Mistress of Justice

into the street and hail a taxi.
    Of course, there were none.
    Then, in the bulbous disk of a wide-angle rearview mirror on one of the vans, she noticed a man looking her way.
    She gasped.
    There was nothing ambiguous about the recognition this time.
    It was the man in the baseball cap, the one who’d sat next to her in the coffee shop.
    The killer, the thief.
    Okay. He doesn’t know you saw him. You can get out of this.
    Shaking her head casually, as if discouraged that there were no cabs, Taylor turned slowly back to the sidewalk.
    Then instantly reversed herself and, sprinting as fast as her still-weak legs could carry her, made straight for population.
    She glanced back once and saw that the man had given up any pretense—he was running after her. He reached into his coveralls and pulled out a long dark object. At first she thought it was a gun but then she realized that it was a knife or ice pick.
    Still dehydrated and in severe pain from the poisoning, her muscles began to slow. Judging distances, Taylor realized that she wasn’t going to make it to Broadway or one of the other heavily traveled streets before the killer reached her.
    She stopped suddenly in the middle of the street and jogged down the concrete stairs to the Rector Street subway stop. This was better than the street anyway—not only would there be people on the platform but the token seller in the booth would have a hot line to the transit police. The killer wouldn’t follow her here. He—
    But he
was
following, grim determination—to kill her—on his face. A glance back showed that he’d picked up the speed, as if he could sense her fatigue and was moving in for the coup de grace.
    “Help me!” she screamed to the startled young woman in the token booth. Three or four people scattered or ducked as Taylor vaulted the turnstile and fell hard onto the platform. One man started to help her but she raged, “Get away. No, get away!”
    There were more screams behind her as the killer reached the bottom of the stairs and looked for her.
    A businessman hovering nearby saw the ice pick in the hand of the killer and backed up.
    Rising to her feet, she ran as fast as she could along the platform to the far exit of the subway. She heard the staticky voice of the token seller call out, “Pay your fare,” as the killer jumped onto the platform and started after her.
    Sprinting as best she could, she came to the end of the platform and turned to run up the stairs at the exit door.
    But it was chained.
    “Oh, Jesus,” she cried. “No …”
    Taylor returned to the platform and saw the killer, his face emotionless, walking slowly now, studying her carefully from thirty feet away. Anticipating her escape routes.
    She jumped off the platform and dropped four feet into the muck between the rails. Turning away from the killer, she began to run through the tunnel, stumbling over the slippery ties.
    He was right behind her, saying nothing, not threatening her or urging her to stop. Not negotiating—there was only one thing he needed to do—kill her.
    Taylor got only about twenty feet when, exhausted, she slipped on a slick piece of tie and nearly fell. By the time she regained her balance the killer had made a leaping grab and seized her by the ankle. She went down hard against the solid piece of wood.
    Catching her breath, she lashed out with her other foot and caught him in the mouth or cheek with her sole—a solid blow—and he grunted and lost his grip. “Fuck you,” he muttered, spitting blood.
    “No, fuck you!” she screamed. And kicked again.
    He dodged away from her and swung with the pick.
    Taylor rolled away and he missed. But she couldn’t climb to her feet; he was coming forward too fast, swinging the steel, keeping her off balance.
    Finally she managed to stand but just as she was about to start running he grabbed her overcoat and pulled her legs out from under her. She tumbled again to the ground, her head bouncing hard on a tie. She rose, exhausted, to her hands and knees.
    “No,” she said. “Please.”
    The killer was up, ready to pounce. But Taylor remained motionless, on her hands and knees, stunned. “What do you want?” she gasped, breathless, spent.
    Still, no answer. But why should he respond? It was clear what he wanted. She was the tiny bird that her father had hunted, she was the victim of the Queen of Hearts—off with her head, off with her head.
    The weapon drawing back, its needle-sharp point aimingat her