Devil's Plaything (29 page)

Here are the first two chapters of

THE JUGGLER
,
the sequel to DEVIL'S PLAYTHING
,

to be published by

Harper in 2012.

I
stare into the dark tunnel and find myself imagining how it would look to Isaac.

To an eight-month-old, the shadowed subway opening wouldn't seem ominous but a grand curiosity. Shards of reflected light frame its entrance like shiny pieces of broken glass. Would Isaac try to touch them? Would he finger a droplet of misty water rolling down the jagged wall and put it on his tongue?

The cavern wouldn't frighten my son. It would excite him with possibility and mystery.

A horn blares and I flinch. The night's last express approaches. I'm without company on the below-ground platform but I am joined by a wicked aroma. It's coming from a green, paint-chipped metal trash can that I'm guessing from the scent contains the carcass of an extremely dead sandwich. The trash can sits along the wall, beneath a dimly-lit poster advertising a service that promises to turn your mobile phone into a day-trading terminal. “Buy Low, Sell High, Commute Profitably.”

Isaac would love little more than exploring the contours of the iPhone with his mouth.

I turn back to the track and squint across the platform. I'm looking for the woman with the triathlete's calves. I saw her upstairs at the turnstile, a brunette with darkly-tinted skin wearing a skirt and a look of compassion. A burly beggar approached her and she gave him some money and a kindly, worried smile.

How come all the beautiful women who look like they were born to heal the damaged are going a different direction than me on the train?

Would she be a great mom?

Would she be impressed that tomorrow I become this year's recipient of a national magazine award for investigative reporting? Would she help me feel impressed?

A rumbling roars from the tunnel. It's not yet my train, the K, but the nearing Express, expressing.

Over the din, I hear rustling from behind me, something heavy hits the pavement. A boot step, then another. I turn to see a mountainous man in a leather jacket materialize from the darkness, stumbling towards me. He's the picture of a San Francisco drunk, downtrodden but wearing a fashionable coat with collar upturned, curly beard, and dark shades. Bum doubtless with a blackberry, and a limp.

I'm tempted to ask him if he's okay as the train whooshes out of the tunnel into the station.

The drunkard lunges, or trips. He careens toward me, leading with his arms as if pushing through a revolving door.

He's going to fall into me and then both of us onto the tracks.

Powerful palms crash against my chest, fingers claw my sweatshirt, his jacket slick with January rain. I begin to fall backwards, not two feet from the edge. I grab his beefy forearms to try to break the hold at his vulnerable wrist joints, or steer us sideways. I fail. I stumble backwards. The train's warning horn explodes: move or die!

I feel it pass too close behind me, air-brushing my scalp.

Isaac. My son. Will I see him again?

One last tactic.

I give in. I try to pull the drunk on top of me. Our momentum abruptly changes. We fall not backwards into the train, but straight down to the pavement. My coccyx slams onto my backpack, which in turn smashes into the ground. My spine unfolds, neck extending toward the concrete. I brace for impact.

Crack. I see an instant of light, then one of black, then a hazy return to the moment. I smell something like burning tires. Then cologne. I feel intense pressure on my chest.

The mountain man lies on top of me. But I'm alive. The base of my skull must have hit the edge of the cement but just after the train passed, sparing my life.

I frantically push and kick the mountain from atop me. I claw the cement, then roll over, panting in downward dog. I run a triage check. Limbs moving, no obvious fractures. I feel sticky warmth at the back of my skull, a cut but not deep and shy of the heavy capillary-bed on top of my head that would bleed profusely and require stitches. I attended med school a decade ago before quitting the profession to become a journalist, but I remain fluent in the vernacular and anatomy of survival.

I look up to see the drunk. He's ambling awkwardly, his gait a demi-sprint. He holds his arms close to his chest. He disappears into a darkened stairwell. From his pocket, something falls, a piece of paper, onto the damp cement.

“Don't move. You might be hurt,” says a voice from my right.

It's the brunette, the one from the turnstile. Where did she come from? My vision remains unfocused.

I blink hard and look for words.

“Breathe,” she says. She kneels and extends an arm and puts fingers on my shoulder. She's shaken too.

