Cat and Mouse

at this point. He has a goddamn bomb on the M-15 bus.”
    I counted a half a dozen blue-and-whites already in pursuit. The city bus was stopping for red lights, but it was no longer picking up passengers. People standing in the rain, bypassed at stops, waved their arms angrily at the M-15. None of them understood how lucky they were that the bus doors didn’t open for them.
    “Try to get close,” I told the driver. “I want to talk to him. Want to see if he’ll talk anyway. It’s worth a try.”
    The police sedan accelerated, then weaved on the wet streets. We were getting closer. We were inching alongside the bright blue bus. A poster advertised the musical
Phantom of the Opera
in bold type.
A real live phantom was on board the bus
. Gary Soneji was back in the spotlight that he loved. He was playing New York now.
    I had the side window of the car rolled down. Rain and wind attacked my face, but I could see Soneji inside the bus.
Jesus, he was still improvising
— he had somebody’s child, a bundle of pink and blue, cradled in his arm. He was screaming orders, his free arm swinging in angry circles.
    I leaned as far as I could outside the car. “Gary!” I yelled. “What do you want?” I called out again, fighting the traffic noise, the loud roar of the bus.
“Gary! It’s Alex Cross!”
    Passengers inside the bus were looking out at me. They were terrified, beyond terror, actually.
    At Forty-second Street and First, the bus made a sudden, sweeping left turn!
    I looked at Groza. “This the regular route?”
    “No way,” he said. “He’s making his own route up as he goes.”
    “What’s on Forty-second Street? What’s up ahead? Where the hell could he be going?”
    Groza threw up his hands in desperation. “Times Square is across town, home of the skells, the city’s worst derelicts and losers. Theater district’s there, too. Port Authority Bus Terminal. We’re coming up on Grand Central Station.”
    “Then he’s going to Grand Central,” I told Groza. “I’m sure of it. This is the way he wants it. In a train station!” Another cellar, a glorious one that went on for city blocks.
The cellar of cellars
.
    Gary Soneji was already out of the bus and running on Forty-second street. He was headed toward Grand Central Station, headed toward home. He was still carrying the baby in one arm, swinging it loosely, showing us how little he cared about the child’s life.
    Goddamn him to hell. He was on the homestretch, and only he knew what that meant
.

Chapter 60

    I MADE MY way down the crowded stone-and-mortar passageway from Forty-second Street. It emptied into an even busier Grand Central Station. Thousands of already harried commuters were arriving for work in the midtown area. They had no idea how truly bad their day was about to become.
    Grand Central is the New York end for the New York Central, the New York, New Haven, and Hartford trains, and a few others. And for three IRT subway lines. Lexington Avenue, Times Square-Grand Central Shuttle, and Queens. The terminal covers three blocks between Forty-second and Forty-fifth Streets. Forty-one tracks are on the upper level and twenty-six on the lower, which narrows to a single four-track line to Ninety-sixth Street.
    The lower level is a huge labyrinth, one of the largest anywhere in the world
.
    Gary’s cellar
.
    I continued to push against the densely packed rush-hour crowd. I made it through a waiting room, then emerged into the cavernous and spectacular main concourse. Construction work was in progress everywhere. Giant cloth posters for Pan Am Airlines and American Express and Nike sneakers hung down over the walls. The gates to dozens of tracks were visible from where I stood.
    Detective Groza caught up with me in the concourse. We were both running on adrenaline. “He’s still got the baby.” he huffed. “Somebody spotted him running down to the next level.”
    Leading a merry chase, right? Gary Soneji was heading to the cellar. That wouldn’t be good for the thousands of people crowding inside the building. He had a bomb, and maybe more than one.
    I led Groza down more steep stairs, under a lit sign that said OYSTER BAR ON THIS LEVEL . The entire station was still under massive construction and renovation, which only added to the confusion. We pushed past crowded bakeries and delis. Plenty to eat here while you waited for your train, or possibly to be blown up. I spotted a Hoffritz cutlery shop up ahead. Maybe Hoffritz was