The Boy from Reactor 4

He offered his hand, and Nadia shook it. While hers was limp and covered with a light sheen of sweat, his was strong and dry. He touched her shoulder and peered into her eyes with his cornflower blues.

“Are you okay, Nadia? Are you hurt in any way?”

Nadia shook her head. “No, no. I’m fine.” Her face flushed, and she turned away. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her with genuine concern.

Specter turned right on Houston to double back toward Fifth Street. “What happened back there? Did you know that man? The one who got shot.”

“Who? Oh, him. Uh, no, not really.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I never saw him before tonight.”

“Huh. That’s bizarre. What did he say to you?”

“Pardon?”

“I saw him grab you and whisper something into your ear. What was that all about?”

She’d forgotten all about that. Find Damian. Find Andrew Steen. They all—millions of dollars. Fate of the free world.

“Just some random gibberish,” Nadia said. “He was in shock. I couldn’t understand a word of it.” Nadia gathered her resolve and looked at him. “What kind of doctor are you?”

“ER,” he said.

“Ah. That explains it.”

“What?”

“Cool under pressure.”

He took a turn on Third Avenue, two blocks from Fifth and the police station.

“Sorry for the beating your baby took back there,” Nadia said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your car.”

He laughed. “The computers are so sophisticated it drives itself. Even an idiot like me can look like a hero. It’s my first new car ever. No worries, really. It’s just a material thing.”

Interesting perspective, she thought. Her ex-husband used to go bonkers when she dropped a crumb on the floor of his Volkswagen.

Traffic slowed to a crawl. Specter took another turn.

“Were you visiting someone in the East Village?” Nadia said.

“Yep. My mother. I try to come down and spend Sunday with her a couple of times a month. We go to church in the morning, have brunch. Maybe go shopping before she cooks dinner. I’m working tomorrow, so I came down today.”

“You’re a good son.”

“Hey, she’s my mom.”

Nadia imagined what a first date might be like. The circumstances were all wrong for her to even go there. Milan was either dead or dying. But she couldn’t help herself. Something casual, maybe lunch at a French bistro and a matinee.

He said, “Let me ask you. Just out of curiosity. You said the man who got shot spoke gibberish in your ear. What exactly did he say? The things people say in circumstances like that fascinate me.”

A car ahead of them hit the brakes hard. Specter did the same. The lurch jolted Nadia. What had he just asked her? She looked beyond the car. Fifth Street was two blocks away. Funny, they kept moving but never got any closer to the police station.

“You remember, don’t you?” he said, eyes on the road. “His exact words?”

He was pushing that question too hard. Nadia reached between her legs and put her hand inside her bag. “Sure, sure,” she said. “But first, let me ask you a question.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“What is an arteriography?”

He laughed. “What?”

“You heard me. What is an arteriography, and how is it done? They did it to my ex-husband. In the ER. Before he died. After his car crash.”

“Are you kidding me?” Still laughing.

“No, I’m not kidding you. Tell me what it is.”

His laugh dissolved into a look of thorough confusion. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

“The problem, Dr. Specter, is that you don’t know how to check for artery damage, do you?”

No answer. One beat. Still confused. Two beats. Confusion fading. Three beats. Neutral expression. Air in the cabin like nitro.

Specter lunged across Nadia’s body and hammered the glove box with his palm. The lid fell open.

A shiny silver gun in a black leather holster.

Nadia whipped a canister out of her bag and blasted him with pepper spray.

He screamed and slammed the brakes. The car stopped on command. His hands went to his face.

Nadia jumped out the door. Raced toward First Avenue. She told herself not to glance over her shoulder. It would only slow her down.

A yellow cab with a vacant light.

Nadia shouted, “Taxi.”

The driver slowed but didn’t stop. He’d heard her voice but didn’t see her coming down the street. He was rolling away.

At the end of the sidewalk, Nadia didn’t bother looking both ways. She ran onto First Avenue.

A car swerved to miss her. A truck hit the brakes to avoid the car. Horns blared.

The taxi stopped.

Nadia ignored the insults being hurled at her. She ran to the cab, jumped inside, and told the driver to take her to the police station on Fifth Street.

She gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill for a six-dollar fare and didn’t bother waiting for change. Instead, she sprinted into the station.

She told the desk sergeant she’d witnessed a shooting and wanted to report a crime. He took down some basic information and asked her to wait for a detective.

Only when she sat down did she realize her hands were shaking.

CHAPTER 5