck. That’s very bad duty. But rewarding. I attracted a lot of muggers, Then I’d do what the little toy ducks never did to me. I’d pull my gun.”