Her touch brings attention to the acute pain near my deltoid. The strap of my ratty black backpack must've given me a nifty friction burn. But it also probably spared me a rougher fall. The pack, which follows me everywhere, contains an overflow of magazines and notes, the flora and fauna from which journalism sprouts and, tonight, a serendipitous back pillow.

I exhale, emerging from shock. I'm out of acute danger. Overcome with intense relief.

I run back a reel of the last minute. I picture the man coming at me, falling but somehow purposeful, his face camouflaged.

“Say something,” the brunette encourages. “Did you know that guy?”

“Scleroderma,” I mutter.

“What?”

I don't express my thought: the drunk's skin was pulled tight against his forehead and around his eyes. Scleroderma means “tight skin.” Its presence can indicate a rare disease of the organs, very rare, so these days it is much more likely to indicate a visit to the dermatologist; this drunk recently had an injection of botox that tightened his wrinkles. Rich drunk.

My scrutiny is a sign of my own condition: excessive medical analysis. Some people focus on faces, or names. I remember pathologies. My not-very-exciting sixth sense is seeing illnesses and physical conditions, a vestige of my medical school training. Jaundice, clinical water-retention, lazy eye, gout, misaligned spine, all the herpes variants, emphysema cough, flat-footedness (the obsessive medical labeler can identify it even when the flat-foot is wearing shoes and walking by). Even though I'd abdicated a career in medicine for one in medical journalism—after realizing I lacked the intensity and rigidity to be a good doctor—I can't shake associating humans with their conditions.

“It doesn't feel right,” I say.

“What? Your head?” The brunette asks.

“That too.”

I stand, feeling her fingers fall away. I wobble, get my footing, walk unsteadily to the piece of paper that fell from the mountain's leather jacket. I pick it up.

It is lined and legal sized, creased and smudged with black grease. I unfold it and discover two names written in blue pen. One name is Sandy Vello. Doesn't sound familiar. The other name does.

“What is it?” the brunette asks.

I point to my name on the piece of paper. She shakes her head, uncertain what I'm talking about.

“This is my name?”

“What?”

“Nathaniel Idle.”

“I'm Faith,” she says, still not getting it: My name was on a piece of paper that fell from the pocket of a man who nearly turned me into subway smoothie.

“That wasn't an accident,” I say.

“Do you think you need an ambulance? I suspect you're in shock.”

I look at Faith. She's biting her lip with perfect teeth, her head tilted, concerned, compassionate, empathic. My eyes lock on her for a millisecond more than is appropriate. I am struck by an urge to make her laugh. But it's overwhelmed by a more powerful compulsion.

I look at the stairs where the dangerous mountain disappeared. I sprint after him.

I
bound up a steep set of metal stairs. They're slippery and dimly lit from a tract on the low ceiling.

I'm near the top when I'm hit by a wave of light-headedness and nausea, and feel my toe slide, causing my leg to collapse underneath me. I brace myself with my palms against one of the cool stairs but not in time to keep my knee from smacking one of the edges. A burst of pain just shy of agony shoots forth from my right patella. I look down and curse my cheap canvas high-tops and their cheap rubberized soles that offer traction approximating ice slippers.

I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see Faith staring up at me.

“You're hurt,” she says. “Wait.”

I ignore her and stumble to the top of the stairs.

I'm looking down a long, empty tunnel, ending in the well-lit maw of the subway station. I start running again but with a decided hitch in my step. The knee pain is sufficient enough that halfway down the hallway I have to pause, take a deep breath, and start hopping on my left foot.

A few seconds later, I'm at the entrance to the station. My eyes adjust to the wide-open space, with cathedral-like high ceilings, illuminated by bright light. Very bright. Another wave of nausea, one I can't suppress. I put my hands on my knees and let out a heave, albeit mostly a dry one. I take a couple of deep breaths, and stand.

I focus again in the cavernous station. It's all but empty. In front of me, five ticket machines line a distant wall. To my left, stairs lead down the tracks for trains heading to the beach, the direction I wasn't traveling. To my right, four turnstiles provide exit and entrance. Next to them, in a rectangular, thick glass cage that stretches nearly to the ceiling, sits a man in blue cap, gray hair overflowing, sideburns tricking out the sides of his face, eyes turned down, lost in paperwork.

