Part 13 (2/2)
Vince rolled the window up from the control panel on the front seat. ”Just give me the f.u.c.king papers!” he screamed again.
”What papers?” I asked, and turned to Costigan. The music was so loud that I wasn't even sure I heard Vince correctly.
The police stayed to our sides and behind us. Costigan screamed at Vince to pull over, but Vince ignored him. Vince reached behind him and tried to grab me, but I ducked out of the way. I had once encountered a rabid racc.o.o.n going through my garbage; the look in his eyes was similar to Vince's: beady, red, and filled with anger. He kept one hand on the wheel and continued to search for something on me to grab. I pulled my legs up and kicked him hard in the back of the head. He screamed in pain and anger as two pounds of solid Swedish clog construction hit him above the ear on the right side of his head. Costigan looked surprised but didn't do anything; I got the sense that he was a reluctant partic.i.p.ant in this caper.
Vince pulled a gun out of his waistband and pointed it at me. ”If you tell anyone, I'll blow your f.u.c.king head off,” he said calmly, keeping one eye on the road while turning to look at me. He rested his gun hand on the back of the front pa.s.senger seat; it was centimeters from my face.
I burst into tears. ”What are you talking about?” I asked. I tried to slouch down and make myself small, but the gun hung above me.
We were at the merge onto the Henry Hudson Parkway southbound, the oldest, most winding highway in New York City. On a good night, it was treacherous, and all New Yorkers who took the road knew it; on a rainy night and at high speeds, it was instant death. Vince apparently wanted to get us all killed.
Vince crashed through the toll plaza, taking out an EZ-Pa.s.s lane and breaking the gla.s.s of the booth itself. I saw the raincoated toll collector in the next lane dive for cover and a New York City cop run out of the office area on the northbound side of the highway into the last lane. He had his gun drawn but didn't get off any shots, as far as I could tell. The car bounced back and forth as we entered the lane of traffic and I saw three police cars about a half mile down the road, parked across both lanes and blocking our way. In the distance, the lights of the George Was.h.i.+ngton Bridge twinkled.
I don't know if it was from shock, fear, or a heart attack, but I pa.s.sed out.
When I awoke, we were still on the southbound side of the parkway, facing in the wrong direction. We had apparently skidded across the highway and into the cement embankment that led to Fort Tryon Park. I saw the sign for the park but I didn't want to think about how we got there or why we were facing in the wrong direction. Vince was half-in and half-out of the car, the winds.h.i.+eld bisecting him and the airbag supporting his dangling legs. Blood covered the winds.h.i.+eld, front seat, and dashboard. He was dead. Costigan was next to the car, on the ground, a state trooper standing over him. His hands were laced behind his head and he was flat on his stomach, crying. I was still strapped in, surrounded by deployed air bags, and with the exception of the goose egg, relatively unharmed. The door opened, and the second trooper looked in.
”You OK, ma'am?” he asked, a fresh-faced baby in a uniform with a baggie covering his hat.
”I hate the 'ma'am' thing,” I said, and vomited out the door of the car, a projectile stream of pizza and red wine. The trooper stepped back and averted his eyes from the carnage. I unbuckled my seat belt and said a silent thank-you to Crawford for always reminding me to buckle up; it had probably saved my life. I eased myself out of the car and attempted to stand, but went to my knees in a puddle of mud, oil, and the contents of my stomach. The jeans and the clogs were done for good.
The trooper handed me a tissue, which was like putting a cork in the Hoover Dam. I blotted my mouth as best I could and used the bottom of my T-s.h.i.+rt to take care of the rest. He stood a good distance away, eyeing me. When he was sure I wasn't going to hurl again, he asked me if I wanted to sit in his car. I took his hand, and he placed me in the back seat, my legs sticking out of the car. I lay there and heard various vehicles approach-an ambulance, more police cars, the coroner's station wagon, and a tow truck. It was about twenty minutes later that Crawford appeared.
He peered into the car through the back driver-side window where my head was; to me, he was upside down. The window was open slightly. I could tell that he was wearing a combination of the sad face and the really bad-news face, but was trying hard to look impa.s.sive.
