Lunatics (9 page)

CHAPTER 17

Philip

“Did you ever see
a movie called
The Defiant
Ones
?”

Those were the first words I said upon regaining consciousness in the back of that cab.

“You talking to me, dickhead?”

Those were the first words I heard upon regaining consciousness in the back of that cab.

My entire body hurt. A lot. Like I imagine it would hurt if I somehow happened to roll off of a huge rock and onto the ground while tethered to an obnoxious forensic plumber who I was now trying to have a conversation with.

“It's a movie where two escaped prisoners, who hate each other, are shackled together but have to cooperate in order to survive.”

“And did
you
ever see a movie called
Tom Thumb
?” asked Peckerman. “I suggest you take yours and shove it up your ass.”

That there was something out of whack with that retort (my Tom Thumb?) wasn't a discussion I felt like having at that exact moment. But, for the record, let me just say that it was far beyond idiotic.

The sun was up. A new day for everyone else, but for me a continuation of the nightmare that was yesterday. We were still tied together. My stomach pressed against his back. So we were sitting there sideways, each with our right butt cheek on the seat, looking out the same window. At first I couldn't get my bearings, but when I saw Lincoln Center, I knew we were on Ninth Avenue heading downtown.

“May I ask where we're going?”

“Home,” said Peckerman, with an inflection implying that I'd asked a question with an obvious answer.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” I asked.

“You have a better one, assplunge?”

“Well, let me put it this way,” I said. “Do you live in a brick ranch house with a crab apple tree on your front lawn and a mailbox the shape of a locomotive at the curb?”

“You know I do. You came to the house last night and kicked the shit out of my swale with your bullshit Prius, remember?”

“Yes, but it was dark, so this is actually the first time I'm seeing it during the daytime. Nice place.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Take a look to your left,” I told him. He did. And now saw what I was seeing on the TV screen embedded into the back of the driver's seat. A newscaster was standing in front of Peckerman's house, interviewing his neighbors.

“I never liked him,” said a heavyset woman walking a Saint Bernard. “He's a foulmouthed blowhard and he never returned our rake. So when I know he's not home, I let Winston here squeeze out a brown beauty onto his front lawn. Everyone does. The kids call this place Doodyville.”

The news then switched to the front of my house, where a similar media circus was taking place. Cameramen running alongside the cars taking my kids to school, pictures of me and Daisy as volunteers at a local soup kitchen last Thanksgiving—and then they cut to a reporter standing in front of The Wine Shop asking some of the other storeowners questions about me.

“Did I ever think Horkman was capable of doing this?” said Marty Jaffe, who owned the Bagel Chateau two doors down. “Yes. I knew it the minute I saw that his lower lip drooped slightly on the left side. If I'm not mistaken, Lee Harvey Oswald had that same droop.”

And then that reporter turned back to the camera and said something about a reward for our capture or knowledge of our whereabouts.

“Still think we should go home?” I asked Peckerman.

“I did so return that fat fuck's rake,” he said, with daggers in his eyes. “How much you want to bet three-quarters of the shit on my lawn is hers?”

It would've been extremely difficult to get back to Jersey anyway, because the news mentioned checkpoints at every outbound river crossing. In fact, up ahead I could see that the Ninth Avenue entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel was already backed up.

“Change of plans,” I shouted to the driver. “Make the next right turn.”

“Okay. I will. I promise,” said the cabbie, on the verge of tears.

“What's with him?” I asked Peckerman.

“He's scared. He thinks I have a gun.”

“And why would he think that?” I asked.

“Because of this,” said Peckerman, as I followed his gaze downward and saw he was holding a gun.

Then he filled me in on what had occurred after my head crashed against the cement sidewalk. About the thugs taking our wallets, about the thugs being chased away by big black bears, about him hopping away from the big black bears up to a cab on Fifth Avenue, and about discovering that he had the thugs' gun and it all made perfect sense. Now the question was what to do next.

“I'd love to get out of these ropes,” said Peckerman.