There is no drunk, or homeless man, or whatever genus and species of modern man toppled over me near the tracks. And there are no fellow travelers. In other words: no witnesses, except, potentially, the man shuffling papers in the glass cage.

I hobble to the turnstiles. Beyond them, a set of majestic stone stairs leads in and out of the station and promises a much more elegant experience than the underground train service typically provides.

I walk to the top of the stairs. Outside, I take in a couple of breaths of cool air, grateful for it, and peer into the darkness dotted by red brake lights, headlights and a stop light at the corner just to my right. It's just past 10 p.m., rainy, cold, windy. Poor conditions under any circumstances, that much worse for trying to find someone who is trying to slip away in the darkness. There's an empty bus parked for the night in front of the subway terminal, and a Volvo in the passenger pickup zone; its driver sits behind the wheel mesmerized by whatever is on his iPhone. But there's no sign of a fleeing jerk.

Maybe he didn't leave through the exit. Maybe he hobbled down the stairs to the tracks heading the other direction. If so, he probably hopped on the last outbound train. Is there another possibility? A bathroom?

I return to the turnstiles and knock on the glass cage. The blue-capped man takes a deliberate few seconds to look up, communicating his superiority over the unwashed subway goers.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I was attacked—on the inbound platform.”

This perks him up. In his beefy hand, a Snickers. He swallows a bite that causes a hitch in his throat. He gestures with the half-eaten candy bar to the side of the cage opposite where I'm standing and swivels around in his chair.

He lets me back through the turnstiles. I walk to the other side of the cage and find a small opening in his glass that allows verbal communication, albeit a labored version that forces us nearly to shout to hear one another.

“What happened?” the man asks. He's trying to sound interested but projects weariness. He's still got chocolate and nougat on the tips of his front teeth, the rest of which are yellowed from smoking or practiced disregard of the toothbrush.

“Did someone just come through here? Big guy wearing a leather jacket? He had a beard and maybe a limp.”

“You were mugged?”

Was I mugged? I paw my right front jeans pocket and feel the outline of my phone. My wallet is still in the right back pocket. The urbanite's reflex.

Not mugged.

“Your bag is open,” the agent says.

It takes a second for me to realize that he means my backpack. I turn around and see a few papers have scattered on the ground in the station.

I also see Faith. She's scooped up several of the straggling pieces of paper and is fast approaching. Where has she been? I turn back to the agent.

“Some guy nearly pushed me into the tracks. Can you call the police?”

“Nothing's missing?” he asks. He clearly hates the idea of the bureaucratic time sink involved with reporting a non-mugging.

“You must have cameras,” I say.

I'm thinking of the surveillance cameras must have seen the incident and maybe got a good look at the falling mountain.

I turn to Faith, who stands just a few feet away, holding my papers. Part of me is wondering what she's doing, why she followed me, and where she came from, why she's wearing a skirt after dark in rainy mid-January. I've got a more pointed question.

“You must have seen him,” I say.

“You should sit down. You look a little green.”

I'm sure she's right. It doesn't take a former med student to recognize I've got a head contusion and maybe a concussion.

“I'm okay. I'll get to a doctor,” I say. Even as I say it, I know I'm unlikely to get it checked.

“Your backpack has taken a mortal blow. It's bleeding papers,” she says, then pauses. “Seen him?” she asks. “Who?”

“The guy who toppled me over. You passed him in the tunnel, or he passed you. You each appeared out of nowhere, simultaneously.”

She looks momentarily stricken. “I didn't get a good look. I'm sorry.”

Even under these circumstances, I am conflicted about whether to press this gorgeous and empathic woman, or flirt. I split the difference. I take a deep breath.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I usually don't interrogate a woman when I first meet her. Usually, it's cup of coffee, or a beer, maybe dinner, and only then do I start treating her like a witness or suspect.”

She laughs. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she says. For a millisecond, she lowers her brown eyes and then looks back up. She smiles, reassuringly.

“What's on your sweatshirt? Did you get sick?”

I look down at the green splotch just above the left shoulder on my gray sweatshirt.

“Or did your baby get sick?” she asks.

What's with this woman? Does she know something about me?

