Authors: Douglas Preston
The Navigator made the turn with a howl of rubber and Gideon followed, the limo going into an awkward four-wheel power slide. Heart pounding, he accelerated after them. The Navigator’s driver wasn’t trying to force the cab to pull over; he was trying to kill its occupants by causing an accident.
The taxi accelerated in an attempt to outrun the Navigator. The two vehicles shot eastward on 116th, weaving in and out of traffic, provoking a furious blaring of horns, screeching tires, and yells. Gideon followed as best he could, sweaty hands slick on the wheel.
They tore past Lexington and approached the bright cluster of lights where 116th crossed Third Avenue. As they drew near at over seventy miles an hour, the light turned orange. Gideon braked the limo hard; there was no way they were going to make it. Suddenly the Navigator swung out and accelerated down the wrong side of the street, coming up alongside the taxi. Just before the intersection it swerved and gave the taxi a brutal sideswipe. With a billow of smoke the taxi slewed sideways through the intersection, clipped an oncoming car, flipped into the air, and went flying into a crowd outside a Puerto Rican lechonera. There was a dreadful sound, like the smack of sheet metal into meat. Bodies rag-dolled through the air, tumbling about the intersection. With a final shuddering crash the cab shattered the glass façade of the restaurant and came to rest with a death rattle and a burst of steam. Cooked meat came cascading out from racks and trays that had been on display in the window: roasted sides of pork, trays of cracklings, and spits of suckling pigs, all tumbling over the smashed taxicab and rolling about on the sidewalk.
There was a split second of terrible silence. And then the intersection exploded into an eruption of screams and shrieks as the crowd fled. To Gideon, looking on in horror, they resembled ants on a burning log.
He had pulled the limo over just before the intersection, and now he leapt out and ran toward the accident—just as a northbound city bus came roaring up Third Avenue, going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. Halting at the crosswalk, Gideon watched helplessly as the bus blew on through; the driver, suddenly seeing bodies in the intersection, jammed on the brakes, but it was too late and he was unable to stop. The massive wheels thudded over several of the prostrate bodies, smearing them on the asphalt, and then the driver lost control. The bus skidded with a great shriek of burning rubber. Gideon watched helplessly as the careening bus T-boned a car on the far side of the intersection and came to rest on its side, the engine bursting into flame. Windows and the rear door of the bus were bashed open by screaming people and they spilled out, falling to the pavement, clawing and treading over one another in an attempt to get away.
Gideon looked around wildly for the Navigator. Then he spotted it, stopped partway down the next block. But the vehicle paused only for a moment: with a roar it tore off down 116th and swung south on Second Avenue, disappearing.
He sprinted across the intersection to the taxi. It lay upside down, its front partly inside the restaurant. Bodies were everywhere, some moving, some still. Gasoline ran over the sidewalk in a dark stream, moving down the gutter toward the burning bus—which exploded with a terrific roar, the force jumping the bus into the air. The flames mounted up, two, three, four stories, casting a hot lurid glow over the hellish scene. Hundreds of people from surrounding buildings were opening windows, craning necks, pointing. The air seemed to be alive with noise: screams and shrieks, pleas for help, agonized wails, the endless horn of the bus, the crackle of flame. It was all Gideon could do to keep a clear head.
Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered into the wrecked taxi. The driver’s side was totally mangled and he could get a glimpse of the cabbie, his body literally merged into the twisted metal and glass of the car. He scrambled around to the passenger rear side and there was Wu. The man was alive; his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was working. When he saw Gideon, he reached a bloody hand out to him.
Gideon grabbed the door handle, tried to open it. But the door was far too mangled to budge. He got down on his belly and reached inside the broken window, grasping the scientist by both arms. He hauled him out and onto the sidewalk as gently as he could. The man’s legs were horribly mangled and bleeding. Half dragging, half carrying Wu away from the spreading fire, he found a safe place around the corner and laid him carefully down. He took out his cell phone to call 911, but already he could hear, over the cacophony, sirens converging from every direction.
He vaguely became aware of a huge crowd of people behind him, rubberneckers keeping at a safe distance, watching the unfolding scene with prurient fascination.
The scientist suddenly grasped Gideon with a bloody hand, balling up the fabric of his chauffeur’s uniform in his fist. He had an expression in his eyes that was lost, puzzled, as if he didn’t know what had happened to him. He gasped out a word.
“What?” Gideon leaned closer, ear almost pressed to the scientist’s lips.
“Roger?” the man whispered in heavily accented English. “Roger?”
“Yes,” said Gideon, thinking fast. “That’s me. Roger.”
Wu said something in Chinese, then switched back to English. “Write these down. Quickly. Eight seven one zero five zero—”
“Wait.” Gideon fumbled in his pockets, extracted a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Start again.”
Wu began gasping out a list of numbers as Gideon wrote them down. Despite the heavy accent, his voice was thin, precise, punctilious: the voice of a scientist.
87105003302201401047836415600221120519715013 51010017502503362992421140099170520090080070 04003500278100065057616384370325300005844092 060001001001001
He halted.
“Is that it?” Gideon asked.
A nod. Wu closed his eyes. “You know…what to do with those,” he rasped.
“No. I don’t. Tell me—?”
But Wu had lapsed into unconsciousness.
Gideon stood up. He felt dazed and stupid. Blood from the scientist had stained his chest and arms. Fire trucks and police were arriving now, blocking the avenue. The bus was still afire, clouds of acrid black smoke roiling up into the night air.
“Oh my God!” a woman beside him said, crying openly, staring at the restaurant. “What a tragedy. What an awful tragedy.”
Gideon looked at her. Then—as police and paramedics and firemen rushed past him, sirens filling the air—he stood up and, abandoning his borrowed limo, now hemmed in by emergency vehicles, walked slowly and inconspicuously toward the subway entrance two blocks away.