I felt the same way. Peckerman had a small mole, the kind that has a little black hair sticking out of it, on the back of his neck, and I truly felt I'd used up more than my allotted time to stare into that thing and it was only fair to let someone else enjoy the view.

“Pull over here,” I told the sobbing cab driver on what appeared to be a deserted West Side street with dilapidated buildings and unused loading docks. It bothered me that the poor guy was so upset, so I tried to calm him down with a little small talk to show that we were human and, despite Peckerman's gun, meant no harm.

“That's a nice picture of your children,” I said about the photo that was taped to the dashboard.

But my good intentions were misinterpreted, as he apparently perceived that to be some kind of threat to his family. Whereupon he stopped the car, got out, came around to the back, opened the door for us, reached in and untied us.

Then, once Peckerman and I got out and stepped onto the street, the still-sobbing cabbie ran back to the driver's side, opened his door, reached inside, grabbed something, ran around the cab, handed me a cigar box, then ran back to his side of the cab, got in, closed the door and drove away.

I opened the cigar box and looked inside. It was cash. $74.38. Probably all the money the cabbie made that day. I felt horrible. Peckerman?

“You know, I don't think this counts as robbing the guy, because we didn't ask him for any money,” he said. “The putz gave it to us voluntarily.”

I looked at Peckerman and felt the distinct urge to smack him. But we had bigger fish to fry. Plus he was holding the gun.

Then, as if on cue, the sound of approaching sirens was followed by three NYPD cars roaring around the corner. My stomach dropped. Like back in school when a teacher's voice saying my name startled me out of an effective daydream. We both turned around, our backs to the street. The wailing of the sirens becoming slightly less insistent. The speed of the cars seemingly slower than just a few seconds before. My head down, I wondered if it was possible that Peckerman was actually peeing into his shoes.

And then, as if they'd gotten a second wind, the cars sped up again and headed toward some other place. After the few seconds it took to settle nerves, I garnered the strength to speak again.

“It's obvious we can't just stand out here like this. Any thoughts?”

“Well,” said Peckerman, “I'm wondering if there's a way we can leave Manhattan other than by a bridge or a tunnel.”

“Huh? I'd like to remind you, Mr. Peckerman, that Manhattan is an island, which, by definition, means that it is surrounded by water. So they need things like bridges and tunnels to attach them to other places. That said, how else do you suggest we get out of here?”

“How about . . . ?”

Peckerman didn't bother finishing his sentence. He merely pointed across the highway, to the piers that jutted out into the Hudson River, where the SS
Windsong
, a cruise ship to vacation spots in the Caribbean, was boarding passengers.

CHAPTER 18

Jeffrey

“Come on,”
I said, starting toward the ship.

“Wait a minute,” said Horkman.

I turned around, ready to shoot the asshole. “What?”

“Maybe we should turn ourselves in.”

“What?”

“Look, we didn't actually do anything, right?”

“They think we tried to bomb the GW Bridge.”

“But we
didn't
.”

“They also think we shot a cop.”

“We didn't do that, either.”

“Right. But the fucking helicopter came down, and they think we did it.”

“Yes, but we know we didn't, and if we got good lawyers, given time, we could get this all sorted out. Otherwise, if we just keep running, where do we stop?”

I hated to admit it, but the asshole had a point.

“So what are you suggesting?” I said.

“We make a call,” he said. “I know a good defense attorney. We contact him and he helps us turn ourselves in. That way we don't look guilty.”

We were a few yards from a coffee shop. I stuck the gun in my pocket and we went in. Two guys behind the counter were waiting on a half-dozen customers, but nobody looked our way. A TV behind the counter was showing the news, but at the moment we weren't on it.

We spotted a pay phone back by the restrooms and headed that way, keeping our heads down. Horkman picked up the phone, keeping his face toward the wall. I grabbed a newspaper off a table and held it in front of my face, pretending to read it while I peeked over the top and scanned the room. My eyes fell on the TV screen.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“What?” said Horkman.

