Ark (14 page)

EARLY ONE FOGGY MORNING, AS
I ran around the Reservoir, I felt someone close behind me. I had been running in a daze. The realization that I was being followed startled me awake. I looked over my shoulder, but saw nothing but fog. However, my other four senses told me a thing or two about the person who was following me. He was a male. The footfall was heavy. So was the breathing. So was the smell. This guy was out of shape. I picked up the pace. The footsteps behind me quickened, then faded. Inside the fog, someone was gasping. This stalker, whoever he was, was not going to catch me. I stopped and turned around, running in place. Clearly the weirdo wasn’t going to catch me. Pretty soon I discerned a staggering figure, then a more substantial silhouette, and then, Adam. The pace at which he was moving barely exceeded a walk. He stopped a step or two away, bent over with his hands on his knees, and fought for breath. Runners burst out of the fog bank and brushed by him on either side, showering contempt as they passed.

Adam said, “You don’t make these meetings any easier, you know.”

The words were spoken laboriously, one syllable at a time. He smiled his lovely wide smile, all those perfect teeth. He was red in the face, still struggling for breath.

I said, “You look like you’ve got about four minutes to live. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Not long afterward, quite predictably, we were both short of breath in a king-size bed in a hotel room. Quite soon he fell asleep, snoring. It seemed safe to leave him for a moment—after all, I could hear his snores through the bathroom door. When I returned, he woke up—or maybe just pretended to. I trusted no one. At the moment, trust didn’t matter much. Adam was nothing if not good-looking. Sprawled on the sheet, uncovered, he resembled a recumbent David, but hairier. I got back into bed.

At a little after nine, Adam looked over my shoulder at the big red numerals of the bedside clock, snatched his cell phone off the night table to make sure the clock was right, and said, “Oh, boy! I’ve got to get to court.”

He jumped out of bed and pulled on his sweats at cartoon-character speed, arms going one way, legs another. He kissed me, crushing my unclothed body against his damp sweatshirt.

“For God’s sake, call me,” he said hoarsely, and was out the door, untied shoelaces flying.

It was Sunday. The courts were closed. Who cared?

I took no precautions against surveillance on my way home, just headed for my building as if no one were watching, as if there were no such thing as a trap. I stopped at a coffee shop for a takeout latte. When I came back outside, I spotted a man who was leaning against a utility pole. He was reading the
Post,
holding the gaudy tabloid in such a way as to hide his face. I flagged a taxi and had the driver take me across the park, then down Fifth Avenue to the library, where I ran over to Sixth Avenue, took another cab to the nineties, caught a train to Columbus Circle, and finally took another cab back to the apartment.

As the weekend and then the first days of the next week passed, I thought about Adam. On Thursday, I realized I wanted to see him again—soon. Maybe he had just been half-asleep and confused about the day of the week. Sexually, he was a real find, and if he hadn’t murdered me by now it seemed unlikely that he ever would. But how to manage a rendezvous? I didn’t like hotels. He couldn’t come to this apartment—couldn’t even be trusted with the knowledge that it existed, let alone with my new address. I checked out the red stars on the calendar that denoted surprise encounters with Adam. Every one of them had happened on a Sunday. Should I go running in the park and hope for the best? Then I remembered: He already knew the address of my old apartment.

As soon as dark fell on the following Saturday, I went for a walk, then took the usual series of cabs and trains and buses to bewilder whoever might be watching me, and arrived at my old apartment. It was as squalid as ever, and it seemed undisturbed—not a finger mark in the dust that covered every surface. I got out my cell phone and dialed Adam’s number. He answered on the second ring.

I said, “I want you to stop stalking me.”

Adam said, “Too bad, kid, because I can’t wait to catch up to you. But no more running.”

I told him where I was and hung up. Half an hour later, the buzzer sounded, the decrepit elevator whined and clanged, and Adam came in through the unlocked door.

At five thirty on Sunday morning, minutes after Adam left, my cell phone vibrated. The caller ID said that Melissa was calling. I picked up. Even at this hour her voice was musical. There was absolutely no sleep in it, but ever so faintly, I heard exasperation.

“Then this is your wake-up call,” Melissa said. “Invite me to breakfast.”

“When?”

“Today, seven o’clock.”

“What about the kids?”

“The nanny will feed them when they wake up, not that they’ll eat anything. Are we on or not?”

“OK, seven o’clock. You bring the food.”

“Seven it is,” Melissa said. “Not where you are now. Where you’re supposed to be.”

How did she know where I was now? Before I could ask, the phone went dead. I locked up and walked back to Central Park West.

Melissa was exactly on time, bearing a Whole Foods shopping bag. She had no smile for me, and only a single air kiss instead of the usual Old World two. She spoke not a word. The determined look on her face was one I knew as of old. It meant I had done her an injury without even realizing it.

