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Rational Conduct

By Kevin Tatro (US)

Chapter Seven

Hunting Wolves

Chapter 7 – Hunting Wolves

The ride to Manhattan progressed uneventfully.  David was at peace with himself, other than worrying about Joe’s potential feelings of guilt.  Joe was a great guy, and David was confident he wouldn’t let their secret slip, at least not for hours.  Joe wasn’t the heavy drinking type, and David felt he would keep the secret for hours at least, but probably to his grave.  It’s funny how you can trust a guy you have only known for a few minutes, but I guess sharing a gun is a kind of bond not easily broken.

As this thought crossed his mind, the fugitive contemplated how many times he had been wrong before.  He tended to trust people regularly, and had many bad episodes where he found out just how bad a judge of character he was.  His wife would know what’s up with Joe.  She was always right about these things.  In the first years of marriage he had thought she was overly suspicious and critical, and he often doubted who she felt were the quality people.  But now, after so many years, he never doubted her.  Even when every bit of him knew she was wrong, he went with her choices, as she was never ever wrong, and he was rarely correct.  He pulled the Pontiac into a parking space in the rear of the train station, tucked the keys under the carpet, and walked onto the train platform heading for Grand Central Station, New York, New York.  He was ditching Joe’s car.  Just in case Joe got drunk and started talking.

The train ride into the city was relaxing.  No radio stories about his lost daughter.  No worries about the police, the FBI, or anyone else finding him.  Train riders don’t care.  They listen to CD’s, read the paper, sleep, and mainly keep to themselves.  He wouldn’t ride the train all the way in to Grand Central as the police there may have pictures of him.  He certainly pissed them off by not coming in when they called for him, and then blasting reward posters all over the country.  That Artie.  What an amazingly cleaver guy.

“Artie.  What’s up?  I’m on my way to the car.  Everything still cool?  Yeah, I still have my phone.  OK, this is the last time I’ll use it till I get the new one.  No I ditched the car, got another and now I’m taking public transportation.  Yeah, I’ll avoid the major stations.  Kinda figured they might start spreading my picture around.  Any ideas or clues?  Thanks for trying.  You know, I really owe you on this one.  Don’t know if I’ll fall apart or recover from this, but if I’m at all sane afterwards, I’ll certainly owe you.  No matter what everybody else who has ever known you says, I think you’re all right.  Later”

The next half hour was hellish.  No phone to talk to anyone.  No radio to hear what’s going on.  No accomplice to commiserate with.  Not even a paper to read.  He slumped in the seat with his knees resting on the seat in front of him and tried to fall into one of his usual home from the city trance states.  This sucks.

Visions of a little kid splashing water in dad’s face.  Screams of’ I don’t want to go to bed’, and the little sailor outfit she wore at her first recital, all played in his mind.  Visions of her in the back seat of a Benz, scared, with some fat, greasy, creepy guy driving and yelling at her.  Going home to the exhausted wife who’d been crying for days without a decent husband to at least try and comfort her.  This sucks.  Man this sucks.

The train churned on, and he wished it was just another 6:03AM train to work, but it was a Saturday afternoon train into the city to get some kind of funky invisible car for his secret agent mission to nowhere.  No idea what to do once he got the car, but he would be safe, on his own and able to think.  He would be in his car.  Alone.

As David got off the train in Harlem, and looked for a cab, Artie’s magic was still in play.  The news stations had just announced that unnamed sources had confirmed three million dollars in reward money had just been deposited into an account at JP Morgan Bank.  The FBI later confirmed this, but was really more concerned about how the information was leaked from their super secret agency.  Artie almost felt sorry for their pathetic efforts to keep data secret in their agency, and the FBI was mad as hell at a bank that could offer no explanation of how the funds got into their bank, or how a law firm could have power of attorney to release the money as they saw fit when they had no idea of who the client was.

The cab ride was tense, gradually becoming frightening.  A short Asian man with a heavy accent had the radio on high, and was commenting on the ball game, the kidnapping of a little girl in Connecticut, and a missing father that probably did it.  The fugitive wanted to listen to the news, but couldn’t tell the driver to shut up, and had to act disinterested to blend in with rest of the New Yorkers.  As David exited the cab, he looked the driver right in the face and carefully asked him his name.  He asked how to spell it, what it meant, and if he liked America.  He asked a whole bunch of questions, looking the driver right in the face, and the driver looked back at him. 

Happy with a twenty-dollar bill for an eight-dollar fare, the cabbie didn’t notice a wallet being dropped into his front seat.  Some time later he would find it.  He would remember the passenger from the intense conversation about his name and country.  He would remember the face, but most of all, he would remember that the man had been alone.  He would remember how the man had said he missed his kids and was going to L.A. to stay with a friend.  It wouldn’t be proof that he hadn’t kidnapped his own daughter, but it would go a ways towards getting the FBI back on the right track.  He could risk them knowing he had gone to Manhattan, and he didn’t need the wallet, he was going underground. 

The subway ride was filled with mystery.  Every passenger was a possible suspect.  They all looked like criminals.  The type that would take his kid.  Only hours had passed but he was tired, stressed out, and about ready to kill someone.  He felt around the back of his pants at the belt line, and the cold steel creep killer was still there.  Loaded or not, he didn’t know, but he felt mean with it, and it gave him purpose.  He was going to kill someone.  He hoped it was the freak that took his child, but if not, he was still going to kill someone.  Someone who didn’t deserve to live.  Someone who would take a kid.  A bad guy.

