In progress manuscript for evaluation only. Please do not distribute without the author's permission

I picked up the paper and read a few lines. Apparently some nut had taken to killing homeless people in the Queens Borough, leaving the bodies hidden by newspapers. Six to date. All tied to one person. A homicidal maniac named, of all things, Will Francis. From the great state of North Dakota. And a picture. One thankfully without a beard. My driver’s license. Now wasn’t that just a coincidence.

Certainly my mouth fell open. Doesn’t that always happen when you read something like this about yourself? Bokator wouldn’t help me out of this jam. I felt like sitting down right there in the isle and drinking the entire bottle of Beam as I did. Unfortunately that wouldn’t have looked too good to the proprietor. Or the cops who’d certainly follow not far behind. So I swallowed as softly as I could and headed back to the counter as I had before discovering my hellish sins.

Then I realized what it might look like to the guy behind the counter. A deadbeat using a hundred dollar bill to buy his favorite drug of choice. But then this was New York City. Who gave a damn? Right? Right. He didn’t. He took my bill, shoved it in his 1940s cash register, made my change and sent me on my way. I even looked back to see if he was suddenly making a phone call. He wasn’t.

I headed back across the street to the forest and park. I had to sit for a few minutes to read the story and get things straight in my head. I found a lamp and a bench near the sidewalk with some light catching it but still hidden enough that it wasn’t all that visible from the street. I sat and read through the front-page piece. I had apparently, within a single night’s rampage, murdered six completely defenseless drunks, leaving behind a trail of self-identifying cards and other identification from my lost wallet. I was clearly damn stupid. I’d also, apparently, short and wounded the chief of police in a small college town in northern North Dakota a week or so before. That determined by my fingerprints on the weapon used to shoot him. Patton. No motive given. Clearly a man gone out of his mind.

Every cop in New York, North Dakota, and parts between were BOLO. Be on the lookout. Any suspicious character should immediately be picked up and delivered for questioning. I sat back and stared at the sky, still spilling out soft wet flakes of snow at me. I was surely one hell of a bad guy. Probably would be shot on sight, with no questions asked.

I tried to figure it out. Everything began with the lights going out. Had that been an accident or deliberate. Could Cassie number two have been lying about the entire city going dark? Was her hundred-dollar gift to me really an attempt to pay me back, or had she been instructed to give me the money just to make it easier for me to escape. Was Masters behind it all? He wouldn’t have to shoot me. He’d let the police do it for him. Or his competitors. Whoever came first.

I thought of calling Cassie. Cassie number one. Try to explain things. Would she believe me? After all, Patton was her brother. I had no idea any longer who to trust. Who to turn to. Who would believe me. I wanted to run. But where? And to what end? And all this for a virus with an antivirus not far behind.

I sat in the half-light and let the snow collect on the shoulders of my stolen coat. On my hatless head. It had once all seemed so simple. I closed my eyes for a second and breathed I deeply.

What to do first. I had to get out of the city. First order of business. I tried to envision the Big Apple and what surrounded it. Long Island seemed like a long shot. Sire, I could get there easy enough. But once there, I’d have water on three sides and nowhere to go. If any of those after me discovered my location, it would be fairly easy to box me in and trap me.

North led me up along the coast toward New Haven. Yale. Possibly safe there, but again water on one side and a small town full of students. Possibility. Certainly better than Jersey. Or south toward Atlantic City. On the other hand Jersey took me closer to North Dakota. But was that where I wanted to be? Patton was beloved. If the town took me as the attempted murderer, I been in jail without a lawyer, since the victim was the brother of the town’s public defender.

I sat back against the back of the bench, looked up, and closed my eyes. Things had been so much simpler in the apartment I had in the Masters Building. Why’d I have to leave it? Maybe Masters had been right. He might have let me go as his followers had suggested when they said he’d never lied to me. Even he’d said that.

