Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Nine

Durwood sat with his back against the train station tile. Olive surplus jacket loose over his shoulders. Sue-Ann curled beside. Commuters streamed by, ant-trail of clomping shoes. Occasionally one dropped a nickel in his cup, which read Vet. Which he was.

"Sight."

At the command, Sue-Ann's milky eyes ticked up. She looked. Made no sound: the target was clean.

The Mice had chosen their drop shrewdly. Find Fran's poisoned kale, NOT BEFORE 6:00, was their message to Molly. Only business that fit was News of Franny in Penn Station. Figured to be a busy spot. Mall, train terminal. Million things going on to hide their man.

Or woman.

Durwood had arrived at 2:15. Round 2:30, Quaid walked up browsing the newsstand's cool case. Found ginger-kale smoothies, top shelf. 8 oz. Organic. None marked or otherwise distinguished. He bought a beer and magazine and left. With a look, he confirmed Durwood had seen likewise and took up outside.

5:20 now. Various men had come to replenish the pinned chips, the pop, take away stale donuts. Durwood had laced his shoes when that pop feller reached through the cooler curtain, 4:00 or so. But he'd kept to the low shelves.

Molly's "initiation" (the Mice's word) had been a dazzling cloak-and-dagger process. Note pinned under a subway seat. Postcard with glued-on newsprint. Texts from burner phones, never the same number twice. They wanted Molly's DOB, social security, voting history. Kooky stuff too. If she were to sketch a cartoon of the Exxon-Mobil CEO, how would it look? Then stick it in an envelope and leave it between the third and fourth boxes of Cheeze-Its at some gas station.

Drops seemed to be a test of sorts. No reason the messages couldn't all be texts. Mice wanted to check Molly's commitment. Her mettle too.

Durwood pulled his legs tighter. More shoes now, near rushhour. Enough cover that he dared check News of Franny himself instead of using Sue-Ann.

Several people browsing the case. Durwood spied their hands. The Mice's operative would be placing something among the smoothies. He looked hard. Forehead started throbbing.

Sue-Ann mewled. Pointing up the terminal, Amtrak end.

The kid came around the corner pulling a handtruck. Caucasian. Hat, blue uniform. Mid-twenties. Certain squirrelly aspect one might associate with tattoos.

Durwood squinted at the handtruck. Dozen stacked boxes of drinks. Top ones were right-sized.

He squinted harder.

Saw green.

"Easy," he told Sue-Ann, who had scrabbled up.

The kid navigated through the crowd to News of Franny. Head quick on a swivel. Too quick? He waited out a jam-up at the entrance, then wheeled back to the cool case. Removed three sleeves of drinks, some green, and disappeared by a backroom door.

Durwood gathered his cup, stood. Put Sue-Ann in a stay. Took out.

"Hey," a man said. "Can't just leave your dog in the middle of Penn Station."

Durwood's gaze did not leave the cool case. "Be fine."

Through chatter and loudspeaker announcements of boardings and track changes, he heard the plink of glass bottles knocking together. Kid had restocked a chute of fancy water, some amber tea. Doing smoothies now.

Durwood passed the register. Folks looking sideways. To the busy cashier, he touched the brim of his hat. Walked past the hot bar. Smells of teriyaki and baked beans. Six paces out, he saw the front ginger-kale smoothie rock forward. Then it rattled upright.

He hurried. The kid emerged from the backroom, handtruck empty, but Durwood could not follow yet. Needed confirmation. He snagged the first two smoothies, twirled them in this fingertips like a picker checking wormholes. Nothing. Snagged the next two, and the two after. Shook vigorously to dislodge any interior note.

Found none.

Seventh bottle deep, something. A frayed label. Durwood felt his gut rev. Using dull fingernails he peeled back the paper. Came up too easy. Adhesive tampered with. The back of the label had a scrawl across it.

6:66 tOMoRRoW. tHe MArK.

Shoving the label in his jeans, Durwood ran. Kid was gone. Durwood rambled between a husband and wife and knocked over a display of candy bars. Froze in the terminal.

Sue-Ann spotted him. Face bright as stars in the Appalachian sky.

"Git."

The coonhound crouched, and after a rusty moment, sprang up the corridor. Moving with grace and speed, slipping gaps. Short, gorgeous flights separated by paws clicking.

Durwood followed as best he could. Did not bother alerting Quaid, who was positioned at east end of terminal. They'd viewed east as more likely. Easier to melt into. Distantly he saw the handtruck careen up a handicap ramp, then lost it.

But Sue-Ann had the scent. Up stairs, knifing through commuters.

Aboveground, Durwood scanned right to left. Marquees, pigeons, line of taxis. City noise hurt his head. Corner of 37th and First, he spotted them. Sue-Ann had the kid by the pants.

"This crazy dog yours?" kid said. "He's savage, almost bit me!"

Durwood clucked and Sue-Ann released. "Hardly scuffed you. Tell me about the Blind Mice."

"Huh? Screw you cowboy, I dunno what your deal—"

"Dropped off them smoothies. Kales ones. Where'd you get them?"

The kid squinted around, confused. Like Durwood was part of some gag.

"Same place I always get 'em. LDS, Gramercy Park distribution center."

Durwood peered into his eyes. Saw panic. Rabbit caught in the way of a tractor. Durwood reviewed his pattern of behavior. Mannerisms. Pace. Whether he'd done the kale smoothies first or last, either of which would've been suspicious.

He had done them in the middle.

Still, the last two weeks' hunt weighed on Durwood. Feeling compressed now—by the riddles and tweets, all these dang people—Durwood yanked the kids' sleeves up his arm. Tore one to the elbow. Checked the wrists and forearms, kid screaming.

Molly had asked Durwood what he would do if he caught one. Member of the Blind Mice. He wouldn't use force, would he?

Durwood had told her yes: if it came to that, he would. The world was falling. Good men were called to catch it.

"You freak, what's wrong with you? I got nothing!"

Durwood ignored this, scanning skin. When the kid whimpered, he gripped tighter.

"Where? Where'd you get it."

"What are you talking about?" the kid said.

"Tattoo. I know it's here."

Kid's face changed. He bit his lip and breathed in sharply. "Okay, okay—you don't have to kill me. It's on my back."

Muttering that he didn't see what the big deal was, the kid raised his shirt. Durwood felt a red surge inside.

Sue-Ann watched, her mottled muzzle twitching.

The tattoo was midway up his spine. Some Chinese symbol.

Kid gave its meaning. Swear word. "I figured what's the harm, who's gonna know?"

Durwood allowed his heart several beats to slow, then picked the handtruck off the sidewalk. Offered the handle to the kid.

They had planted the note upstream. Most likely at the distribution center. Kid had no more to do with the Mice than a milkman in duty-whites does with heifers.

"Sorry." Durwood ripped two twenties from his money clip. "For the shirt."