”Don't make me look at you upside down,” I said from my p.r.o.ne position.
His smile looked like a frown from my angle. He moved around the car to the side where my feet were. He crouched between my knees in the open doorway, his hands hanging down between his legs. ”I heard you threw up.” He took stock of my clogs and jeans.
”It's become kind of like my calling card,” I said, and put my arm over my forehead.
”The trooper put in for retirement.” Cop humor.
I sat up and waited while a wave of dizziness came and went. ”Is this a cruiser?”
He took a look at the car. ”No.”
I sighed.
”You put up a h.e.l.l of a fight,” he said quietly.
”Thank you.”
”I think I'll ask the head of cop school if we could start wearing clogs.”
”Such a funny man,” I said, and touched my head.
”You should get looked at,” he said.
”You know, this time I have to agree with you,” I said, a gag rising in my throat. His face went white, and I put my hand to my mouth until the feeling pa.s.sed. ”False alarm,” I said. He put his hand out to me and helped me from the car. Another ambulance had pulled up, and an EMT raced over and took me to the back of the vehicle. I stepped up into the brightness of the ambulance and sat on a stretcher in the back. The EMT stayed outside to talk with one of the policemen at the site, who looked like he was itching to get into the ambulance with me.
Crawford flashed his badge and held a finger up to indicate ”in a minute.” I guess I had to be questioned again.
Crawford sat next to me on the stretcher and took my hand. ”I'm staying with you.”
I nodded.
”I don't want you to end up with a Bic pen in your throat.”
I looked at him, not sure I had heard him correctly. Maybe I was hallucinating now.
He lowered his voice. ”EMTs are a little overzealous. No matter what's wrong with you, they'll want to cut you open. Got a concussion? They'll give you a tracheotomy. If I don't stay, you'll end up breathing through a Bic pen sticking out of your throat. Or worse.” He sounded like he had experience with this. He got up and opened one of the metal cabinets. Medical supplies were stacked neatly inside.
I wasn't sure what was worse than a Bic pen sticking out of one's throat and didn't want to venture a guess. ”Any Bic pens in there?” I asked.
He shook his head and pulled out a big, soft ice pack, which he put on the counter and smashed with his fist. After he worked it back and forth, it was ice-cold. He put it to my head and told me to hold it there. ”They're also big on cutting your pants off.”
My eyes got big. I'd rather have a tracheotomy.
He pressed the ice bag to my head, holding his hand over mine. ”I fell down a flight of stairs once and broke my arm. The next thing I know, I'm on a stretcher in my underwear.”
”Any pictures of that?” I asked.
He shook his head. ”I was out of there before Crime Scene and their cameras showed up.” He laughed. ”Thank G.o.d.”
He told me what happened after he saw the SUV pull up and Costigan dragged me into the car. He got one shot off at the car, but Vince was going too fast for it to have any effect. He had run back to the house and called in the Navigator's license plate and general direction. Although I thought the police had been chasing us because of Vince's speeding, it was actually because of Crawford's all points bulletin. Now I could tell Max that I had been part of an APB. She would love that.
”Did Vince say anything to you?” he asked.
”The only thing I remember is him screaming at me about 'papers.' I don't know what that means. John didn't say anything.” I closed my eyes. ”Vince kept trying to grab at me, but I kicked him in the head.”
”Vince is dead,” he said.
Thank G.o.d it wasn't because I kicked him in the head. ”I know,” I replied. ”Is Costigan all right?”
His face turned cold and angry. ”He's fine. Until he gets to lockup in Rikers.”
”He didn't hurt me, Crawford.”
”You could have been killed,” he protested. ”And that's before you got into the car.” He looked away.
The activity outside was starting to subside. Costigan left in a state trooper's car, and the ME's car drove away, presumably with Vince's body. I peered outside and saw flares on the highway, a cop directing traffic around the wreckage. The rain was falling steadily and hitting the already slick roadway. The rubberneckers were out in force.
The fact that I still had my life hit me like a ton of bricks; I closed my eyes, and a faint image of my mother's beautiful face was imprinted on the insides of my eyelids.
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