She unpacked the shopping bag. Absolutely everything she had bought was certified to be good for you—even the coffee. She shook a meager handful of organic granola into bowls, sprinkled organic raspberries on top, and poured organic skim milk over them. The organic coffee she left in its recycled cardboard containers.

Finally, I broke the silence. I said, “Let me guess, Melissa. I’ve failed to do something I ought to have done, or done something I ought not to have done.”

Melissa said, “How did you guess?”

“Just tell me what the problem is.”

“This is embarrassing for me,” Melissa said. “I resent being put in this position—having to talk to you about this.”

Melissa embarrassed? Melissa leading up to something instead of just laying down the law?

“Embarrassed about what?”

“Your behavior.”

“Which part?”

“You’ve got to stop acting like you’re in a spy movie.”

These were pretty much the last words I expected to hear. I laughed.

Melissa said, “You may think it’s funny, but believe me, it’s not.”

I said, “Melissa, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? Then let me be more specific. Nobody cares if you want to pick up men in Central Park and take them to hotels. That’s your affair, your private life, your folly. Enjoy. But this business of jumping in and out of taxicabs and subways afterward like you’re the star of
The French Connection
is driving everybody crazy. So enough already. Stop it. Break the habit. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“I am?” I said. “Who’s everybody?”

“That’s what I’m here to explain.”

I was furious. Obviously someone had been spying on me and gossiping about it with Melissa and who knew who else? Did the spy dish with Henry?

“You’ve been watching me,” I shrieked. “You’ve been on me every minute. You knew where I spent the night last night. You follow me everywhere. I knew it! I felt it. Call off your creeps.”

“Believe me, they’re a long way from being creeps,” Melissa said. “But yes, you’re under protection.”

“Under
protection
? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve spent a lot of time with Henry. Surely you realize he’s a kidnapper’s dream. Has it not seemed strange to you that you and he always seemed to be entirely alone?”

“If you’re asking if I ever wondered where the bodyguards were,” I replied, “the answer is yes, from the day we met in Central Park.”

“That showed up in your body language on the video. You were looking around for the security.”

“You took video of me?”

“Not me, security. It’s routine. It helps them profile people, which helps them anticipate what the subject is going to do next.”

“Lovely,” I said. “What else? Fingerprints from my wineglass? A used Kleenex to check out my DNA?”

Melissa waited for me to subside. She wasn’t going to waste her time swatting away my witticisms.

“Anyway,” she said. “Security has been looking after you ever since that day in the park, and for a while before that. It’s their job. They were impressed that you seemed to be aware of their presence on the first day, and that you’ve sensed them, even spotted them, on other occasions.”

“I’m flattered,” I said. “Just so my paranoia is complete, how many such occasions have there been?”

“They’re
always
with you, dear. Sometimes right beside you, sometimes at a discreet distance. Even Henry doesn’t know whether they’re at his elbow or across the street.”

“Well, I do. I may not see them, but I feel them.”

“They know. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

I said, “What about right now? Are we being watched by hidden cameras? Is the apartment bugged? Should I look to see if there’s a fake window-washer outside right now? Are you wired?”

“No, I’m not. About the rest, I have no idea. But as Henry told you when you moved out, your old place is wired, which is how I knew where you were.”

“Are these admirable creeps hiding under the bed or in the woodwork and protecting me right this minute?”

“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t rule anything out. Henry has ordered them to keep you from harm. That’s what they’re doing.”

I said, “What they’re doing, Melissa, is stealing my privacy. What gives them the right? Is there one shred of my privacy left? Have they bugged my computer so they can read what I write at the moment I write it? Do they watch what I do in the shower, what I do with men? Can I
ever
assume I’m alone?”

Melissa said, “Nobody in this day and age should ever make that assumption.”

“Not even you?”

“Not even me. The secret of a happy life, believe me, is to have no secrets. Then you have nothing to worry about. Most people don’t realize that till they get to divorce court.”

I said, “Thanks for the axiom. I mean, wow, that certainly puts the whole deal in perspective. What do the gumshoes do with all this vital information they gather? Give it to Henry?”

“They type it into a computer in encrypted form—no real names, everybody has an alias.”

“But they know which code name matches which suspect.”

“Of course they do. So what? Nobody else knows, not even Henry. Of what interest to anyone is your humdrum life or mine?”

“If I’m so boring, what’s the point of all this surveillance?”

“You work for Henry. He shares his thoughts with you. There are people in the world who would love to get their hands on Henry. Some of them are merely greedy. But some of them, maybe the majority, are crazy. The purpose of the security is to protect Henry. In order to protect him, they have to protect everyone who’s close to him. A threat to you is a threat to him, and vice versa. Nothing sinister is going on. The only possible interest anyone except a horny stud like your companion from last night can have in you is your connection to Henry.”

“So the working hypothesis of these infallible and mostly invisible people who are protecting me is that I have no enemies, which is why I need protection?”

“Cut it out,” Melissa replied.