A Brain (26 page)

Martin rushed to a rear window in the bedroom and threw up the sash. He tried to open the screen but couldn't so he bashed it out with his foot. Once out on the fire escape, he plummeted down. It was miraculous he didn't stumble, because his exit was more like a controlled fall. On the ground, he had no choice of direction; he had to run east. Just beyond the neighboring building, he entered a vegetable garden in a vacant lot. To his right there was a hurricane fence that barred the way back to Hamilton Terrace.

The ground fell off sharply as he ran eastward and he found himself sliding and falling down a steep rock-strewn hill. The light was now behind him and he advanced into darkness. Soon he tumbled against a wire fence. Beyond it was a drop of ten feet into an automobile junkyard. Beyond that was the weakly illuminated expanse of St. Nicholas Avenue. Philips was about to scale the low fence when he realized it had been cut. He squeezed through the convenient opening and swung himself down the cement wall, dropping the last few feet blindly.

It wasn't a real junkyard. It was just a vacant area where abandoned cars had been left to rust. Carefully, Martin picked his way between twisted metal hulks toward the light on the avenue in front of him. At any second he expected to hear pursuers.

Once on the street, he could run more easily. He
wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Werner's apartment. Vainly, he looked for a police cruiser. He saw no one. The buildings on either side of him had deteriorated, and as Philips looked from side to side, he realized that many of the structures were burned out and abandoned. The huge empty tenements looked like skeletons in the dark misty night. The sidewalks were cluttered with trash and debris.

Suddenly, Philips realized where he was. He'd run directly into Harlem. The realization slowed his pace. The dark and deserted scene accentuated his terror. Two blocks farther on Martin saw a ragged group of street-tough blacks who were more than a little shocked at Philips' running figure. They paused in their drug-dealing to watch the crazy white fellow run past them, heading toward the center of Harlem.

Although he was in good shape, the strenuous pace soon exhausted him and Martin felt as if he was about to drop, each breath bringing a stabbing pain in his chest. Finally, in desperation, he ducked into a dark, doorless opening, his breath coming in harsh gasps while his feet stumbled over loose bricks. By holding on to the damp wall, he steadied himself. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the rank smell. But he ignored it. It was such a relief to stop running.

Cautiously, he leaned out and struggled to see if anyone had followed him. It was quiet, deathly quiet. Philips smelled the person before he felt the hand that reached out from the black depths of the building and grabbed his arm. A scream started in his throat, but when it escaped from his mouth it was more like the bleat of a baby lamb. He leaped out of the doorway, thrashing his arm as if it were in the
grasp of a venomous insect. The owner of the hand was inadvertently pulled from the doorway and Martin found himself looking at a drug-sodden junkie, barely capable of standing upright. “Christ!” shouted Philips as he turned and fled back into the night.

Deciding not to stop again, Philips settled into his usual jogging pace. He was hopelessly lost, but he reasoned that if he kept going straight, he'd eventually have to run into some sort of populated area.

It had started to rain again, a fine mist that swirled around in the glow of the infrequent street lamps.

Two blocks farther Philips found his oasis. He'd reached a broad avenue and on the corner was an all-night bar with a garish neon Budweiser sign that blinked a blood-red wash over the intersection. A few figures huddled in nearby doorways as if the red sign offered some sort of haven from the decaying city.

Running a hand through his damp hair, Martin felt a stickiness. In the light of the Budweiser sign, he realized it was a splattering of Werner's blood. Not wishing to appear like he'd been in a brawl, he tried to wipe the blood off with his hand. After several passes, the stickiness disappeared and Philips pushed open the door.

The atmosphere in the bar was syrupy and thick with smoke. The deafening disco music vibrated so that Martin could feel each beat in his chest. There were about twelve people in the bar, all in a partial stupor, and all black. In addition to the disco music, a small color television was transmitting a 1930's gangster movie. The only person watching was the burly bartender, who was wearing a dirty white apron.

The faces of the customers turned toward Philips and a sudden tension filled the air like static electricity before a storm. Philips felt it instantly, even
through his panic. Although Philips had lived in New York for almost twenty years, he'd shielded himself from the desperate poverty that characterized the city just as much as the ostentatious wealth.

Now advancing into the bar warily, he half-expected to be attacked at any moment. As he passed, the threatening faces swung around to follow his progress. Ahead of him, a bearded man turned on the bar stool and planted himself directly in Philips' path. He was a muscular black whose body glistened with sheer power in the muted light.

“Come on, Whitey,” he snarled.

“Flash,” snapped the bartender. “Ease off.” Then, to Philips, he said: “Mister, what the fuck are you doin' here. You want'a get killed?”

“I need a phone,” managed Philips.

“In the back,” said the bartender, shaking his head in disbelief.

Philips held his breath as he stepped around the man called Flash. Finding a dime in his pocket, he then searched for the phone. He found one near the toilets but it was occupied by a fellow who was having an argument with his girlfriend. “Look, baby, whatta' you going and crying for?”

Earlier, in his panic, Martin might have tried to wrest the phone from the man, but now he was at least partially in control and he walked back into the bar and stood at the very end to wait. The atmosphere had relaxed a degree and conversations had recommenced.