The snow came down harder. And was sticking to the pavement in front of me. I checked the paper for the weather forecast. Heavy storm heading into the city. Half a foot expected. I looked around. All alone. Streets deserted. Everyone home in front of their fireplaces, waiting for the fresh coat of the white stuff to make their weekend a happy one. If, in fact, it was the weekend. I had no idea. But I had to get moving either way. Staying out in the open would probably, even with the coat, turn me into an icicle before long.

Yale, I said to no one in particular. North. New Haven. And I began walking toward the nearest subway access. I pulled up my collar as anyone would due in this weather. It also made me less conspicuous. And recognizable.

I found the nearest major intersection and kept walking. Had to be one nearby. It took me just ten minutes to find a major access, went down the steps, paid for my ticket and boarded the train. I noticed the clock on the wall said one in the morning. Explained the lack of passengers. A good time to travel. A good time to get mugged. But I could take care of myself, so the latter didn’t bother me that much.

The train I’d chosen went toward Manhattan, crossed under Central Park, and then headed north for the big cross stations where I’d have to change trains. Had to keep awake through this section. I kept my head buried in the Times like a late to get home bookkeeper. It worked, as no one looked in my direction or seemed to care about my presence late at night on a mostly empty car in the New York City subway.

27.
After switching trains, I once again found myself buried in the sports section of the paper, caring not the least who beat who, who had made so many billions, or who had shot whom in a late night bar fight. I’d have rather looked at the comics, but the late night edition didn’t seem to have them. I think I may have cried at that point. Not a sobbing kind of messy cry, just a small tearful ‘I feel sorry for myself’ kind of cry. Nothing had gone my way so far and things seemed to be getting worse. How could the stale life of a college professor get so God damn jumbled as this?

My father had said once told me to play the hand dealt you. I’m trying, Dad. But the deck’s stacked. On the other hand I was warm, had some money in my pocket, and a direction in which to travel. What could be better than that?

My mother had once told me to never ignore a possibility. Had I done so? What if I simply turned around and went back to the Masters Building? Would they let me in? Bygones be bygones? Or what if I did call Cassie and explained the situation? Would she let me? Would Patton believe me? When he recovered. Could I turn myself in to the New York City cops and explain what had actually happened. Would they believe me?

My father had been right. Too many ifs on my mother’s side of the question. I had to play it as it had been dealt. I was wanted for multi-murders. With plenty of evidence against me. I had no idea whether Masters was after me or not. Probably not. Would just turn me in if he found me. The competition, two of which I’d clobbered a while back near my apartment in North Dakota, were probably lurking somewhere nearby. Waiting for some kind of lead to corner me. And then what? Another more violent version of what Masters had forced me to do? Or some other viral mutant to bring even worse disaster to the world?

I fell asleep thinking of all the possibilities.

“Sorry, sir. The end of the line. You’ll have the leave the train. Regulations.”

I shook some of the cobwebs lose. He’d come close to unleashing the beast ready to kill the lion. I came to my senses.

“Of course,” I told him, “I fell asleep. Sorry.”

“No problem, sir.”

I would have grabbed all my stuff then, if I’d had any stuff. Apparently even the newspaper I’d had when I fell asleep had gone to the nearest vagrant. I stepped off the train just as the sun peaked over the station roof in New Haven. Another fresh start for a killer, I thought.

Nowhere to go and plenty of time to get there, I walked up a short ramp and exited the subway somewhere near what I assumed was downtown. The traffic was light at this early morning hour, so I crossed illegally toward a small place that looked open for breakfast. A nice little mom and pop deli on a corner. A couple of bagels and three or four cups of coffee later, I was fit as a fiddle. Whatever that meant.

With no destination in mind except anonymity wherever I went, I walked toward what the signs indicated was the campus of world famous Yale University. I tried to remember if I new any faculty here. At least someone who might be interested in AI but not connected to the real world. Wouldn’t know anything about my recently sordid past. None came to mind. But they must have a library I could visit. Something to read to keep my mind off my life. Maybe learn something new.