“I've got a nephew,” she explains. “When he was a baby, that's right about the spot where he liked to press his face when I fed him.”

I look again at the splotch on my shoulder, and feel light-headed again, momentarily unreal. I shake myself back into the strange moment. This prescient woman is right. I've got feeding casualty on my shoulder. Isaac. My son. I'll see him again. I manage a smile.

“Masticated avocado,” I say. “From the mouths of babes. Right onto my shoulder.”

“I take it your son is not in his 20s.”

I feel my eyes mist. “Eight months, give or take. Spits up like an Olympian.”

I cannot possibly be connecting with a woman, not under these circumstances, not given my track record in relationships. I'm a romantic Hindenburg; promising take-offs, brief smooth sailing, splat. It's probably not the time to blurt that out, or disclose my dysfunctional personal life and worldview. I'm no longer with Isaac's mom, and he's with her. And I'm far from at peace with the whole thing.

“They're out of town,” I say. At her parents for a visit.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Good job, Nat. Instead of confessing your romantic failings, you mutter non-sequiturs.

“Anyhow,” says Faith. “I've got to catch a cab and get home.”

“Wait. Please.” I'm coursing with a dozen questions, chiefly: what did Faith see? I ask her if she can spare five more minutes to help me deconstruct what happened on the platform. She acquiesces, with a light flavor of impatience, denoted by fidgeting fingers and diminished eye contact. She tells me that she made a quick phone call, then headed down to the tracks to get the K. When she arrived, she saw the “big man” fall down towards me. She couldn't tell if it was deliberate or not, but she could tell it was a major impact. “He squished you,” she says.

It's not particularly helpful. And I'm definitely testing her patience when I ask her again if she doesn't remember seeing the man or can tell me anything about his physical demeanor. I observe that he was clutching his chest as he departed; did she see notice? Was he limping?

Finally, I ask her about the piece of paper that fell from the man's pocket, the one with my name on it and the other name—Sandy Vello. Did she see it fall?

She shrugs. “Maybe it yours,” she says. “Maybe it fell out with all the rest of this stuff.”

“Meaning what?”

“Your backpack droppings are everywhere. You've got a mishmash of things.”

She looks at some of the scattered pieces of paper from my backpack, still on the ground.

She shrugs. “You took a pretty good hit to your head. It can shake your sense of reality.”

She smiles, the same compassionate but sad smile I'd seen her give the beggar when I first saw her at the turnstile. She turns to go.

I blurt out. “Please take my card, in case you think of anything about that guy. And can I at least have your info, in case I need to follow up?” I tug two business cards out of my wallet.

She looks at my card. It reads ‘Nat Idle: By the Word.' She glances at it and tucks into her coat pocket. She scribbles something on the back of the other card and hands it back.

“Can I offer you cab fare?” I ask.

“I'm good. Take care of yourself.”

She walks through the turnstiles and into the night.

I look at the scrap of paper I've been clutching this entire time, the one with my name and the other one, Sandy Vello.

I don't recognize the handwriting. It's certainly not mine. I doubt this came from my backpack. Still, am I making more of this than it is? But, if so, isn't that my stock and trade? As a journalist, I've built a business and a life pursuing mysteries—little, medium and occasionally big. Just like Isaac; everything is a curiosity to be examined, touched, tasted, understood. I'm a toddler with a pen.

But there's something else: real anger. I could've died.

I'm wondering about this Sandy Vello. What if she's a target too? What if she has a kid, spouse, partner, or general desire to live?

I walk back to the top of the majestic stairs and pull out my phone. It's a first generation iPhone, which in these parts makes me a Luddite. I call up an Internet browser and finger in Sandy Vello's name. In the customary minute it takes for the results to load, I watch a man on a bike peddle by, undaunted in the rain, a dog in his back saddle wearing a yellow slicker. Watching makes my knee ache and I wonder when I'll get back on a basketball court, my 37-year-old joints and weather permitting.

Google returns its wisdom, 171,000 related web pages. Big help, Google.

I run the same search but for recent news. I get a hit. Sandy Vello has been in the news lately. Ten days ago, she was hit by a car in Woodside, a suburb in the hills a half an hour south of San Francisco. She was killed.

I'm reading an obituary.

What the hell is going on?