Skylar kept running.
CHAPTER 66
Sixth Avenue, New York City, May 27, 6:56 p.m.
Agent Raines wasn’t more than three blocks from Skylar. And rapidly getting closer. He had worked out a well-coordinated search grid en route to Carnegie Hall, which divvied up the sixteen-square-block area around the hallowed hall among the twelve search teams now taking his lead. He was a veteran. He knew this city. And he wasn’t going to allow these suspects to escape. Especially now that he had learned from agents who had interviewed the Carnegie Hall personnel that the patient and doctor had been separated. The doctor wouldn’t flee until she rejoined her patient, because she was responsible for him. She was looking for him while they were looking for her.
CHAPTER 67
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 27, 7:01 p.m.
The temperature inside 633 Third Avenue was rising, or so it seemed from the beads of perspiration on the foreheads of the eight Homeland Security analysts feverishly working their computers to catch a glimpse of the two fugitives. Max Garber was still tracking Detective Butler McHenry’s southbound progress on the New Jersey Turnpike, but he was also now lead analyst on the fugitive-task-force support team, because of Raines. Garber clearly relished the hunt. He and his seven compatriots were scanning the unique biometric features of every face in view around Carnegie Hall. Well, most of them, anyway.
The program needed at least seven facial markers to positively identify someone, and it took a minimum of half a second to lock these in. Translation, the software missed every fourth or fifth person. This included the athletic woman who had been briefly running through the crowd along Central Park South. She just happened to be one of the fourth or fifth persons whose identity the software missed before she disappeared from view. And none of the analysts were even bothering to check any faces themselves. They were too busy tallying probables and weighting candidates for further investigation. Given the number of other possible simultaneous sightings, and that the woman they were looking for was less important than the man, neither Garber nor any of his people gave Skylar a second look.
CHAPTER 68
Bird Shop, New York City, May 27, 7:23 p.m.
As it turned out, Skylar was right. Eddie was talking to the birds. Three, in fact. A monk parakeet, a green singing finch, and a blue-fronted amazon. But he wasn’t in Central Park. Or anywhere close to it. He was in a bird shop, one of only three in New York City. After walking 11,327 steps, Eddie saw the sign for the bird shop. It was colorful and friendly, and Eddie knew instantly that was where he should go. Because birds were good. So were people who liked birds.
A small crowd inside the store had gathered to watch him WHISTLE, CHIRP, and WHIR with his avian friends. The onlookers’ expressions said it all. No one had ever seen anything like it. Not even the gray-bearded owner, who’d been in the bird business for over forty years. When there was a momentary lull in the conversation between Eddie and the birds, the proprietor asked, “You mind if I ask you something?”
“I don’t talk to strangers.”
The old man nodded as if he’d just been charmed by a precocious child. “Well, let’s fix that, then. I’m Rupert Kreitenberg, and this is my shop. We’re not strangers anymore, are we?”
Eddie made his BUZZER sound, startling the proprietor. “We are most definitely still strangers, Rupert Kreitenberg.” Eddie kept his eyes on the monk parakeet.
Kreitenberg studied him with admiration. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who seems to love birds as much as I do.”
“How much do you love birds?” Eddie asked.
“More than I’ve ever loved anything else.”
“More than people?”
The owner smiled. “Definitely more than people.”
“What is your favorite bird?”
“Can’t say that I have one. I honestly love them all.”
“Every single one?”
“Indeed.”
“Even pigeons?” Eddie knew that most people did not like pigeons, especially people who lived in New York City.
“Yes, even pigeons.”
Eddie turned to the old man without emotion. “I love birds more than people, too. Well, all except one.”
“That person must be very special.”
“Yes, she is. She is very special.”
“Is she your girlfriend?” Rupert asked with a certain charm that was disarming.
“She’s my doctor. But I don’t know where she is right now.” Eddie thought for a moment before continuing. “My name is Edward Parks, but I ask people to call me Eddie because it is the familiar of Edward and I am familiar with everyone I know.”
“Hello, Eddie. My name is Rupert.”
“Yes. Rupert Kreitenberg. You already told me that.”
“So I did.” He smiled warmly.
“We have something in common, which means we aren’t strangers anymore.”
“I’m glad we’re not strangers anymore, Eddie.”
Eddie closed his eyes, rotating his head slowly back and forth as he listened closely for any hint of falsehood. There was none. He turned his attention back to the birds.
“Do you mind if I ask where you learned to communicate with birds like that?” The proprietor couldn’t stop smiling.
“No, I do not mind.”
Rupert waited for an answer, then realized Eddie had already given him one. Rupert asked the question again, but this time more directly.
“Harmony House.”
“What is Harmony House?”
“A special place for special people.”
The proprietor’s suspicion about Eddie was confirmed. He’d read about people with mental disorders who could do all kinds of amazing things, like memorizing phone books or counting cards. Apparently, talking with birds could now be added to this list. “Is that where you live?”
Eddie nodded. “I have lived in Harmony House since I was eleven years old, two months, and twelve days.” The birds CHIRPED at him. Eddie responded.
“Do you understand what they’re saying to you?”
“Yes.”
“You mind telling me?”
“No, I do not mind telling you.” Eddie WHISTLED, CHIRPED, and WHIRRED to the man, repeating the sounds he had just made to the birds.
Kreitenberg nodded. “Fair enough.”
“What is fair enough?”
“I believe what you meant to say is there is no translation. It’s music. How do you translate music, right?” Eddie CHIRPED some more. The old man smiled with astonishment. He was like a veteran music teacher unexpectedly coming upon a prodigy of unfathomable talent. It was how Beethoven’s father, who was a decent composer himself, must have felt. “You know, I’ve spent my whole life around birds, and I’ve never seen anyone do what you can do. Did someone teach you?”
“No.”
“Then how did you learn?”
“I have golden ears like William Tuthill.”
“Who is William Tuthill?”
“He is the architect who designed Carnegie Hall.”
The shop owner nodded, now remembering that little bit of New York history. “Yes, Eddie, I believe you do have golden ears.”
Eddie returned his focus to the birds. “They do not like to be kept in cages, you know.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do.”
“If you love them more than people, why do you keep them in cages?”
“Selling them is how I make my living.”
Eddie looked confused. “How does selling birds make you live?”
“It’s the way I earn money. Selling birds is how I keep a roof over my head.”
Eddie looked up. “Structural support beams keep this roof over your head.”
“This shop is how I put food on the table.”
“I carry mine on a tray.”
The owner could only stare in wonder. This young man was unlike anyone he’d ever met. Rupert knew this was one day he would never forget.
CHAPTER 69
West End Avenue, New York City, May 27, 7:44 p.m.
Skylar was exhausted. She’d been searching for miles. The shadows on the buildings were growing longer. There wasn’t much daylight left. And she was no closer to finding Eddie than when she started. In fact, she was further away than ever. Somehow, she could sense it. She was looking for a needle in a haystack. The best way to help him might be to turn herself in and help Homeland find him before something unforgivable happened.