I pass the lake and head north.
I read somewhere that the Ramble used to be a late-night cruising spot. Back in the time before the internet. I doubt they’d have been keen to see me without my disguise and, looking the way I do in this mask, I doubt they’d have been pleased to see me now that I resemble an septuagenarian man.
The air is cool and I’m alert to every siren, every distant yell.
Past Cleopatra’s Needle and on to the dark water of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. This park is about two and a half miles long. It’s a miracle it still exists here, in one of the densest, most expensive cities in the Western world.
I pass a park policeman and he ignores me completely. Why wouldn’t he?
The only food I have is the marathon granola bar I took out of the bag and hid in my pocket earlier. I’m hungry but I’ll wait a while. I’m not sure how long this night is going to last.
Past the tennis courts and into the thick undergrowth.
I check my surroundings because the last thing I need is some do-gooder mistaking me for a dementia patient and calling me in. When the coast is clear I shuffle down into the bushes and I crouch low and I eat my granola bar.
It is sweet.
DeLuca told me two o’clock and now it’s seven fifty-five so I’m right on time. DeLuca told me we’d be travelling by sea so I know what’s coming next. DeLuca told me to meet him at ‘31st Street usual’ so that’s why I’m squatting in a dead bush beside the 97th Street Transverse, close to the bridge, near the place I was picked up on the day I killed my sister. If you look at a clock face 3 is opposite 9, and 1 is opposite 7.
With thirty seconds to go I scramble to the other side of the bushes. I’m ready, crouching, waiting, on top of a steep-sided concrete bank. It’s forty-five degrees and when the time is right, when there are no vehicles on the road, I scoot down to the pavement below.
Two cars pass me by and then a Volvo appears.
It slows.
The door opens.
I climb inside.
‘Get down in the footwell and cover yourself with the blanket.’
I do as he says. I don’t utter a word.
We drive and drive. I try to judge the direction and the distance by focusing on the buildings and light I can see through the material of the blanket. I already know where we’re headed, I just don’t know the route he’ll take.
‘They got close,’ he says.
‘I know they did.’
He drives on. The car smells brand new. I’m guessing we’re travelling at five per cent below the speed limit. I’m guessing he’s careful to use his mirrors and his indicators. Just another Volvo driving to New Jersey.
The lights are few and far between.
We drive off the expressway and into what feels like a suburb.
Five minutes later we slow to a crawl and pull into what looks like a residential, two-car garage.
Everything goes dark.
‘End of the line,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Get out.’
Chapter 49
The garage is lit by three fluorescent strip-lights and the floor is squeaky clean. It looks rubberised, like a hospital floor.
There are clear plastic sheets on the walls and on the floor.
The man from the car is wearing latex gloves.
There’s a barrel of liquid covered in hazard warning labels.
At the far end of the room is a wall of tools and machines, each one attached to a pin board and circled in white.
DeLuca walks through a door and hands me a bottle of water. The seal is secure. It’s a fresh bottle.
‘Drink. You need to go to the bathroom, there’s a bucket in the corner.’
I scowl at him and take a sip from the water. ‘What is this place?’
‘You’ve never been here. You’ll never be here again.’
‘Where am I?’
‘Nowhere,’ he says, opening the rear hatch of a Mercedes SUV. ‘Get in.’
‘In the back?’
‘No,’ says DeLuca. ‘In the box.’
There’s a black leather box with name tags and tassels. It has air holes and vents.
‘In the box?’
‘The other one’s already at the hangar. Twin boxes. You’ll need this.’ He hands me a Dictaphone. ‘And this.’ He hands me a sheet of folded fur.
‘What?’
‘The Man has two dogs.’
‘I read about them. St Bernard’s?’
‘Bernese mountain dogs. Two sisters from the same litter. Krista’s already close to the hangar and this crate belongs to Milla.’