I was wide awake once we hit the George Washington Bridge and craned my neck out the windows to look at the Hudson River. The young dude who was driving took the upper deck and Morton pointed out all the sights to me.
He showed me where the Twin Towers had once stood and now the sight of the memorial to all those that had fallen. The Empire State building and the direction of Liberty Island, not that I could see it or the Statue of Liberty.
I wanted to know where the Bronx Zoo was, Times Square and Madison Square Garden. Grant’s Tomb and the Federal Gold Depository.
The skyscrapers were ginormous. So high that I couldn’t see some of their tops, they were lost in clouds or mist. I knew that some of them were so tall that they created their own cloud systems. And the cars. So much traffic that it was like watching fire ants boil out of their nests. More yellow cabs than I had seen in my entire lifetime. None of the sights triggered any stored memories as I stared at everything. I had no clue where in the city we were headed and even the thought of being on my own was terrifying. There was no way that I could find my way out of this city on my own. I was afraid to try, to even think about running away.
“It’s so...big,” I whispered in shock. “So busy.”
“The city that never sleeps,” Morton smiled. “The most important financial center, and the busiest city in the world.”
“How do they stand it? The traffic. Noise. People on top of each other. There’s no place to run, see the woods. Breathe. Hunt. Fish,” I protested.
“Central Park has its share of joggers. Stables, too with equestrian trails. You can fish in some of the lakes and ponds and on the wharves. In the Hudson river now that they have cleaned it up,” he explained. “If you can’t find it in New York City, it doesn’t exist in this world.”
“The most densely populated city in the world?” I asked. He nodded.
“Three million people per square mile.”
“How do they find anybody in all this?” I asked in disbelief.
“The US Marshal Service is very adept at locating fugitives. Most people seek out family, friends and familiar places where they’re most comfortable. Take yourself for instance. Where were you headed when you ran? Back home, right?”
I shook my head in denial. “No. There’s nothing left for me in Tennessee or Louisiana. I was going to Texas.”
“Texas! What’s in Texas?” the SAIC asked, startled at my answer.
“East Texas. Natchitoches. The Piney Woods and swamps. I could get lost in the swamps, live free until I was old enough to make my own decisions, live my own life,” I shrugged. “Nobody finds you in the swamp unless you want to be found.”
“You don’t have family in Texas?” Paul asked.
“No. My mom had a father in upstate New York but there was something between them that kept them apart. She never told me about him or his name. She gave me his phone number, but it was lost in the bus accident.”
We stopped at the end of the bridge to pay a toll and then descended into a tunnel, coming out on the East River Drive. I’d never seen so many businesses crammed together, and my eyes widened as I saw the prices prominently displayed on shop windows. And the parking! It was outright extortion to park your car on a lot. Most of the streets we passed had cars double and triple parked, some on the sidewalks and in front of fire hydrants.
I saw buses, fire engines, emergency vehicles, ambulances and city police everywhere. So many cars and trucks that at times we were reduced to walking pace. Dudes on bicycles that whipped in and out of traffic, not constrained by the cars in front like we were. They acted as if they were not privy to traffic laws like the rest of us.
“Bike messengers. They deliver mail, packages and letters faster than the Post Office,” Paul stated.
“Even in the snow?”
“Yup. Some guarantee delivery in 30 minutes or less. Like pizza,” he laughed.
“Wow. This place is cool. But I still wouldn’t want to live here,” I said. “Where’s your office building? Is it in a skyscraper, too?”
“It’ll take us about twenty to twenty-five minutes to get there. Depending on the traffic,” Morton said. “Once we’re there inside the building, you’ll be searched and scanned before you will go to the interview room. There will be two agents who will ask you questions about your side of the story.” He paused. “It’s very important that you tell the truth, Cris. It is a Federal crime to lie to the FBI.
“Your lawyers will be there, too. At any time, you or they can terminate the interview. We’ll read you your rights, then but legally, an adult that has guardianship of you must be present for you to agree to understand those rights.”