“Look.”

The TV screen said
TERRORISTS IN PERVERT SEX ZOO MASSACRE
.

“Oh shit,” said Horkman.

Everybody in the coffee shop was staring at the TV. A counter guy turned up the volume.

“. . . just getting details on this horrific crime,” the announcer was saying. “Police have released this video from surveillance cameras at the Central Park Zoo. We warn you that some of what you are about to see is graphic, and quite frankly disgusting.”

And there we were on the screen, me and him in grainy black and white, tied together, with me hopping and Horkman's head jerking up and down.

“Police have identified these two men as Peckerman and Horkman, the same two suspected members of a New Jersey terrorist cell being sought in connection with the attack on the George Washington Bridge and the gruesome shooting of a courageous NYPD helicopter pilot. It is not yet known exactly what the two men were doing at the zoo, but one police source speculated that they were engaging in some kind of sick, twisted sexual bondage victory dance.”

Now they replayed the video and slowed it down, so Horkman and I were bouncing in slow motion. You couldn't really see Horkman's eyes, but his mouth was opening and closing with every hop. I was gasping for air, but on the video it almost looked like I was smiling.

“That's disgusting,” said one of the coffee-shop customers.

“But what is truly disturbing,” said the TV announcer, “is what happened next. Apparently there were some youths at the zoo, and they had the misfortune to stumble upon this sordid scene.”

“Youths?” I said.
“Youths?”

I said it a little too loud. One of the customers, a guy in a Yankees cap, glanced my way.

“According to police,” the announcer said, “the bodies of two youths were found near the scene, disemboweled and being eaten by bears. Sources have identified these as Central Park Zoo bears Hansel and Gretel, which were brought to New York by Mayor Bloomberg as part of an animal exchange program with the Berlin Zoo, which for its part received porcupines. It is not clear at this point whether the terrorists deliberately set the bears loose to kill the youths, or if they disemboweled the youths themselves and then set the bears on them in an attempt to cover their tracks.”

Yankee cap glanced back at me again, for a second longer this time.

“What is clear,” continued the announcer, “is that this new, sickeningly horrendous act on the part of these alleged terrorist perverts, who are still at large, has the entire city—and yes, the entire nation—on edge. That is especially true of the police department, which very nearly lost one of its own in a savage attack by these same alleged depraved killers. For more on that, we go to reporter Warren Pristine, who's on the West Side with members of the police special antiterrorism unit. Warren, what's the mood like out there?”

The screen showed a guy in a trenchcoat in front of a bunch of pissed-off-looking cops wearing helmets and body armor and carrying guns the size of piano legs.

“Steve,” said the reporter, “the mood among these officers is tense and, quite frankly, angry about the brutal and, as you say, savage attack on one of their own. As one officer said to me, and here I quote, cleaning up his language just slightly, ‘If you shoot one of us in the testicles, it's like you shot all of us in the testicles. Even the women.' So there's a lot of anger, Steve—anger and rage. I'm speaking only for myself here, and I am certainly not suggesting that any of these brave and highly professional men and women would deliberately violate departmental regulations, but if they do encounter these alleged terrorists—and we all fervently hope they do, and soon—it would not surprise me if their tactical philosophy could best be summarized as ‘shoot first, and ask questions later.' Back to you, Steve.”

“Thanks for that report, Warren,” said Steve. “And be careful out there. To summarize: As the terror campaign against the people and zoo animals of New York City escalates and takes a twisted, disturbing turn, police as well as federal agents are intensifying their search for two suspected terrorist leaders, Jeffrey Peckerman and Philip Horkman.”

And there we were, on the screen, this time sharp and clear, in living color.

Now Yankees cap was staring at me.

“Hey!” he shouted. “HEY!”

I had the gun out.

“Don't move, asshole,” I said.

“You better listen to him,” said Horkman. “Because he
will
shoot you in the balls.”

Five seconds later, we were out the door, running toward the ship.