Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)
Wendy Corsi Staub
PROLOGUE
New York City
He lunges across Sixth Avenue mid-block and against the light, leaving in his wake squealing brakes, honking horns, angry curses through car windows.
No need to look over his shoulder; he knows they’re back there, closing in on him.
Darting up the east side of Sixth, he blows through an obstacle course of office workers on smoke breaks, tourists walking four abreast, businessmen lined up at street food carts. Ignoring the indignant shouts of jostled pedestrians, he searches the urban landscape as he runs. July heat radiates in waves from concrete and asphalt. Sweat soaks his T-shirt.
Just ahead, across Fortieth Street, he spots the subway entrance. For a split second, he considers diving down the stairs. If a train happens to be just pulling in, he can hop on and lose them—at least for the time being.
If there’s no train, he’ll be trapped like a rat in a hole—unless he hoofs it through the dark tunnel and risks being electrocuted by the third rail or flattened by an oncoming express.
No thanks.
Nothing can happen to him. Not now. Not when the plan is about to come to fruition.
Not when sweet victory is so close he can taste it like sugar.
He races past the subway, his thoughts careening through various scenarios of how the next few minutes of his life might play out. They all end the same way: he’s apprehended. Incarcerated.
Even if he could possibly hide in midtown Manhattan in broad daylight with the cops hot on his trail, it makes no sense to try. The NYPD aren’t the only ones looking for him.
At least if he’s arrested, he’ll be safe—for now.
But first, he has to stash the file where no one can possibly stumble across it—and where he himself will easily be able to retrieve it and resume his plan. When he’s free.
Where? Come on, think. Think!
If only he had time to open a safe deposit box somewhere.
If only he could bury it like treasure, entrust it to a stranger for safekeeping, throw it into an envelope addressed to a trusted friend in a far-off place…
Before all this, he had a circle of confidants.
Now, he trusts no one other than Mike.
He tried to call his old friend yesterday, since he has a vested interest in this thing.
He did leave a message: “Mike, it’s me. Dude, I was right. It’s bigger than I thought. I’ll be in touch.”
Now that he’s had time to think things through, though, he’s glad he didn’t reach Mike. Better not to drag him into this dangerous game.
He bounds across Fortieth and up the wide concrete steps into Bryant Park, zigzagging northeast past dog walkers and the carousel; past stroller-pushing nannies and office workers eating lunch out of clear plastic deli containers.
Approaching the crowded outdoor dining patio of the Bryant Park Café, he spots a commotion beside the entrance. A young wife tries to soothe the screaming baby propped against her shoulder as her agitated husband argues loudly with the hostess about a reservation. The baby’s stroller is abandoned in his path, a fuzzy pink stuffed animal lying on the ground beside it.
Seeing it, he’s struck by an idea—one that’s either so far out there that it’ll never work, or so far out there that it has to work.
There’s no time to sit around considering the odds.
Rather than leap over the stuffed animal, he scoops it up as he passes, hoping bystanders are too busy watching the argument at the hostess stand to notice. He doesn’t bother to look back, and nobody calls out after him as he cannonballs down the wide concrete steps on the north side of the park.
Emerging onto West Forty-second Street, he hurtles eastward, passing the main branch of the library. He scoots across Fifth Avenue amid hordes of pedestrians in the crosswalk, then across East Forty-second against the red “Don’t Walk” sign. With the stuffed animal tucked under his right arm, high against his chest like a football, he sprints the remaining block and a half to Grand Central Terminal.
No one—not even the national guardsmen on patrol in this post–9/11 era—gives him a second glance as he races at full speed from the Vanderbilt entrance toward the cavernous main concourse. Otherwise-civilized people zip pell-mell through here all the time. The MTA conducts its Metro North commuter line on a precise schedule; a few seconds’ delay might mean waiting an hour to catch the next train to the northern suburbs.
It’s been a while, yet he knows the layout of the vast rail station very well. Knows the location of the ticket counters and subway ramps, the arched whispering gallery near the Oyster Bar, the upper and lower level tracks, the stationmaster’s office, the food court, the lost and found…
The lost and found.
Looking furtively over his shoulder, he spots a blue uniform at the far end of the corridor. Changing direction, he veers toward the steep bank of escalators leading to the subway station below Grand Central, slowing his pace just enough to be sure the cop has time to spot him. Then he skirts down the left side of the escalator with the harried walkers, past the lineup of riders holding the rubber rail along the right.
At the bottom, he hops the turnstile. Predictably, those behind him protest loudly. He races through the familiar network of corridors to an exit and a set of stairs leading up to Grand Central Terminal again, closer to Lexington Avenue. Again, he runs toward the main concourse, emerging at last beneath the domed pale blue ceiling with its celestial markings.