Living Proof, стр. 27
“We must be on our way to a confession,” Dopp had said. “You’re doing great. Oh, and Jed told me about her little outburst at dinner. I’m surprised you forgot to mention it—that was pretty fantastic news.”
Trent froze for a moment, and then deduced what he meant. “The creationist museum. Yeah, she got all worked up about it.”
Dopp looked pretty excited himself. “Jed said she called it ‘crap.’ It just confirms what we’ve thought all along: She still has an evil agenda.”
Trent nodded slowly. He remembered her lecture about the separation of church and state, but out of some strange reluctance, had decided not to discuss this tidbit with Dopp.
Dopp wagged a spindly finger. Trent almost apologized before realizing the gesture was not meant for him. “That woman is up to no good. Write up the transcript. And keep following her every chance you get.”
“Today,” Trent said. “She said she was busy today after work.”
“Keep on her this time.”
“I will.” Trent paused, hating to diffuse Dopp’s hope. “But she could be going anywhere.… I don’t know where.…”
“Exactly,” Dopp had responded, emphasizing each syllable.
* * *
The pulse of the park was dying with the afternoon light: Children dismounted from swings, guitarists packed up, students hurried past the fountain as they wrapped cheap scarves around their necks. A few like Trent sat on benches, clutching plastic coffee cups. Near him was a small-dog run, a fenced-off spread of dirt the size of a subway car. He pretended to watch the critters scamper around, trembling in glove-sized jackets, while he kept his peripheral gaze on the clinic’s door, yards away.
A visibly pregnant woman hurried past him just as her yellow MetroCard slipped out of her pocket and landed near Trent’s bench. He jumped up to grab it and ran after her, shouting, “Ma’am!” She turned around and smiled as he held it up, then froze as she caught sight of the DEP identification card still clipped to his belt; he had forgotten to take it off. Her hands flew to her stomach, and she grinned widely, nearly grimacing.
“Thank you,” she said. “I was actually just on my way to meet with my caseworker. I—I’m so sorry for missing the last appointment, but I just got caught up with work, and I—”
Trent held up a hand, feeling his pulse quicken for some reason. “It’s fine. I don’t work for the DEFP. That’s a different department.”
“Oh.” The woman looked down as her brow relaxed. “Sorry. Bye, then.” She turned and rushed away.
Trent returned to the bench, again focusing his gaze on the clinic’s door. But a part of him was horrified. The fear in that woman’s face was disturbing: fear of him. He felt like a criminal or a dictator, someone with a deficit of compassion and a surplus of power. But that was absurd; there was nothing wrong with him. Or the department. Just the opposite.
The door opened then, and Trent forgot his discomfort because the first emotion he felt when he saw Arianna wheeling her bike through the doorway was betrayal. She lied, he thought. She said she couldn’t go biking today. When she mounted the bike and began cycling east, traveling a seemingly familiar route, his hurt morphed into intrigue. He rose from the bench, half-jogging to keep up with her, while maintaining a fixed distance; although to his relief, he realized it would be more unlikely for her to turn around and spot him now.
At Broadway, she stopped at the curb to wait for the light, planting one foot on the sidewalk. He lingered a block behind. When the cars stopped at the crosswalk, she charged across the street with her black hair rippling in the wind, beckoning him. He followed, crossing the street in the same light. Up ahead of him, at the first corner, Arianna turned a familiar right. His heart thudded, propelling his legs to match her speed. You won’t lose me now, he vowed. He rounded the corner and saw her pedaling two blocks ahead. Where before he had been thwarted, now he was going to see—
No one was near her when it happened. Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel, missing the pedal by inches. He could see her body tighten, as if clenching her muscles would forestall the blow, as her front tire stopped short and the momentum hurled her over the handlebars. Even from his distance, he heard her shriek—a useless cry wrenched out of a voice he had never heard lose control. She flew forward, arms stretched out, clawing at the air in vain, as the bike collapsed underneath her. Onto the unforgiving pavement she crashed, skidding on her forearms, bouncing on her chin. With a smack, her knees followed. The momentum dragged her a foot until friction interceded. Then, facedown, she was still.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. She could be dead. Panic and restraint wrestled within him, keeping him in limbo at the edge of the sidewalk. His urge to run over to her was growing dangerously compelling—but then she let out a moan and turned onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. Several passersby rushed toward her, yelling to one another to call an ambulance. A motherly-looking woman crouched and held her hand, while a man collected her bicycle from the middle of the sidewalk. The last thing Trent saw before more people gathered around her was the blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain.
He waited on that corner, an inconspicuous onlooker, until an ambulance arrived four minutes later. Even after she was placed on a stretcher and loaded into