The bartender demanded cash up front, then served him his brandy. The fiery fluid soothed his jangled nerves and helped focus his thoughts. For the first time since the unbelievable event of Werner's death, Martin was able to consider what had
happened. At the moment of the stabbing he'd thought that he'd been a coincidental accessory and that the fight was between Werner and his assailant. But then the assailant had said something that suggested he'd been following Philips. But that was absurd! Martin had been following Werner. And Martin had seen Werner's knife. Could the diener have been about to attack him? Trying to think about the episode made Philips feel more confused, especially when he remembered he'd seen the assailant on the subway that night. Philips downed his drink and paid for another. He asked the bartender where he was and the man told him. The names of the streets meant nothing to Philips.

The black fellow who'd been arguing on the phone passed behind Philips and left the bar. Martin pushed off his stool, and taking his fresh drink, he headed back toward the rear of the room. He felt somewhat calmer and thought he could make a more intelligent case to the police. There was a little shelf below the phone and Philips put his drink there. Dropping in a coin, he dialed 911.

Over the sound of the disco and the TV he could hear the ringing on the other end of the line. He wondered if he should say anything about his discoveries and the hospital, but decided it would only add confusion to an already confused situation. He decided not to say anything about his medical concerns unless he was specifically asked what he was doing at Werner's apartment in the middle of the night. A bored husky voice answered.

“Division Six. Sergeant McNeally speaking.”

“I want to report a murder,” said Martin, trying to keep his voice even.

“Where about?” asked the sergeant.

“I'm not sure of the address, but I'll be able to recognize the building if I see it again.”

“Are you in any danger right now?”

“I don't think so. I'm in a bar in Harlem . . .”

“A bar! Right, mac,” interrupted the sergeant. “How many drinks have you had?”

Philips realized the man thought he was a crank. “Listen. I saw a man get knifed.”

“A lot of people get knifed in Harlem, my friend. What's your name?”

“Dr. Martin Philips. I'm staff radiologist at the Hobson University Medical Center.”

“Did you say Philips?” The sergeant's voice had changed.

“That's right,” said Martin, surprised at the sergeant's reaction.

“Why didn't you say that immediately. Look, we've been waiting for your call. I'm supposed to transfer you immediately to the Bureau. Hold on! If you get cut off, call me right back. Okay!”

The policeman didn't wait for a response. There was a click as Philips was put on hold. Pulling the receiver away from his ear, Martin looked at it as if it would explain the odd conversation. He was sure the sergeant had said that he'd been waiting for his call! And what did he mean by the Bureau? The Bureau of what?

A series of clicks was followed by the sound of someone else picking up the other end of the line. This voice was intense and anxious.

“All right, Philips, where are you?”

“I'm in Harlem. Who is this?”

“My name is Agent Sansone. I'm the Assistant Director of the Bureau here in the city.”

“What Bureau?” Philips' nerves, which had begun
to settle, tingled as if he were connected to a galvanic source.

“The FBI, you idiot! Listen, we may not have much time. You've got to get out of that area.”

“Why?” Martin was bewildered, but he sensed Sansone's seriousness.

“I don't have time to explain. But that man you clobbered on the head was one of my agent trying to protect you. He just reported in. Don't you understand? Werner's involvement was just a freak accident.”

“I don't understand anything,” shouted Philips.

“It doesn't matter,” snapped Sansone. “What matters is getting you out of there. Hang on, I've got to see if this is a secured line.”

There was another click while Philips was put on hold. Glaring at the silent phone, Philips' emotions were strung out to the point that he felt anger. The whole thing had to be a cruel joke.

“The line's not secure,” said Sansone, coming back on the phone. “Give your number and I'll call you back.”

Philips gave him the number and hung up. His anger began to fragment into renewed fear. After all, it was the FBI.

The phone jangled under Philips' hand, startling him. It was Sansone. “Okay, Philips. Listen! There is a conspiracy involving the Hobson University Medical Center, which we've been secretly investigating.”

“And it involves radiation,” blurted Philips. Things started to make sense.

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” said Philips.

“Very good. Listen, Philips, you're needed in this investigation, but we're afraid you might be under
surveillance. We've got to talk to you. We need someone inside the medical center, understand?” Sansone didn't wait for Philips to respond. “We can't have you come here in case you are being followed. The last thing we want at this moment is to let them know the FBI is investigating them. Hold on.”

Sansone went off the line but Philips could hear a discussion in the background.

“The Cloisters, Philips. Do you know the Cloisters?” asked Sansone, coming back on the line.

“Of course,” said Martin, bewildered.

“We'll meet there. Take a cab and get out at the main entrance. Send the cab away. It will give us a chance to make sure you are clear.”

“Clear?”

“Not being followed, for God's sake! Just do it, Philips.”

Philips was left holding a dead receiver. Sansone hadn't waited for questions or acquiescence. His instructions weren't suggestions, they were orders. Philips couldn't but be impressed by the agent's utter seriousness. He went back to the bartender and asked if he could call a cab.

“Hard to get cabs to come to Harlem at night,” said the bartender.

A five-dollar bill made him change his mind and he used the phone behind the cash register. Martin noted the butt of a forty-five pistol in the same location.

Before a taxi driver would agree to come, Martin had to promise a twenty-dollar tip and say his destination was Washington Heights. Then he spent a nervous fifteen minutes before he saw the cab pull up in front. Martin climbed in and the taxi squealed off down the once fashionable avenue. Right after they'd
pulled away, the driver asked Martin to lock all doors.

They went over ten blocks before the city began to look less threatening. Soon they were in an area familiar to Philips and lighted store fronts replaced the previous desolation. Martin could even see a few people walking beneath umbrellas.

“Okay, where to?” said the driver. He was obviously relieved as if he'd rescued someone from behind enemy lines.

“The Cloisters,” said Philips.