Hundreds streamed past.
Under other circumstances, he would be absorbing the energy. Under other circumstances, he would be gazing at the electronic departure signs and wondering about the destinations the buses might take him (Vimal had never been out of the metro area). Now, of course, he was looking for the man who was possibly looking for him.
The fire stairs outside Mr. Patel’s shop had led him to a delivery bay behind the building. He’d sprinted to 46th Street and turned west. And kept on sprinting. Facts are facts and a skinny South Asian speeding from the Diamond District suggested someone on an errand—the way a sprinting black or Latino young man might not. No one had paid him much mind. He’d glanced back frequently and had not seen the killer in pursuit.
He’d stopped only briefly. When he’d hit Sixth Avenue he’d searched for and finally found a pay phone. They were being replaced by the wifi-enabled LinkNYC system, which was highly traceable—the kiosks even video recorded users—but he’d managed to locate an old-fashioned phone, call 911 and report the crime. How helpful the information was, Vimal couldn’t say: He’d called primarily to have them send police and an ambulance in case anyone was still alive. The three people in the shop appeared dead but perhaps not. As for a description of the robber, all he could say was it was a man of medium build, wearing gloves and ski mask, both black. He seemed to be white. Vimal didn’t know the gun. Maybe somebody who was allowed to watch TV and movies more than he was would know what kind it might be. To him it was just a gun.
Then he’d hung up, sprinted another block and plunged into the crowds of Times Square, looking back frequently.
Now he was in his sanctuary, the bustling Port Authority.
He tried to think of anything else that might help the police. But Vimal was sure this had just been a random crime. There’d never been any threats before, never any robberies at the shop. Mr. Patel was known throughout the world as a master diamantaire. Sure, he had some amazing stones in the shop, but that wasn’t known to the public. His retail operation was very small, and generally customers were referred to him from other retailers when they wanted special fancies.
No one in that circle would rob a fellow cutter, let alone murder anyone. It simply didn’t happen in the diamond world.
The pain swelled again.
Another touch to his skin.
More fresh blood.
Had anyone noticed his condition? He scanned the crowds, noting a woman on a nearby chair eating a soft pretzel, a dozen people pulling suitcases behind them like complacent dogs, a clutch of homeless men and women, some filled with the certainty of God, some purely bewildered.
He fished his phone from his pocket, wincing against the pain. He sent one text and was pleased to read the reply.
He sent a silly emoji, then felt like an idiot for doing so under the circumstances.
Then he stared at the screen, debating. And delaying. That he’d had no texts from his father meant that his family hadn’t heard the news yet. Even when the story broke, his name probably wouldn’t be included. Obviously, he wasn’t among the victims at the shop and since Mr. Patel paid him cash and Vimal kept none of his personal things at the shop, it would be very unlikely that the police would learn about him.
Still, the instant the story broke about Mr. Patel’s death, Vimal could expect his phone to begin ringing nonstop.
He continued to look at the scuffed screen. Just send the message, be done with it.
Go ahead.
It wasn’t like placing a phone call. It was just a text. Nobody could interact with him verbally, be stern, treat him like a ten-year-old. Just a fucking text.
He typed the message.
You will soon hear there has been a terrible thing. Mr. Patel is dead. A robbery. I am fine. But will be away for a time. I will be with a friend. I will contact you soon.
His finger hovered over the arrow of the Send button.
He added:
Love you.
He reached for the Power Down button but before he could press it a reply filled the screen.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN???? WHAT FRIEND ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT??? COME HOME AT ONCE!!!!
As his phone drifted off to sleep, Vimal’s heart was pounding almost as fast as when he’d seen the gun pointing his way. A nearly instantaneous reply, he reflected, despite the fact his father had capitalized each word manually.
He noted too that of all the comments he might have made, the man had said nothing about Mr. Patel’s death or the robbery but had demanded to know the identity of Vimal’s friend. There were no friends, of course. He knew no one well enough to stay with, certainly not in this instance. The line was simply a way to put his father—or more, his mother and brother—at ease.
In his mind’s eye he was seeing Mr. Patel’s feet once more. He pressed his lids together tightly, as if that would make the image go away, but it only grew more vivid. More horrific.
He began to cry and he sobbed silently, turning his back to the crowd. Finally he controlled the tears, dabbed his face and inhaled deeply.
Then a thought came to him; he remembered something else about the killer. The man had had that attaché case. An old-fashioned one, the sort you didn’t see very much anymore. He had been carrying it as he walked into the front room from the workshop when he saw Vimal. The case, he now reflected, might be the reason he was still alive. The robber had been carrying it in his right hand. He’d had to drop it and pull his gun from his pocket, which gave Vimal a moment—purely a reaction—to turn and raise his hands. When the man fired, the bullet had struck the rocks, not his chest.
A man with a briefcase would be distinctive. Vimal would call 911 once more and let them know. Officers throughout Midtown could look for him.
He rose and walked toward a pay phone. He knew that as soon as he called, somebody in the NYPD would radio officers here—there were a half dozen that he could see—and report that somebody who knew about the crime was in the Port Authority. He’d have to leave immediately after he hung up.
It was then that he felt, more than saw, somebody approaching.
He turned and observed a man of about thirty-five in a dark raincoat, walking toward him and looking from right to left as he made his way through the foot traffic flowing through the Port Authority hallways. Same height and build as the killer. Somber-faced.
The killer had been in a jacket, hadn’t he?
This man had no briefcase.
But a smart thief would have ditched the clothes he wore at the scene of the crime.
Or, hell! What if there were two of them? This was…what did they say? The backup.
In any event, this guy was definitely coming his way. He held something small and dark in his hand. It wouldn’t be the gun; he wouldn’t dare shoot here. It would be the knife he’d used to slash that couple and Mr. Patel to death.
Vimal looked for the police. The closest were about two hundred feet away and the man was between them and Vimal.
Besides, the police were the last thing he wanted.
Go! Get away!
He turned and moved fast down the nearest corridor, which was lined with luggage lockers. The pain in his chest and side swelled but he ignored it and kept moving fast.
A T-shaped intersection of passageways was ahead. Left or right? More light from the right one. He slipped around the corner.
Mistake. It was a dead end, continuing for only ten feet and ending at a door on which was stenciled: Electrical. Maintenance Only. No Entry.
Try it!
Locked. He saw the shadow of the man as he approached.
I’m going to die, he thought.