With the help of a couple of female students I found the main library and discovered they allowed free reign of the stacks to anyone. Just couldn’t remove any books. I decided to disregard my attempt to free my mind of my current predicament and sit in the world newspaper section and read about myself. See if I’d been up to anything new lately. Maybe I’d murdered some more people.

I learned one thing for sure. I’d become eminently famous over the past week or so. I couldn’t find a single paper without at least a story about my escapades. And most had the same picture. No doubt from my lost driver’s license. Looked like it anyway. Ridiculous photo. So bad, that with my beard I couldn’t imagine anyone recognizing me. At least here in Yale country. I imagined that I even looked scholarly here. Salt and pepper beard, large overcoat, distinguished mop of hair on my head. Why not? Who would imagine that I’d done such disgusting things?

Unfortunately, I’d done nothing new since the article I read in the Times. In fact, my apparent antics had stumped the authorities completely. For as quickly as I’d began my killing spree, I’d mysteriously disappeared without a trace. Even the national manhunt had turned up nothing.

Surprisingly, given everything that had transpired on my little adventure this kind of made me happy. Happy enough, at least, to seriously consider calling Cassie number one. She’d believe me.

I went back to the main desk and asked where the nearest phone was to make a long distance call. She looked around surreptitiously and handed me a phone from behind the counter. “Dial 9 and then the area code. Don’t take too long though. They get suspicious.”

Wow, I thought, someone with a heart. One in a million. I thanked her and dialed the number. Hoping for the best. She answered on the first ring.

“Francis?” My God, How’d she know it was me?

“Cassie,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“In New Haven.”

“Connecticut?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why are you there?”

“Just found out I’m a wanted man. After escaping from captivity.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I read that someone shot Patton. How is he?”

“Better. He’s still in a coma, but they think that’s temporary. What happened in New York City?”

“Long story. But I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I know that. For heaven’s sake. And why would you need a knife anyway.”

That was not exactly as I hoped she’d say it. But it would have to do.

“I’m trying to figure out a way to get back to North Dakota to see you and hopefully straighten this mess out.”

“Don’t come here.”

“Why not?”

“My brother’s a popular man. People around here figured you just blew a gasket and went on a spree. You’re not a very popular man here. Have a feeling almost anyplace else than here would be better.”

Also not what I wanted to hear.

“Listen,” I said, “I was kidnapped to the think tank here to do some specialized work. I tried to escape. I think they took my wallet and spread out my license and other papers to make people think that I’d committed the crimes. I didn’t. I just can’t keep running.”

“Then turn yourself in.”

“God, Cassie. That’s a lot to ask. The evidence is against me. I’m sure if I told them the whole story they’d believe my captors before they’d believe me. The big shot used to work for the government. The deck isn’t exactly stacked in my favor.”

“Well, as much as I’d like to see you again, I wouldn’t advise you coming here. It’s just too chancy. I couldn’t protect you. And if you tried to protect yourself, as I know you can, things could get worse yet. If that’s possible.”

“Sir, you’ll have to get off the phone now.” The librarian.

“Listen, I’ve got to go now. It was worth the call just to here your voice again. It’s been too long. I’m sure I’ll figure a way out of it.”

“I love you Francis. Despite you penchant for getting yourself in trouble all the time.”

All the time? Only once before. Of course, put the two together and it covered a hell of a lot of time I’d known her.

Before I could say goodbye, the angel suddenly turned into a wolf grabbed the receiver from me, cradled it, pushed it under the desk and gave me a grim look. That’s when I noticed the older woman at the back of the room staring our direction. Apparently Sheila, as I read her name on a button on her blouse, had been caught doing this sort of thing before.

I left the library then, and walked my way back to New Haven proper. No idea what to do, but knowing the prospects for some kind of transportation would be better there than here.
26.
I made my way past parking garages, a couple of used bookstores, several upscale clothing shops, and a small tale-out Chinese restaurant. With less than seventy bucks left from Cassie number two’s parting gift on me, none of them held anything for me.