I quoted them back to him, along with the court case that made Miranda Rights part of the US court system. I knew the year, the name of the defendant and even the judge’s name along with the details of the case.
“Tempe Neige was my father and an officer of the courts,” I said dryly. “I’ve probably heard the Miranda rights more than you.” We pulled into an underground parking garage and I stared out the windows of the SUV.
The driver backed the Escalade into the space marked ‘Reserved’ and unlocked the doors. Once again, Paul and the other agent made me wait until they cleared the garage space before letting me out. I couldn’t open my seat-belt because my hands still felt like lumps and had to wait for them to do it for me.
While I waited for them to do their ‘G-men’ stuff, I studied the garage. All around me were big black SUVs with tinted windows and four-door sedans that screamed ‘cops’. Federal cops. Parked as far away from the elevators as you could get were personal cars and trucks but nothing less than $40,000 worth of chrome and steel. Not a junker or rust bucket in sight and no damn redneck pickups with jacked-up wheels, light-racks and roll-over bars.
“Okay, Cris,” Agent Morton said, leaning in my door. ‘Time to get you inside.” He reached for my front and unsnapped the seat-belt, sliding his big hands under my armpits. I freaked out. Batted at him with my gloved hands, pushing him away as I yelled.
“I can do it my ownself,” I snapped as I slid over on the leather seat. He stepped back and let me exit the car, my foot reaching for and finding the smooth concrete of the garage floor. I stood lightly, most of my weight supported by my hips against the side of the door.
We moved as a group towards the elevators and their hands were not far from grabbing at me, should I falter. I walked as if nothing was wrong with me, afraid to let them help. I didn’t want their hands on me.
I didn’t miss any of the CCTV cameras that covered every inch of the garage. Nor the guard station that was situated by the elevator doors which were recessed into a cove underneath a massive steel staircase. The men inside the guard shack were armed and stopped Morton, checking all their IDs. All four agents, even though they greeted the four by name.
Both guards were older men with gray in their hair, but they did not look old or weak. Their eyes asked who I was and what I was there for, but Morton didn’t enlighten them.
The doors slid open quietly and they stood back as Morton pushed me inside with a slight touch between my shoulders that I tried to shrug off. I stiffened my back which made me walk like I had a plug up my butt. He didn’t touch me again. I was nervous and excited. Scared at what the Feds would do to me and Matt, overjoyed to be able to see them again. The doors closed, and I counted the buttons on the control panel. My eyes went wide. This building had over 75 floors! And four basement levels.
“How many agents work here?” I gasped.
“Over a thousand, not counting the Forensic people and support staff,” Paul answered, looking at his boss. “Close to two if you count them.”
We went up and the stomach-dropping sensation scared me so that I edged closer to Paul. Without conscious volition, my gloved hand reached for his and gripped it, tight enough to hurt my burns. He kept his hand loose but didn’t pull it away from me, nor give it a squeeze.
“It’s okay, Cris,” he murmured softly. “Not scared of heights, are you?”
“No.” I shook my head. “’Fraid of falling.”
“This elevator is safe. Never had a lick of trouble in any of them since the building went up,” he promised. “The safety people check it every six months. Plus, there are safety brakes on each one and giant air balloons at the bottom of each shaft if a cage ever does fall. Like stuntmen when they fall off a building.”
I eyed him. That surely didn’t make me feel any safer, but he wasn’t pulling my leg. My stomach flip-flopped as the cage came to a smooth stop and the doors opened. I was rushing out, pulling Paul’s hand so hard that he had to jog to catch up.
“Wow,” he said. “You’ve got some grip there, young man.”
I let go. Looked down a plain Jane hallway that opened up into a lobby with huge glass windows and a cathedral ceiling. A lot of people were walking around and stepping on the huge FBI seal on the tiled floor. Two turnstiles funneled lines of people through four metal detectors where armed guards watched everyone suspiciously.
They said hello to SAIC Morton but still checked IDs. Before we went any further or through the metal detectors, he led us over to a separate caged room where the four agents had to leave their weapons in individual lock boxes which worked off their fingerprints.
