Chapter 2 - The General’s GambitFrank James had driven for Arthur Mitchell for twenty-two years. He knew the general’s moods by the angle of his rearview mirror: a slight tilt meant a lecture on traffic management; dead center meant total silence; a sharp downward glance meant someone was about to lose their job.
When Arthur rolled into the back of the Lincoln Navigator through the hydraulic lift, Frank didn't look back immediately. He waited for the heavy mechanical thud of the platform locking into place.
"Home, General?" Frank asked softly, his eyes flicking to the rearview.
Arthur’s face was pale, his jaw set in a hard, granite line that Frank hadn't seen since the day Clara passed away.
"No," Arthur said. "Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Second. Drive slowly. Keep your high beams on the park perimeter."
"General, it's nearly freezing. The weather report said—"
"I didn't ask for a weather report, Frank. I asked you to drive."
The big SUV crept forward along the perimeter of Central Park. The sodium lights were just beginning to flicker on through the gathering dusk, casting long, jaundiced streaks across the wet pavement. Arthur pressed his face against the cold side glass, his eyes scanning every bench, every shadow beneath the skeletal elms, every huddled figure near the hot dog stands.
Who was she?
In New York City, a child wandering alone in a threadbare coat near dusk was either a statistic waiting to happen or a ghost. Arthur knew the streets. He knew the desperate underbelly that hid beneath the glittering facade of the Upper East Side. He knew how easily a child could slip through the cracks of a city of eight million souls.
"There," Arthur suddenly rasped, hitting the leather armrest with the flat of his palm.
"General? That's just a delivery boy—"
"Not there. Fifty yards ahead. Near the carriage rank."
Frank pulled the Lincoln to the curb with a smooth hiss of air brakes.
Standing beneath the green awning of a closed souvenir kiosk was a small silhouette. She was holding a paper cup of water someone had discarded, trying to warm her hands against it.
Arthur didn't wait for Frank to come around with the lift. With a grunt that tore at his chest muscles, he hauled his dead legs across the leather seat, grabbed the door handle, and tumbled clumsily out onto the sidewalk, catching himself on the edge of the open door.
"General!" Frank cried out, throwing his door open and rushing around. "Sir, you're going to tear your shoulder—"
"Shut up, Frank," Arthur panted, sweat instantly beading on his forehead despite the freezing air. He dragged himself along the side of the vehicle, his boots scraping uselessly behind him like broken anchors, until he reached the front of the car.
The kiosk was empty.
The paper cup lay on the concrete, water spilling out in a dark, spreading puddle that was already turning to ice at the edges.
Maya was gone. But pinned beneath the plastic rim of the cup was a scrap of greasy brown paper torn from a bakery bag.
Arthur dropped to his knees—a motion he hadn't performed voluntarily since his stroke—and snatched the paper.
May you like
Scrawled in clumsy, oversized crayon letters were three words:
SHE’S BEHIND YOU.