Then I noticed the four guys behind me. Looking completely out of place here. They would occasionally stop and look in a store window and demonstrate their shopping skills. But I was their target. No question.

How could they have found me? I thought back to what I’d done to give them a location. Nothing. Except call Cassie number one. They must have had her line tapped. Damn traditional phones. No privacy. They’d traced the call to the Yale Library. But how could they have gotten someone here so quickly? Outlets in all fifty states? No one but MacDonald’s had that, and may not even them. I’d never seen one in North Dakota.

But here they were. No mistaking it. What to do?

Just to make doubly sure, I stepped into an alley and waited for them to pass. They didn’t. I waited maybe ten minutes and stepped back into the pedestrian traffic. Still there. No lingering questions about it. And big guys. Four of them. I’d never tackled that many before. There. Once. Two many times. Not four. Could I handle that?

But they didn’t seem anxious to do anything about finding me. Just keeping track of my whereabouts. I didn’t like facing them in the growing morning crowd of students and New Havenites. Too much potential for collateral damage. Especially if they were carrying guns. Not too much experience in determining such things.

So I charged around the block and headed back toward the university. Basically to the northwest if I could trust the winter angle of the sun at this time of day. Away from the water and inland toward the snowy meadows of New England.

I didn’t walk fast or slow. Out for a mid-morning walk.

The stores slowly turned into homes and then the homes slowly grew larger and larger front lawns. The light dusting of snow that had dropped during the night was quickly burning off and the roads were clear without plowing or salt. Easy walking.

I relaxed as I went. Letting everything but my legs go limp. I tried to make my mind go blank. No emotions. Think clearly. Nothing about the way of what was going to happen. O

The gun angle proved the only complication. Doing it without guns would be a lot easier than with. So I had to assume they were carrying. I could always pare things down if they weren’t. So, how to take on four big guys with pistols? T ran that over in my mind a few times as I walked. The answer was not simple. For most situations, one guy with a gun was literally impossible. Only with close encounter could I make that work. Four guys? How do I get close in to four guys? I mean really close in. Like inches away. To all four. Not an easy problem to solve.

I worked on it as I walked and slowly noticed the houses had disappeared. Replaced by farmland. Mostly open fields surrounded by windbreaks of fat trees. Oakes. Or maples. Maybe both. The sun shown bright across the bit of snow still left on the dirt of the fallow fields. Wished I’d had brought along sunglasses. Make it easier to see behind me as well. Reflections in the glass. But I could feel them still there.

It must have a made a funny site. One lone man obviously followed by four big ones at a distance, along a two-lane country road. What to do? Hitch a ride. Now that would be something. There I had an advantage. Picking up one lonely hitcher was one thing. Picking up four big thugs was quite a different one.

With that thought in mind I crossed the street and waited for the sound of oncoming cars behind me. I wanted out of town. Away from these guys if possible.

The road had gone from New Haven morning traffic, to suburbia numbers of cars taking kids to school, to rural business as usual. Meaning everyone was no doubt out tending crops and herds of something or other. Not much traffic. All this within just a few miles. Amazing. I thought us North Dakotans had these kinds of nineteenth-century transitions.

The men still seemed intent on doing anything but following me. When I slowed, so did they. And vice versa. No hint they were trying to stop me. Probably keeping contact with their higher ups as to my location and activities. Probably just hired hands doing whatever they were called upon to do.

I also had to assume they were not here to kill me. Mess me up a little if I confronted them. But, so far at least, they wanted me alive for what I knew and could do.

I then if finally occurred to me. What to do. I should fall down. A heart attack. Anything. I was down. They’d no doubt have to come up to me then. And guns or no guns, they’d be close at hand. Could I take them when lying down? Did I remember enough about those little tricks to make it happen? Maybe two at a time rather than all four at once? Worth a try.