Once that was done, we were met by two more agents who took us down long hallways, turning so many times that I was completely lost. And getting very tired. I was aching, cranky, hungry and my bladder was bursting.
I stopped. Planted my feet. I'd let go of Paul’s hand back in the lobby and nobody had noticed that I'd fallen behind the group. They had walked ten feet past me before they realized that I wasn’t with them.
“Cris?” the SAIC asked, alarmed. I looked around. No chairs, no lobby, no signs for a bathroom. Nothing on the bland beige walls and the carpet looked like AstroTurf, only an ugly brown. So, I sat on the floor and stretched out my leg, whining. Which turned into a crying jag. When they asked what my problem was, I couldn’t get the words to come out because I was blubbering so hard. I knew I was acting like a baby, but I couldn’t make myself stop. I was cold and shaking, shivering so hard that it made me weak. Too limp to move or try to get up.
Paul tried to scoop me off the ground and I fought him, my mind going back to when Tempe had tried to strangle me. My gloved hands batted ineffectually at his face, my foot kicked uselessly at his trunk until I was too exhausted to fight on. I sagged against the wall.
“Cris,” Paul said gently. “Let me help you. Tell me what’s wrong?”
“I’m t-t-tired. H-h-hungry. T-t-thirsty. I have to pee. I’m s-s-scared, I want my daddy...you’re all so big and scary, you’re gonna take me away, lock me up in jail, put Matt and Jake in jail, too so I'll never see them again and my father is gonna come back and kill me cuz he isn’t really dead even though I stuck his knife right into his heart and it throbbed in my hand until it...didn’t anymore!” I bawled and wound up hiccupping so hard that I couldn’t breathe.
Everything got all sparkly. My chest heaved as I sucked air in faster and faster. Sparkles against the rich blackness that hovered just beyond my sight and I could feel myself gasping as I slithered towards the floor.
Someone’s hands grabbed my shoulders and others dug under my ribs, lifting them up so that a sudden rush of air made the darkness lift.
I sucked in a breath. Breathed faster and faster but that made it worse. Paul spoke to me, loud enough so that it echoed in my ears.
“Cris. Breathe slow. Take deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. You’re hyper-ventilating. You’ll make yourself pass out. Breathe deep. In. Out.” His voice was oddly compelling so that I found myself breathing with his spoken rhythm. It made it better. Once I slowed down, he made me sit for five minutes with my head between my knees before he stood me up. I felt like over-cooked spaghetti.
“Okay?” At my nod, he pointed to a door ten feet from us. No markings or anything to distinguish it from any of the others. “Men’s room.” He held me as I wobbled and guided me forward, pushed the door open and directed me to a stall. I sat down after he helped me pull my jeans down, didn’t care that he stood there while I peed. A long time. Like forever.
When I was done, he helped me pull up my pants and checked my gloves. Dry, no need to wash as I hadn’t needed to wipe.
“Wow,” he said. “You really had to go. Why did you wait so long to ask? We could have stopped before or in the garage. There are bathrooms there.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t see any and didn’t have to go then. I'm sorry about the meltdown.”
“Well, shit, kid. You’ve had a horrible trauma. Anybody else wouldn’t have held it together as well as you did.”
“You cursed,” I said. “I thought FBI dudes didn’t swear, drink or fool around.”
He snorted. “J. Edgar Hoover wore women’s clothes.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer or explain. “You think you can walk the rest of the way?”
“Is it very far?”
“It’s still a good hike for a kid,” he said.
“You have any more of my pain pills?”
“SAIC Morton has them. Want me to get one?” he asked. I nodded. I ached all over. “Okay, then. Give me your hand.”
I put my hand in his and he lifted me up onto his hip as if I weighed nothing. I sighed and tucked my other arm around his neck. He was warm, and the shifting play of his muscles made me relax. He smelled nice but not like Matt. Even better, he smelled nothing like Tempe or Johannsen.