David found the car as instructed.  It was a clean four door Audi.  Nothing super special, but nice.  An upgraded sound system, built in navigation system, and some other fancy devices that looked like something out of a James Bond movie.  It would be cool to have the machine guns and ejection seats, and maybe the grease that flies out of the back to make pursuers crash, but it was all computer stuff that only Artie would know how to use.  The new phone looked normal and a message was waiting. 

 “ David, I’ve checked the Fed's files.  They don’t have any leads, but they’ve requested copies of all the traffic films for the highways. You know the ones they put on the net to show how slow traffic is.  I’ve got a couple of guys looking over all the footage from that time and they’re trying to get the location of the car and plates.  Call me when you get this, I may have more.”

David never had a chance to dial before the real Artie was on the line.  “Nice car Artie. I like the navigation system and the CD player is nice.  And I found the cash under the back seat.  What’s up with you?  There must be a hundred grand in there.  What were you preparing for?  You are beginning to worry me.”

“Listen David, forget the car stuff.   I’m onto something.  The Feds have been following child abductions for years.  They’ve been trying to match them with known offenders, psychos, web sites and porno freaks.  Their systems are so antiquated I can barely use them, but when we crossed it all, I started to find some interesting shit.  Right now I have two leads.  I found some encrypted shit, very lame technology and easy to crack, but it contained descriptions that are really similar to your daughter.   Doesn’t mean it is your kid, but came out a couple of days ago, and it sounds just like her.  As I dug into this guy's files, I found a lot more of it.  Looks like this freak brokers kids or something.  The encryption techniques are really cheesy, but he takes if off line all the time, and he’s been off for hours. He comes on and off from all different locations.  It may be multiple sites, or many players.  I can’t tell without getting into it.  I’m sure I could break it quickly, but it’s gotta be on-line.  You gotta play secret agent man.”

David listened to Artie for five minutes, which was more than he had heard the computer geek speak since he met him.  It was impressive how Artie could speak in a way David could actually understand.  For a guy who rarely spoke, he had no problem communicating.  Despite Artie’s intensity, and the fact that David’s daughter was still missing, he wanted to ask about the Pop Tarts.  Artie didn’t give him a chance to speak, and it was just as well as Artie was on track and David wasn’t.  It didn’t matter that the Pop Tarts were frosted cinnamon.

“Sounds crazy, but there’s no one sicker and crazier than me right now.  I’m really loosing it Artie.  I feel like I’m in a nightmare and none of this is real.  Just another bad dream.  I can do it.  Don’t worry.  What’s the address?  Just keep your systems running and I’ll do my part”

The Audi rolled through the streets smooth and quiet.  The world outside seemed quiet from in here, and it was like a TV show, but interactive.  It was late afternoon on a Saturday and people were moving about.  Lights changed, peopled walked, little kids held mothers hands, the busy rushed ones jumped off and onto curbs to keep ahead of the crowds and avoid being hit by speeding cabbies.  It was just like work.  Some floated around almost directionless with no apparent motive or reason, and others moved too quickly.  They moved so quickly they never saw what was around them.  In an effort to get to the Duane Reid Drug store for a Tylenol, they never noticed the store right next to them, with the little Tylenol packets right on the cash register counter.  Moving so fast to get through the crowds and around the crowds, to score quickly and be onto the next task.  It wasn’t any fun, but moving slow was, well ...moving slow.

It all seemed like a strange video game, and David felt kind of like he would get points for running over the strange little creatures that darted about the streets and sidewalks.  Maybe ten points for a simple pedestrian crossing the street, and a hundred for the really tough ones walking on the sidewalks or just getting out of a taxi.  But this was not a video game.  This was real, and he had no intention of hurting innocent people. No intention of it.

Streets in Manhattan are easy.  Uptown are higher numbers like 125th Street, and downtown, small numbers like 14th Street.  Until you get way downtown, where the streets all loose their numbers and get names, and the avenues with names like Third Avenue and Seventh Avenue that used to run north and south start bending and crossing each other until they eventually disappear.  And Houston Street.  It’s spelled like the place in Texas, but oh how a New Yorker loves to correct the outsider when he fails to pronounce it ‘How-ston’ Street.  Weird town filled with maniacs who can’t sleep so they work a zillion hours, eat dinner at 10:30PM and then hit a movie.  And the  in this town.  Drunks, drug addicts, unstable schizophrenics, sad lonely old people, young people running so fast they don’t have time to be lonely, and the psycho world business tycoons getting high on money and power. Weird place.  Even weirder when you get used to it and feel comfortable here.

But David’s on a hunt.  Looking for one particular weirdo.  Some crazy, short, balding, middle age man with an infatuation with little kids.  Maybe he’s an attorney trying to make money off the sale of kids to some rich families desperate for a healthy white girl.  Unlikely since the child is ten.  Who then.  Hopefully David would never know.  The plan was that the guy wouldn’t be home.  He was heading into Tribeca on the lower West side where the streets all have names and the avenues are gone.  David was to find the apartment, assure nobody was home, get into the apartment and turn on the computer.  If it was on, and attached to the internet, Artie would get everything they needed.  A simple plan.