Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller) (23 page)

Man goes out.

Man comes back with a girl, one who has clearly had too much to drink.

Man goes out and buys even MORE to drink.

Girl is led out by a different man shortly after; she is dumped into a taxi like yesterday’s laundry.

The whole scenario sounded like the opening sequence to a bad episode of Law and Order, and Kevin cringed just thinking about it. As he approached the door, he was relieved to see that there was a different man on duty. These doormen all looked similar thanks to their uniforms, but this man was clearly new. He was older than the others, and his face had a hollow, chiseled look that reminded Kevin of an endurance athlete. A professional bicycle racer or a runner.

Guy’s been on a few late-night jogs of his own.

Kevin nodded at the man as he passed, but he was surprised to see a stern look directed his way. He stopped.

“What?”

The doorman shrugged, but his sharp face and cold eyes sucked the leniency out of the gesture. He waited an extra moment. “Everyone needs to rest,” he said finally.

Kevin nodded, relieved to be getting off so easily. He had been picturing the doormen gossiping with one another during the shift change, relating Kevin’s sordid late-night comings and going. But no, this man was only worried about the hour.

“Can’t sleep,” Kevin explained. “Taking a walk.” He pumped his arms quickly back and forth, as though illustrating a strange new concept in athletics. “No big deal.”

The doorman shook his head. “
I’m not talking about
sleep,” he said, as though there had been a misunderstanding. “
I mean
r
est.
One is a luxury, the other is essential.”

Kevin nodded again, but now something was off. The doorman was not stepping out of the way.

Kevin felt himself growing uncomfortable.

“Could you unlock the door?”

The man stared at him for another moment, and Kevin wondered if this was going to turn into some kind of bizarre, middle-of-the-night showdown. But then the darkness left the man’s face, and all at once everything was normal again. He reached over and turned the bolt lock, opened the door, and released Kevin into the wild of the Manhattan streets.

Kevin let out a little breath of air.

Well, that was exciting
.

There was no traffic. He walked slowly toward the park, trying to keep hi
s mind empty. Which didn’t work for long.

Get ready.

“Right, but I’m exhausted,” he said out loud.

He was starting to realize how truly tired he really was
, and h
e had to admit to himself that the doorman was right. Whether it was insomnia or anxiety or anything else, he was not letting himself recover properly. He considered going back and asking the man for advice; who better to discuss sleep deprivation than a night doorman? Plus, he was clearly a veteran, a man who had all kinds of experience with insomniacs. He was surely not part of the new crew like all the other men Kevin had met so far –

Hold on.

Kevin stopped in his tracks. He was at the entrance to Central Park, but now he turned around and forced himself to run straight back the way he had come. His legs cried out to him, cried out that they had nothing left, but he ignored them. He demanded any and all energy left in his system, and he ran. It was only seven blocks back to his apartment, and this was important.

Don’t go anywhere. Just stay there. I’m coming.

He was on Park Avenue now. Five blocks to go.

Wait for me
.

67th Street. Almost there.

He put on a final
surge
of speed to cover the last block, and he was pleased to see h
ow quickly he could still move.
He came to the door and put his hand on the glass, and the door opened immediately. Kevin burst in, leaned over, and put a finger up, signaling the man to give him a second to catch his breath.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Listen. When did you – ”

But then Kevin stopped. He straightened up and looked at the doorman in shock and disappointment.

It was not the same man.

“Where’s the other guy?” Kevin demanded.

The doorman looked back at him blankly. Baby-faced, sleepy. Like all the others.

“The guy who was here five minutes ago,” Kevin said, his voice shaking with frustration. “
Three
minutes ago. Older, a little taller. He looks like an athlete.”

A slow shake of the head. Confused and apologetic. “Sorry if you had to wait,” the doorman said. “I was in the bathroom for a second. Usually not too many people coming in and out this time of night, you know?” He gave Kevin a sheepish look, a look that asked for understanding.

Can’t a man get a few minutes in the bathroom with a magazine now and then? It’s two-thirty in the morning.

Kevin dropped his head and leaned against the door.

Now the doorman was worried. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

The man nodded with relief, and he waited to see which direction this tortured, out-of-breath late-night jogger was actually hoping to go. After a minute Kevin stood up again and headed out.