H
enriette Yveline lowered her clipboard, took down her reading glasses, and gazed at the young, bedraggled man in the dark suit who had come stumbling up to the emergency room admissions station. He was a fine-looking fellow, lanky, jet-black hair askew and flopping over his brilliant blue eyes. But my goodness, what a state he was in—hands, arms, and shirt caked with blood, eyes wild, stinking of gasoline and burned rubber. He was trembling all over.
“May I help you?” she said, firmly but not unkindly. She liked to keep an orderly ER waiting area—not an easy task at Mount Sinai Hospital on a hot Saturday night in June.
“God, yes, yes,” the man said all in a rush. “My—my friend, he just came in. A horrible car accident. Name’s Wu Longwei, but he calls himself Mark Wu.”
“And you are?”
The fellow swallowed, trying to get himself under control. “A close friend. Gideon Crew.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crew. May I ask if you’re all right yourself? No injuries, bleeding?”
“No, no, nothing,” he said distractedly. “It’s…it’s not my blood.”
“I understand. Just a moment, please.” She replaced her reading glasses and picked up the admissions clipboard, perused it. “Mr. Wu was admitted fifteen minutes ago. The doctors are with him now. Would you care to take a seat and wait?” She gestured toward the large, spare waiting room, half-filled with people, some crying softly, others with the long stare. A large family huddled in one corner, comforting a sobbing three-hundred-pound woman.
“Tell me, please,” said Gideon, “how is he?”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to release any information on that, Mr. Crew.”
“I need to see him. I’ve
got
to see him.”
“He can’t see anyone right now,” said Yveline, a little more firmly. “Trust me, the doctors are doing all they can.” She paused, and added a line that never failed to comfort: “Mount Sinai is one of the finest hospitals in the world.”
“At least tell me how he is.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but hospital rules won’t allow me to release medical information to anyone but family.”
The man stared. “But…what does that mean, family?”
“A relative with identification or a spouse.”
“Yes, but…you see, Mark and I…we’re…partners.
Life
partners.” Even under his bloody, dirty face, she could see him blushing at this intimate detail.
Yveline laid down the clipboard. “I understand. But I can only release information to a relative or legal spouse.”
“Legal? For God’s sake, you know perfectly well same-sex marriage is against the law in New York!”
“I’m so sorry, sir. The rules are the rules.”
“Is he dead?” The man’s voice suddenly became loud, very loud.
She looked at him, faintly alarmed. “Sir, please calm down.”
“Is that why you won’t tell me? Oh my God,
is he dead?
” He was shouting now.
“I need a piece of paper, some proof of your relationship…” Her voice trailed off. This had happened several times before: conflicts over gay and lesbian hospital visitation rights. The whole issue was under endless policy review—leaving it to people like her to run the gauntlet with the public. It wasn’t fair.
“Who carries around a wad of official documents?” The man began to cry. “We just got in from China!” He swiped the shock of hair out of his face, his eyes bloodshot, his lips trembling.
“I know you’re upset, sir, but we can’t give out medical information to someone claiming to be a domestic partner without some sort of proof.”
“Proof?” Gideon held out his bloody hands, his voice climbing into a shriek. “There’s your proof! Look at it! His blood on my hands! I’m the one who dragged him from the car!”
Yveline couldn’t even find the words to respond. The whole room was listening. Even the three-hundred-pound woman had stopped crying.
“I need to
know
!” And with this last wail, his knees buckled and the man collapsed on the floor.
Yveline pressed the emergency intercom, summoning the triage head nurse. The crowd stared at the man on the floor, but his collapse had been more emotional than medical and she saw he was already reviving. He rose to his knees, hyperventilating, and some members of the crowd rushed over to help him up.
“Help him to a seat,” said Yveline. “The nurse is on her way.” More people in the group responded, helping the man to a seat against the wall. He fell heavily into it, covering his face and sobbing loudly.
“Come on, lady,” said a woman. “What’s the harm in telling him how his friend is?”
A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd. Gideon Crew rocked in the chair, his face in his hands.
“He’s dead,” he said. “I know it. He’s dead.”
Yveline ignored the people and went back to her clipboard. It was a damn shame the rules forced her to be this way. But she was determined not to show vacillation or weakness.
“Why don’t you just tell him how his friend is?” persisted the woman.
“Ma’am,” said Yveline, “I don’t make the rules. Medical information is private.”
A harried nurse arrived. “Where’s the patient?”
“He’s upset—collapsed.” Yveline indicated the man.
The nurse went over, suddenly putting on a smooth voice. “Hello, my name’s Rose. What’s the problem?”
The man choked up. “He’s dead and they won’t tell me.”
“Who?”
“My life partner. In the ER. But they won’t tell me anything because I don’t have a piece of paper.”
“You’re in a long-term domestic partnership?”
A nod. “Five years. He’s everything to me. He doesn’t have any family here.” He looked up suddenly, beseechingly. “Please don’t let him die alone!”
“May I?” The nurse took the man’s pulse, slapped a cuff on him and took his blood pressure. “You’re okay. Just upset. Just slow down your breathing and let me talk to the admitting staff.”
The man nodded, struggling to get his gasping under control.
The nurse stepped over to Yveline. “Look, let’s just authorize him as a domestic partner. Okay? I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Thank you.” The nurse left while Yveline called up the electronic file, read the latest update. “Mr. Crew?”
He leapt up and came over.
“Your friend is critically injured but alive and is stabilizing,” she said in a low voice. “Now if you’ll come up and sign this form, I’ll authorize you as his domestic partner.”
“Thank God!” he cried. “He’s alive, thanks be to God!”