an urban center and the fact that people lived and worked within its boundaries—the Presidio, with its rolling hills and half-wild campus, provided a welcome respite from the densely populated city that surrounded it. He liked to walk the footpaths through the forest groves or the dunes along the water’s edge. He’d sit for hours on his favorite bench and watch the sailboats tack across the glimmering bay. It beat staring at the walls of his overpriced efficiency apartment on Nob Hill and made the life he’d left behind seem as distant and ephemeral as the hazy outline of Alcatraz in the distance.
Today, though, the Presidio might prove just as inescapable as that legendary prison—and as Frank’s own past.
Frank was well versed in law enforcement procedures. He’d spent his life studying them so that he could exploit their weaknesses. No doubt the authorities were in the process of setting up a perimeter around the park; limiting access to and from the site so they could assist the wounded, process evidence, and sift for suspects among the witnesses made sense. But the place was huge—a little over 2.3 square miles—so there was no way they could have fully locked it down yet. If he could escape before they did that, there was a chance that he might live.
Frank came to a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side, a narrow roadway was cut into the overgrown slope. He heard a crunch of tires. A siren growing louder. He cursed and hit the ground. A white Dodge Charger with a blue stripe raced by, its light bar splashing red and blue across him. More Park Police, he thought, though the Feds were no doubt close behind.
Once the Charger passed, he rose clumsily, bracing himself on the chain link for support. Then he stripped off his argyle sweater and threw it over the barbed wire to protect him. His button-down snagged as he struggled over the sweater-draped fence. As he attempted to unhook it, a barb sank into the palm of his right hand. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to howl in pain. A groan escaped him as he yanked his hand free and climbed back down. Blood pooled in the hollow of his palm. He wiped it on his shirt and made a fist to stanch the bleeding. Red seeped between his fingers and dripped onto the roadway.
Another car approached, its engine roaring. Frank crossed the road as quickly as his bum knee would allow, ducking out of sight a fraction of a second before the car sped by. Then he scurried once more upslope through the underbrush.
Not bad, old man, he told himself. Not bad. Just keep it up, and no one will ever know you were here.
8.
I N A DUSTY corner of a sprawling English Tudor home in Clinton, New York—a quiet college town not far from the decaying industrial city of Utica—a phone began to ring.
Sal Lombino frowned. His daughter, Isabella, stopped plunking at the piano and looked at him. “Can I get it, Daddy?”
“Not this time, honey. What’d Ms. Malpica tell you?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “That I had to practice at least half an hour every day.”
“And how long’s it been?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Twenty minutes?” The sheepish smile on her face made it clear she knew damn well it hadn’t been but was hoping her old man was too big a softie to call her on it.
“Try again,” he said, smiling himself. Sal hoped that Izzie never got any better at lying than she was today, midway through her seventh year. But he knew better. Lying was in her DNA. Her hateful bitch of a mother did it for sport. Sal did it for a living.
“It’s been five minutes,” she singsonged low and melancholy, her face an exaggerated pout.
“That’s more like it. Seems to me you should keep playing, then, and leave the phone to me.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly and resumed clanking out her tune—a meandering version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with more wrong notes than right.
Truthfully, Sal didn’t much care if she practiced—the
Today, though, the Presidio might prove just as inescapable as that legendary prison—and as Frank’s own past.
Frank was well versed in law enforcement procedures. He’d spent his life studying them so that he could exploit their weaknesses. No doubt the authorities were in the process of setting up a perimeter around the park; limiting access to and from the site so they could assist the wounded, process evidence, and sift for suspects among the witnesses made sense. But the place was huge—a little over 2.3 square miles—so there was no way they could have fully locked it down yet. If he could escape before they did that, there was a chance that he might live.
Frank came to a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side, a narrow roadway was cut into the overgrown slope. He heard a crunch of tires. A siren growing louder. He cursed and hit the ground. A white Dodge Charger with a blue stripe raced by, its light bar splashing red and blue across him. More Park Police, he thought, though the Feds were no doubt close behind.
Once the Charger passed, he rose clumsily, bracing himself on the chain link for support. Then he stripped off his argyle sweater and threw it over the barbed wire to protect him. His button-down snagged as he struggled over the sweater-draped fence. As he attempted to unhook it, a barb sank into the palm of his right hand. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to howl in pain. A groan escaped him as he yanked his hand free and climbed back down. Blood pooled in the hollow of his palm. He wiped it on his shirt and made a fist to stanch the bleeding. Red seeped between his fingers and dripped onto the roadway.
Another car approached, its engine roaring. Frank crossed the road as quickly as his bum knee would allow, ducking out of sight a fraction of a second before the car sped by. Then he scurried once more upslope through the underbrush.
Not bad, old man, he told himself. Not bad. Just keep it up, and no one will ever know you were here.
8.
I N A DUSTY corner of a sprawling English Tudor home in Clinton, New York—a quiet college town not far from the decaying industrial city of Utica—a phone began to ring.
Sal Lombino frowned. His daughter, Isabella, stopped plunking at the piano and looked at him. “Can I get it, Daddy?”
“Not this time, honey. What’d Ms. Malpica tell you?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “That I had to practice at least half an hour every day.”
“And how long’s it been?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Twenty minutes?” The sheepish smile on her face made it clear she knew damn well it hadn’t been but was hoping her old man was too big a softie to call her on it.
“Try again,” he said, smiling himself. Sal hoped that Izzie never got any better at lying than she was today, midway through her seventh year. But he knew better. Lying was in her DNA. Her hateful bitch of a mother did it for sport. Sal did it for a living.
“It’s been five minutes,” she singsonged low and melancholy, her face an exaggerated pout.
“That’s more like it. Seems to me you should keep playing, then, and leave the phone to me.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly and resumed clanking out her tune—a meandering version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with more wrong notes than right.
Truthfully, Sal didn’t much care if she practiced—the
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