Central Park by Guillaume Musso (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

The car sped north. The sun was bright on the horizon. To their left, there were ferries and sailboats floating on the Hudson, the skyscrapers of Jersey City, the metal gantries of old piers.

Gabriel changed lanes to pass a van. When he turned to look at Alice, he noticed that she was gripping the knife she had stolen from the café and slashing at the lining of her leather jacket.

“Stop! What the hell are you doing?”

Trusting her instincts, she didn’t even bother responding to this. Carried away by her excitement, she reached down to remove her ankle boots and used the knife to cut off the heel of the first one.

“Alice, my God, what’s the matter with you?”

“This is what I was looking for!” she said, triumphantly brandishing a tiny casing that she had just extracted from her outer sole.

“What is it, a microchip?”

“No, a miniaturized GPS system. That’s how they were able to track us. And I would bet anything that you have the same thing in one of your shoes or in the lining of your jacket. Someone is following us in real time, Keyne. We need to change our clothes and our shoes. Now!”

“All right,” he agreed, looking worried.

Alice opened the window and threw the tiny snitch away, then picked up the briefcase. It was a rigid, smooth leather case with a double combination lock. The handle no longer seemed electrified. She tried to open the case but without success.

“Hardly surprising,” Gabriel said.

“We’ll find a way to break the lock later. For now, let’s just concentrate on finding somewhere discreet where we can buy new clothes.”

Eyelids drooping, Alice massaged her temples. Her migraine was coming back, and her eyes were burning. She searched through the glove compartment and fished out an old pair of sunglasses that she had spotted earlier. They had glittery cat’s-eye frames. She put them on. The architectural diversity of this part of the city mesmerized her and made her head spin. From afar, she recognized the bluish outline of the Standard Hotel, like an enormous open book perched on stilts, rising above the High Line. There was something chaotic and jarring about this clash of modern buildings—all geometric lines in glass and steel—and the red brick of old New York.

And then, like a pearl-colored iceberg in the distance, an irregularly shaped translucent building broke up the skyline and dazzled the surrounding landscape with an unreal light.

They wandered around for a while between the Meatpacking District and Chelsea before finding a little boutique on Twenty-Seventh Street that was like a cross between a military-surplus store and a thrift shop. It was a long single room filled with a glorious mess of clothes, a mix of combat gear and designer labels.

“Be quick, Keyne,” Alice said sternly as they entered. “We’re not here for a nice, relaxed shopping trip. Understood?”

They rummaged through the racks of clothes and shoes—combat boots, canvas lace-ups, bomber jackets, fleeces, camouflage jackets, leather belts, kaffiyehs.

Alice quickly found a black turtleneck sweater, a fitted T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of ankle boots, and a putty-colored army jacket.

Gabriel was not as decisive.

“Hurry up! Look, just take this and this,” she urged, throwing him a pair of khaki pants and a faded cotton shirt.

“But it’s not exactly the right size, and it’s not my style either.”

“Look, it’s not Saturday night and you’re not going out to pick up girls, Keyne,” she replied, unbuttoning her blouse.

The pianist completed his outfit with a pair of work boots and a three-quarter-length coat with a sheepskin collar. Alice spotted an old holster she could carry her Glock in and a canvas satchel with two leather straps. There were no changing rooms, so they undressed and dressed within a few yards of each other. Gabriel could not resist stealing a sideways glance at Alice.

“Don’t ogle me, you pervert!” she scolded him, covering her bare torso with the wool sweater.

She said it more vehemently than she’d intended, and Gabriel looked away sheepishly. What he saw had chilled him, however: a long scar running from Alice’s belly button down to her crotch.

“A hundred and seventy for all of it,” said the store owner, a huge, stocky bald man with a long, ZZ Top–style beard.

While Gabriel finished taking off his shoes, Alice went out to the street and threw all their old clothes into a trash can. The only thing she kept was a scrap of bloodstained fabric torn from her blouse.

Evidence, she thought, slipping it into her army satchel.

Noticing a little bodega on the other side of the road, she crossed the street and bought some wet wipes to clean herself up, a packet of ibuprofen for her headache, and a small bottle of water. Then she had an idea. She retraced her steps, looked through the aisles, and finally found a small section devoted to cell phones. She chose the most basic model, for $14.99, and also bought a 120-minute prepaid phone card.

Coming out of the store with her purchases, she was surprised by a gust of wind. The sun was still shining brightly, but the air was cold and blustery now, with dead leaves and clouds of dust whipping around in a frenzy. She put her hand to her face to protect her eyes. Leaning against the hood of the car, Gabriel watched her.

“Waiting for someone?” she teased.

Waving one of his old shoes at her, he said, “You were right: there was a bug in my sneaker too.” And, like a basketball player, he threw the Converse into the nearest garbage can. It hit the rim and fell inside. “Whoo, a three-pointer!”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Have you finished screwing around now? Can we go?”

A little wounded, he turned up the collar of his jacket and shrugged, like a kid who had just been scolded.

Alice sat in the driver’s seat and placed the bag from the convenience store and her canvas satchel on the back seat, next to the briefcase.

“We have to