When something akin to a Model T came puffing down the road behind me, right past my entourage, I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out of my little plan worked or not. I stuck out my thumb and, believe it or not, the damn thing stopped.

I walked over to the driver’s side and looked in. An old man. Clearly a farmer with the entire garb on. Right out of a Norman Rockwell painting for Saturday Evening Post.

“Where you going mister?” he said, making mister sound like ‘mistah’ in his Bostonian accent.

“That way,” I said.

“So, you need a ride?”

I thought that a bit obvious, especially given that I still had my thumb pointing to the northwest. Down the road where he was going.

“Yes sir.” I added the ‘sir’ just to give him the idea I was a safe bet.

“How far you going?”

“As far as you’re going,” I told him.

“Well then, hop in.”

And I did. All my plans gone for naught.

As he rolled off in the old jalopy that I now saw had been converted into a pickup of sorts, I looked behind at my four colleagues looking at one another as if I pulled the trick of the century on them.

With no confrontation necessary, I engaged the old man in conversation. Asked him what he did out here. He was a lonely old goat. Wife had died several years earlier he told me. He talked nonstop. Perfect. Maybe I could get some more sleep.

Somewhere, long after we could no longer see the four men, I discovered he was on his way to a town called Woodbridge. Sounded nice and New Englandy. The sun had reached the zenith by then and the temperature had risen into an unseasonably warm fifty or so I guessed. Perfect day for a ride in the country.

And on and on he talked. It seemed he’d been in New Haven to buy a winch to lift his tractor out of a mud hole on his far. I offered to help him and he immediately took me up on it. Apparently hoping I’d do so.

We turned before we got to Woodbridge and followed a ragged dirt road back into the woods to his small ranch house. The snow had fallen heavier here, maybe half a foot deep. His house, a clapboard affair, had only one story but plenty of room. Especially for an old man who’d lost his wife.

He showed me the tractor and we went back to his pickup and carried the winch back to scene of the accident. He kept saying ‘winch’ like ‘wench’ and it took me a while to realize that he hadn’t got a young lady stored in the house somewhere.

We then spent the better part of an hour getting the tractor back on all fours and in shape to get back to whatever he’d been doing with it. Small job, and, like the pickup, old, battered, rusty, and perfect. Loved it.

He then asked me to lunch and I didn’t want to disappoint him and so agreed to help him make and eat it. Nice old guy. Maybe seventy. But still had the old sparkle in his eye. He talked nonstop. As if he’d not spoken to anyone for weeks, which could very well have been the case. I didn’t mind. Would have been difficult to talk about anything other than what he did. Anything I did might have given me away.

As we cooked the luncheon soup he had planned, he grabbed my arm and asked what those four guys were doing in his backyard. I followed his gaze and sure enough, my little cadre of followers had found me again. Probably caught the license plate number.

They made no pretense of hiding. They simply stood there, smoking and talking with one another. Just another day on the job.

“What do they think they’re doing here?”

I had no idea what to tell him.

“They’re following me,” I said. When in doubt, tell the truth.

“Oh,” he said. He turned then and went into the dining room. I continued to watch the soup. Chicken noodle with plenty of fresh vegetables.

When he returned he held a shotgun of something-something gauge. Never liked guns. Had very little knowledge about them. But, under the right circumstances, I figured I could make do.

“Here,” he said as if he were passing me the salt. “If you need it.”

I actually didn’t know whether I did or not. If they had guns, why not me? If they didn’t, might not be necessary.

“Thanks,” I said, and took it with me into the dining room.

“They just going to stand there while we eat?”

“Don't know,” I said. “They been doing this since this morning. Not in a hurry. I think they’re just keeping tabs on where I am. Until someone else shows.”

“Then what happens?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

He looked me over then. As if taking stock of me. Then he did what I considered unthinkable given the circumstances. He told me how his tractor had gotten stuck in the mud. What was my business was my business, I guess. Great guy!