Fegan knew he was being followed. The tall, broad man had been ten paces behind him when he entered Grand Street station. It was almost six, still dark above ground, when Fegan boarded the D Train. He watched the other man pass the car. Fegan guessed the follower would choose the next car along, probably glancing out at every stop to see if his quarry left the train.
He’d be wasting his time. Fegan would ride the train all the way to Columbus Circle so he could walk in the park as the sun came up. Sleep had barely touched him last night. The Doyle brothers’ oily words and knowing grins kept him from slipping under, so he rose early and headed out.
Fegan took a seat and opened his book. It was slim, a little over a hundred pages, and he’d found it not long after arriving in New York. He’d been walking along Bleecker Street, mouth and eyes agape, the city seeming to roar through him. He passed a small shop, stopped, and turned back. A memory drew him toward the door. The sign above the entrance said Greenwich Judaica. He walked in.
He couldn’t recall the title of the book Marie McKenna told him about just a few months ago while he sat terrified beside her, but he could hear the sadness in her voice as she told him how her dead uncle, the man he had killed, forced her to tear it up. After some explaining, the young man in the shop found a copy of Yosl Rakover Talks to God in a box of used books. Fegan had read it twice so far, picking over the words in the same slow and deliberate way he had when he was at the Christian Brothers School back in Belfast. He hadn’t been much of a reader then, and he wasn’t now. He caught himself moving his lips as he grappled with the text, and brought a hand to his mouth.
Fegan liked to read on the subway. His cold, damp room was too quiet. Outside was too noisy. The subway’s rattle and thrum was just right. Besides, you needed somewhere to put your eyes. He’d found it strange his first few days here, people seeming to fall asleep the instant they took a seat, or even clinging to the poles. But then he started doing it too.
Victor Gonzalvez, an electrician from Brazil with wide, hairy shoulders, called it New York Narcolepsy. Rather than constantly avoiding other passengers’ eyes, it was easier to close your own and drift. But then the dreams would creep in behind Fegan’s eyelids, refugee visions from the night. So he preferred to read.
The train slowed, its brakes singing, causing his weight to shift on the seat. A flat voice announced 59th Street—Columbus Circle. Fegan stuffed the book down into his pocket, left the car, and made his way up toward ground level. He still crackled with that childish excitement as a fleet breeze ferried the noises and smells of the city down the stairwells to swirl about him.
Fegan didn’t care about the footsteps behind. The Doyles thought he’d flee the city, and he would, but not yet. He needed time to think, to plan. He wouldn’t let them panic him into running before he knew where to go. When he was ready, he would slip out of the city regardless of who followed. Perhaps back to Boston—he’d spent a month there before coming to New York—or maybe Philadelphia.
It was past six-thirty, now, and the first hints of light glowed behind the towers to the east of Central Park. The glass palace of the Time Warner Center reflected the weak dawn. Fegan had gone in just the once and felt poor as he wandered between the boutiques full of hardfaced women and stiff-backed salesmen. He had no desire to return. Countless yellow taxis rumbled around the Circle, carrying workers getting an early start. Fegan waited for a break in the traffic before crossing over to the massive Maine Monument and the park entrance beyond. He resisted the urge to glance behind. He took the path that ran under the westerly wall’s shadow and hesitated as the trees darkened the way. Yellows and reds peppered the leaves, but autumn had not yet set them to balding. The follower was still behind him somewhere, Fegan sensed him there, but his footsteps were lost in the morning bustle. He scolded himself and kept walking. If he hurried he could be at Umpire Rock in time to watch the sun rise over the grand buildings of Park Avenue. He would keep to the wide paths.
Quick footsteps came from behind, and Fegan braced himself. As they approached, he heard them veer to his right. He turned his head to see an early jogger pass, giving him a wide berth. Fegan allowed himself a glance over his shoulder. The darkness concealed all but the vague silhouette of the big man. He kept walking, his hands buried in his pockets, but curled into fists all the same. He couldn’t—
Oh God she’s burning the child’s burning oh no please no make it stop she’s burning—
Fegan staggered, barely held his balance, his stomach hurling bile up to his throat. He coughed, choked, wrapped his arms around his middle as the shock of the vision pounded his chest and stomach. Another jogger coming toward him slowed, thought about—
Jesus sweet Jesus no don’t let her burn please stop it she’s drowning in the smoke she’s burning—
Fegan’s legs betrayed him, and he pitched forward. His left shoulder hit the ground first and the pavement scraped his cheek. He vomited, hot foulness stinging his throat and nostrils. The jogger stopped for a moment, hopped from foot to foot, then sprinted to him.
“Sir?” he said as he crouched. “Sir, do you need help?”
“She’s burning,” Fegan said.
The jogger called to someone beyond Fegan’s vision. “Excuse me! Sir! This man needs help. Do you have a phone?”
The follower came into view, his heavy shoulders twitching as he looked around, confused.
“Do you have a cell?” the jogger asked. “I don’t carry mine when I’m running.”
“Uh,” the follower said. He looked back to the park’s entrance.
“Sir,” the jogger said. “This man needs help. Do you have a cellphone to call an ambulance?”
The follower patted his pockets as he looked in every direction but down. “I, uh, don’t know if I, uh …”
“Do you have one or not?”
“I guess not,” the follower said.
“Will you stay with him while I get help?”
The follower sighed and nodded.
“We need to get him into the recovery position,” the jogger said.
“Help me out, here.”
The follower bent down to grab Fegan’s legs while the jogger slipped a hand underneath his neck. Fegan felt his body turn, his head supported by the—She’s burning the fire it’s eating her up the child oh no not her—
Fegan’s right foot lashed out and connected with the follower’s knee. The follower screamed as Fegan felt something buckle. Then he was up, his shoulder ramming into the jogger’s chest. Fegan ran as the jogger went tumbling, each breath scorching his throat, his eyes streaming. He ran until his legs and lungs could carry him no further.