The first blast from Samuelson's over-and-under shotgun tore through the glass just six inches above where Carter Barefoot, Winifred Haritson and Georgie MacPhail had been sitting. One of the pellets deflected from the metal grating and lodged in Georgie's right ankle. He grabbed the ankle, rolled to his left, knocking Winifred Haritson over, and scurried to the sidewalk. He grabbed Winifred's foot and pulled her over the edge of the step to him.
He saw then that the back of Carter Barefoot's head was missing, and he remembered that the man had been preparing to stand just as the shotgun blast hit. Georgie swore beneath his breath. Samuelson fired again. The pellets lashed into a set of windows in a storefront across the street; the glass shattered; huge, jagged pieces fell inside the grating.
Georgie swore again.
He heard the distant gurgling hum of a car engine to his left. Another shotgun blast erupted through the storefront; it blew away some of Carter Barefoot's shoulder. Georgie pulled himself to his feet, bent over, put his hands under Winifred Haritson's arms. The hum of a car grew closer; Georgie looked to his left; two blocks away an old Cadillac, its suspension straining under the weight of a half dozen beefy men, careened his way and stopped in front of the store. A half dozen firearms of one kind and another leveled on the storefront; a moment's silence followed, and then the guns were turned loose. Georgie put his hands hard to his ears. "What are you doing?" he screamed over and over again as a hundred, two hundred bullets of various sizes, shapes, and velocities tore the storefront to shreds.
And then it was over.
Georgie took his hands away from his ears. One of the men in the Cadillac stuck his head out. "Whatcha got there, boy?—Some dead old woman?"
Georgie shook his head dumbly.
The man laughed. "Well you sure better look again," he said, and the Cadillac sped away.
He turned. He bent over Mrs. Haritson. Her body flowed away from him; her lips parted, her eyes rolled.
Georgie sighed.
He thought that what he wanted most in this world was to be at home. With his mother, and his little brothers, and the ghost—Hiram or Handy.
And so, very slowly—because of the pellet in his ankle, and very determinedly, he started walking north.
At Bellevue—the following morning—10:00 A.M.
John Marsh looked up slowly as the door was pushed open and a big, well-dressed man in his late fifties stepped in. "John Marsh?" the man said.
Marsh answered, "Yes. Who are you?"
"An associate of Dr. Halloway's, Mr. Marsh. He asked me to give you this." The man handed Marsh an envelope. Marsh took it, opened it; he looked questioningly at the man. "There's two hundred dollars in here."
The man nodded and smiled ingratiatingly, "Yes, sir. The doctor feels that's adequate to get you back to Penn Yann. If it isn't—"
"I'm being . . ."
"Released? Yes, sir. Dr. Halloway seems to feel that there is no longer a need to keep you here."
Marsh studied the envelope a moment. "And what about Seth?"
The man's smile faded quickly. "And Dr. Halloway wanted me to remind you, sir, that even in a city this size he would have no trouble at all locating a man who clearly demonstrates that he may be a danger either to himself or to society."
Marsh grinned. "I see."
"Dr. Halloway hopes that you do, sir. Now if you will please come with me, we'll retrieve your street clothes and see to your car."
"Truck."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's not a car. It's a truck. And there's a little matter of my dog . . ."
"The doctor mentioned that as well, sir, and he is sorry to tell you that Miss Wingate, who was holding your dog, is apparently no longer with us."
"No longer with you? What the hell am I supposed to do about that? I want my damned dog back—"
"That is something you will have to take up with Miss Wingate, sir."
"Can you give me her address?"
"I'm sorry, no—it would be no help to you, sir; she has apparently left the city."
Whimsical Fatman was doing very well on crutches. He had only one problem: getting all the way to North Carolina on them was going to be difficult. Even getting out of New York with them was probably going to be next to impossible.
He planted himself on one of several benches just outside Bellevue's main entrance; he thought ruefully that it had been a nice dream.
John Marsh appeared in the entranceway, looked about, and came toward him.
Whimsy raised a hand, waved slightly; "Hi," he said. Marsh glanced at him, without stopping; "Hi," he said. And then he stopped. "Do I know you?"
Whimsy shook his head. "Not really. We were on the same floor"
"Oh," Marsh said.
"I'm glad they let you out."
"Yeah. So am I." He noted Whimsy's crutches for the first time. "Can I . . ." he began, and thought better of it. "Can you give me a lift somewhere?" Whimsy coaxed. A short pause. "That's what I was going to ask."
"You aren't going to North Carolina, are you?" Marsh smiled. "No. Penn Yann."
Whimsy grinned back. "That's in the Finger Lakes, isn't it?"
Marsh was pleased. "Yes, it is. You're probably the only person in this damned place that knows that." Whimsy shrugged. "Simple geography," he said. "So what do you say, can I get a lift out of here, anyway?"
"You mean out of the city?"
"Uh-huh. Out of Manhattan."
"Yes," Marsh said.
The orderly, a young woman named Anne, stepped into Room 343. She saw nothing at first. Two empty beds, sheets and blankets in disarray. She flicked the light on. And saw the form huddled in a corner of the room. The form was trembling visibly, and little moaning sounds were coming from it. "My God!" she murmured.
She ran over, touched the side of the man's head. He looked up at her; his face was flushed and swollen from weeping. She lifted his wrist, read the name on the tag there: JIM HART.
He mouthed something incomprehensible.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hart," she said soothingly. "Can you stand up, please?"
He mouthed words at her again; she understood several of them.
"Can you stand up?" she repeated.
"I'm a city dweller!" he whispered. "I'm a city dweller!"
"Yes, Mr. Hart," she said. "Yes. We all are."
"Don't let them take it away from me, please don't let them take it away from me . . ."
"No one's going to take anything from you, Mr. Hart."
"I'm a city dweller!" He thumped his chest. "I'm a city dweller!"
"Yes," she told him again, "we all are." And she grinned very slightly. "We are all city dwellers, Mr. Hart."
The New York Times: October 5th:
TWO MORE BODIES FOUND
The nude bodies of two children, a boy and a girl, aged ten to twelve years, were found in a tenement house on West 158th Street last night, bringing to eight the number of such bodies found in Manhattan within the last two weeks, fanning speculation that the children may be victims of the West 150th Street killers.
Autopsies are scheduled for today on both bodies; no immediate cause of death was determined, although one of the bodies apparently displayed a number of dark bruises . . .