“Have a good night,” the doorman called. His voice was still worried.

Kevin was moving even more slowly now. He was going to take a long walk, maybe twice around the loop if he didn’t collapse first. At this pace, it would probably take him the rest of the night.

Which would be fine. Anything to get to morning.

If He Can Survive

The man with the chiseled face left his doorman uniform in a trashcan at the corner of Lexington and 68th, and then he ducked down a set of stairs leading to the subway. He rode the 6-train uptown for one stop, then got off and climbed the steps to the corner of 77th street. He reached into his pocket and took out a cellphone, its design identical to the one assigned to his primary mark. He whispered to the phone, and the screen lit up.

“Yes.”

The man began walking quickly uptown.

“It’s me. I just left. Can’t go back, he
got
me. But that’s not why I’m calling. He’ll need to come in soon.” A pause. “No, that’s part of the problem. He’s not sleeping.” The man sped up briefly to cross the street ahead of oncoming traffic. He was very fast. His motions were sure and strong, a combination of power and quickness.

“Right, I told him that,” the man said, sounding exasperated. “Which is why I had to leave. He came back.”

The man stopped and spun around suddenly, scanning the area behind him like a deer checking a meadow for hunters. Then he turned back and continued on his way.

“Exactly,” he said. “And he’s not resting at all. That’s what I’m saying. He’ll have to come in. But listen, don’t get cute. Keep it simple. Give him the minimum.”

Another pause.

“No, otherwise he’s fine. Good progress, good focus. He’s picking it up. He’s quicker than I thought. What?” He put his hand on his head and looked at the sky. “Right. Sorry about that. He wasn’t supposed to remember that place at all. That cleaning woman was using a fake social, so we missed her. Got her out of there later that night, though. Beyond that, what can I do? The building’s there. If he wants to go sniffing around, it’s his choice. There’s nothing to find. It’s not going to hurt him.”

The man glanced once more behind him, and then he ducked down the stairs to the subway stop on 86th street. The downtown platform.

“No, I feel better now. I think he’ll be ready. All things considered, I’d say he’s doing well.”

Another pause.

“Well, obviously. If he can survive the next week and a half. That’s what I mean.”

He ended the call and put the phone away.

Jacob Brought His Fist Down

When Kevin finally made it back to his apartment after his endless walk, it was 6AM
, and
f
aint light was making its way into the sky.
He was shaking with fatigue, but he was still not sleepy. He felt as though he had just been given a large dose of coffee. Or maybe something stronger: adrenaline or bretylium or whatever a doctor would use to revive an addict who had overdosed on heroine. He could hear his own frantically racing heart
pounding away
in his ears
.

And now it was time to get ready for school.

I’m not going to make it
, he thought.

Five blocks away, in the apartment loft on 72nd street, Jacob Savian’s computer was making a soft humming noise. Someone was trying to place a video call.

George Savian was in the near corner behind Jacob; he was busy positioning a huge mirror on the wall. The mirror would normally have taken two able-bodied men to hang, but George was not having any difficulty. He was holding it near one of the bottom corners, bracing it with a hand and one knee, and occasionally glancing behind him at his brother. “Here?”

Jacob squinted and tried to judge the mirror’s angle. It didn’t look centered to him. But in any case he couldn’t concentrate with that humming sound coming from his computer. He spun around in his chair and punched the keyboard. “What?”

The Organizer’s face popped into view. His expression was serious. There was something to report, but Jacob couldn’t tell whether it was good news or bad.

“Let’s have it.”

“There was a cop talking to some of our guys,” the Organizer said. “Asking questions.” The Organizer was speaking slowly. Treading lightly.

“Okay. So?”

“A
bunch
of questions. Writing things down.”

“Right,” Jacob said impatiently. “Fine. That’s the whole point of the painters and the vans, isn’t it? Get everybody feeling nice and cozy. Just a bunch of painters, the same painters you see every day on that street. They’re always passing through with their van. Hey there, friendly painter guys. Good to see you.”

The Organizer nodded. “Yes, you put it well.” He coughed, a superfluous gesture that Jacob found unsettling. The Organizer was not someone who stalled.