A tower.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Bronca breathes as they crane their necks, watching the thing form. It will be as high or higher than the strange arch over at Hunts Point, it’s already clear. “The keyholders. I don’t think any of them could have… I have to get them out!” And she actually starts back across the street, before Brooklyn and Veneza both drag her back.
“You can’t,” says Hong. It’s softer than Hong usually speaks, but no less brutally true, for that. Bronca shudders all over and groans, anguished.
“We should go.” Padmini is shaking visibly, her eyes wide and distraught. “We shouldn’t be this close.”
Manny heartily agrees. Traffic on the street in front of the Center is a wreck—cars veering away and stopping in the middle of the street, others speeding up and getting the hell out of Dodge. None of the drivers can see the tower, but they’re all reacting to it regardless, sensing the presence of an interloper.
Out of this chaos, however, a familiar yellow shape suddenly makes a U-turn and comes rapidly hurtling down the street before screeching to a halt in front of them. It’s a Checker cab. Someone’s put a sign in the passenger window with prominent handwritten letters: NOT A REAL CAB. DO NOT HAIL. The sign falls into the cab, however, as a woman leans across the passenger seat to hand-crank the window down. She stares at Manny, and Manny stares back. “Oh, I fucking knew it,” says Madison.
It’s unbelievable. Well, no, it’s not. It’s the city. In spite of everything, Manny can’t help grinning, though he suspects he looks a little hysterical. “Small world?”
“Is it?” She scrunches her face. Today she’s wearing a T-shirt that reads I’M NOT PERFECT BUT I’M FROM NEW YORK AND THAT’S KINDA THE SAME THING. “Are you gonna do the whole ride-’em-cowboy thing again? Because you probably should.” She jabs a thumb toward the Center.
“No.” There’s only one reason for the city to have sent them a ride. “Can you take us to City Hall Station?”
Madison rolls her eyes. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew I was headed that way anyway. Get in, damn it.”
“Okay, hang on.” Manny straightens. “Do we have another car, for the Staten Island group?”
Bronca tears her eyes from the awful thing that has enveloped her Center, and then rummages through her pockets. Her movements are shaky, her expression shocky, and Manny doesn’t blame her. But she sighs in relief and pulls a set of keys from one pocket. There’s an electronic key fob on it. “Yeah. Mine.”
“I’ll go with you to Staten Island, then,” Brooklyn says to her. She looks at the Checker oddly. “Uh, you guys got a ride, I guess?”
“Yeah,” Manny says. It is a need now, the pull toward City Hall that sits in his breast. Everything in him that understands strategy, violence, warfare, is certain that this tower, this direct attack, is a sign. The Woman in White has abandoned pretense; she’s making her move, and they aren’t ready. Manny’s going to City Hall even if none of the others want to go with him.
Paulo says to Manny, as if hearing this thought, “I’ll go with you.” He’s still not looking great, but he moves with tolerable speed to climb through the cab’s rear passenger door, nodding politely to Madison inside.
With a sudden gasp that makes all of them jump, Veneza slaps at her pockets, then groans in relief as she finds her car keys, too. “Oh my God, thought I was gonna be walking home. I can also carry—”
Bronca makes a growling sound. “The only place you’re going is home!”
They all jump again, except Brooklyn. It was a mom-voice, sharp and incontrovertible. Brooklyn just nods grimly, and takes out her phone.
Veneza stares at Bronca like she’s crazy. “Old B, come on, you’re going to need all the—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Then Bronca gestures at what used to be the Bronx Art Center. The tower is still growing, although not as quickly as before. It’s going to be taller than anything else in the Bronx, as far as Manny can tell. And it is breathing, he sees, in fitful, arrhythmic heaves; or pulsing, or maybe that’s its malleable, tendril-flecked surface just randomly twitching. The sound of it is poorly maintained nails on a cracked chalkboard; he finds himself humming tunelessly in a futile effort to drown it out. He can’t look at it for long, either, which makes Bronca’s next words painfully ironic. “Look at that shit! Do you know what it would do to me if you were in there?”
Veneza blinks at her for a startled moment, then wilts a little. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I just…” She sighs. “Wanted to help.”
Bronca lets out a shaky breath and goes to her, gripping the younger woman’s shoulders. “You can’t help us. And right now, you’re just something else I have to worry about.”
She thinks they’re going to fail, Manny realizes. Bronca believes they will be killed by the Enemy, and that the city will then be struck by some catastrophe. She’s sending Veneza away so that the girl will survive whatever happens.
Veneza looks hurt by Bronca’s words for a moment—and then she scowls. “No, you did not just try the whole reverse-psychology thing on me. Do I look stupid? If you want me to go that bad, just say it outright, don’t pretend you don’t want me around—”
“I want you to go,” Bronca says. Her voice is flint.
Veneza falters and falls silent, then grimaces. “Well. Shit. Okay.” After a moment, she begins backing toward her own car, though she’s clearly not happy about it. “B, if you get killed, or eaten, or… squiggleized, or whateverthefuck, I’m gonna kill you,” she says. “I’m gonna follow you to the happy hunting ground and slap the shit out of you.” But then she turns and runs toward her car, which seems to be a good ways down the block.
Bronca looks torn between sorrow at Veneza’s leaving and relief that the girl doesn’t think less of her for the attempt at harshness. “We talked about those stereotypes, didn’t we,” Bronca calls after her. “Didn’t we!” Veneza lifts a middle finger in farewell.
Bronca gazes after her for a moment, smiling a little, though her lips are tight. Then she takes a deep breath and beckons to Brooklyn and the rest. “Gonna be a tight squeeze in my car,” she says. “And somebody else is going to have to pay the Verrazano toll, I don’t have any cash—”
“That’s all electronic now,” Brooklyn says, though she’s distracted. Manny can see that her phone is dialing someone. “They snap your license on cameras, send you a bill later.”
“Well, whoop-de-do for the surveillance state. I’m right here.” She uses the key fob to unlock a Jeep a few cars down.
The others follow her. Padmini has been furiously texting someone; a moment later the phone rings, and they all hear Aishwarya’s voice shouting in rapid Tamil while Padmini winces and tries to explain that the family needs to get out of town. Brooklyn says, “Yeah, Dad. Like we talked about. My aide will be there to pick you up in thirty minutes. Tell him to drive like you know an earthquake is coming.” Pause. “I love you, too.”
She hangs up, and then she alone glances back at Manny. There’s so much guarded fear in her expression that it makes him ache inside. She isn’t afraid for any of them, of course; they are nothing to each other, the boon companions of less than three days. Still, on their collective success or failure does her family’s fate now rest. Words like goodbye or good luck would just feel too final.