Suddenly a wave of desperation swept over him. It was obvious he was up against something bigger than he could possibly handle. His old world with the daily headaches no longer seemed so terrible. He would gladly put up with a little boring routine if he could go to bed at night with Denise in his arms. He wasn’t a religious person, but he found himself trying to strike a bargain with God: if He would rescue him from this nightmare, Martin would never complain about his life again.
He looked down at the paper and realized that his eyes had filled with tears. Why would the police be after him, of all people? It didn’t make sense.
He went back to the phone and tried again to reach Denise, but she wasn’t answering her page. In desperation he called the GYN clinic and spoke to the receptionist.
“Has Denise Sanger had her appointment yet?”
“Not yet,” said the receptionist. “We expect her any minute.”
Martin thought quickly before he spoke. “This is Doctor Philips. When she arrives tell her that I canceled the appointment and that she should see me.”
“I’ll tell her,” said the receptionist and Martin sensed she was genuinely bewildered.
Martin walked back to the small park and sat down. He found himself incapable of any sensible decision. For a man who believed in order and authority, not to be able to contact the police after being shot at seemed the height of irrationality.
The afternoon passed in fitful sleep and wakeful confusion. His lack of decision became a decision in itself. Rush hour started and reached its crescendo. Then the crowds began to dissipate and Martin went back to the coffee shop for dinner. It was a little after six.
He ordered a meatloaf plate and tried paging Denise while it was being prepared. Still she didn’t pick up. When he was through he decided to try her apartment, wondering if the police knew enough about him to stake her out.
She picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Martin?” her voice was desperate.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Thank God! Where are you?”
Martin ignored the question and said, “Where have you been? I’ve been paging you all day.”
“I haven’t been feeling well. I stayed at home.”
“You didn’t let the page operator at the hospital know.”
“I know I …” suddenly Sanger’s voice changed. “Don’t come…” she yelled.
Her voice was choked off and Philips could hear a muffled struggle. His heart jumped in his throat. “Denise!” he shouted. Everyone in the coffee shop froze; all heads turned in Philips’ direction.
“Philips, this is Sansone.” The agent had picked up the phone. Martin could still hear Denise trying to shout in the background. “Just a minute, Philips,” said Sansone. Then turning away from the phone he said, “Get her out of here and keep her quiet.” Coming back on the line Sansone said, “Listen, Philips …”
“What the hell is going on, Sansone,” cried Philips. “What are you doing to Denise?”
“Calm down, Philips. The girl is fine. We’re here to protect her. What happened to you last night at the Cloisters?”
“What happened to me? Are you crazy? You people wanted to blow me away.”
“That’s ridiculous, Philips. We knew it wasn’t you in the courtyard. We thought they’d already caught you.”
“Who’s they?” asked the bewildered Philips.
“Philips! I can’t talk about these things over the phone.”
“Just tell me what the fuck’s going on!”
The people in the coffee shop were still motionless. They were New Yorkers and accustomed to all sorts of strange happenings, but not in their local coffee shop.
Sansone was cool and detached. “Sorry, Philips. You have to come here, and you have to come now. Being out on your own you are simply complicating our problem. And you already know there are a number of innocent lives at stake.”
“Two hours,” yelled Philips. “I’m two hours away from the city.”
“All right, two hours, but not a second longer.”
There was a final click and the line was dead.
Philips panicked. In one second his indecision was swept away. He threw down a five-dollar bill and ran out on the street toward the Eighth Avenue subway.