The Bone Collector

waiting for them. He’d see them in forty-five minutes or so.
    They walked through automatic doors and were socked breathless by the scalding summer air. Carole paused, looking around. Gripping Pammy firmly with one hand, the handle of the battered suitcase with the other. The heavy yellow knapsack was snug on her shoulder.
    They joined the line of passengers waiting at the taxi starter’s booth.
    Carole glanced at a huge billboard across the highway. Welcome U.N. Delegates! it announced. The artwork was terrible, but she stared at it for a long moment; one of the men on the billboard looked like Ronnie.
    For a time, after he died, two years ago, virtually everything reminded her of her handsome, crew-cut husband. She’d drive past McDonald’s and remember that he liked Big Macs. Actors in movies who didn’t look a thing like him might cock their heads the way he usedto. She’d see a flyer for a lawn-mower sale and remember how much he loved to cut their tiny square of grass in Arlington Heights.
    Then the tears would come. And she’d go back on Prozac or imipramine. She’d spend a week in bed. Reluctantly acquiesce in Kate’s offer that she stay with her and Eddie for a night. Or a week. Or a month.
    But no tears anymore. She was here to jump-start her life. The sorrow was behind her now.
    Tossing her mass of dark-blond hair off her sweaty shoulders, Carole ushered Pammy forward and kicked the luggage ahead of them as the taxi queue moved up several places. She looked all around, trying to catch a glimpse of Manhattan. But she could see nothing except traffic and the tails of airplanes and a sea of people and cabs and cars. Steam rose like frantic ghosts from manholes and the night sky was black and yellow and hazy.
    Well, she’d see the city soon enough, she guessed. She hoped that Pammy was old enough to keep her first memory of the sight.
    “How do you like our adventure so far, honey?”
    “Adventure. I like adventures. I want some ’Waiin Punch. Can I please have some?”
    Please  . . . That was new. The three-year-old was learning all the keys and buttons. Carole laughed. “We’ll get you some soon.”
    Finally they got their cab. The trunk popped open and Carole dumped the luggage inside, slammed the lid. They climbed into the back seat and closed the door.
    Pammy, Pooh, purse  . . .
    The driver asked, “Where to?” And Carole gave him the address of the Midtown Residence Hotel, shouting through the Plexiglas divider.
    The driver pulled into traffic. Carole sat back and settled Pammy on her lap.
    “Will we go past the UN?” she called.
    But the man was concentrating on changing lanes and didn’t hear her.
    “I’m here for the conference,” she explained. “The UN conference.”
    Still no answer.
    She wondered if he had trouble with English. Kate had warned her that the taxi drivers in New York were all foreigners. (“Taking American jobs,” Eddie grumbled. “But don’t get me started on that. ”) She couldn’t see him clearly through the scuffed divider.
    Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk.
    They swung onto another highway—and, suddenly, there it was in front of her, the jagged skyline of the city. Brilliant. Like the crystals that Kate and Eddie collected. A huge cluster of blue and gold and silver buildings in the middle of the island and another cluster way to the left. It was bigger than anything Carole had ever seen in her life and for a moment the island seemed like a massive ship.
    “Look, Pammy, that’s where we’re going. Is that beeaaautiful or what?”
    A moment later, though, the view was cut off as the driver turned off the expressway and made a fast turn at the bottom of the ramp. Then they were moving through hot, deserted streets, lined with dark brick buildings.
    Carole leaned forward. “Is this the right way to the city?”
    Again, no answer.
    She rapped hard on the Plexiglas. “Are you going the right way? Answer me. Answer me! ”
    “Mommy, what’s wrong?” Pammy said and started to cry.
    “Where are you going?” Carole shouted.
    But the man just kept driving—leisurely, stopping at all the red lights, never going over the speed limit. And when he pulled into the deserted parking lot behind a dark, abandoned factory he made sure he signaled properly.
    Ohno. . .no!
    He pulled on a ski mask and climbed from the cab. Walking to the back, he reached for the door. But he hesitated and his hand dropped. He leaned forward, face against the