Free Early Warning by Michael Walsh Page B

an expert cartographer charting the coast of Malabar. “This way,” he decided, and off he went, heading north by northeast, with Hope and Emma trailing.
    Hope took Emma’s hand as they walked past the rows of brownstones and red brick houses, so unlike her notion of what New York City was. This was one of the oldest surviving parts of Manhattan, and as she walked she began to understand what it was that had attracted so many people to Greenwich Village over the centuries. It really was like a little village, if you didn’t count the whizzing yellow cabs and the trucks rumbling down Seventh Avenue and the…unusual…people on the street.
    They passed restaurant after restaurant, but didn’t stop. Although none of them would admit it, there was something forbidding about Manhattan eateries. It was almost as if they were a series of private clubs, with admittance only to familiars; Hope was sure that the minute she entered one the people inside would immediately spot them for the tourists they so obviously were, and would make fun of them behind their backs, or take advantage of them. Besides, the prices…
    Emma clutched her mother’s hand tightly. It wasn’t that she was afraid—the nightmares had finally stopped a few months ago, and she knew she was as safe here, in the middle of the largest city in the country and the greatest city in the world, as she possibly could be. But there was something reassuring about the physical contract, a warmth that helped dispel the lingering fear.
    Suddenly, she shivered and stopped. “What is it?” asked Hope, and then she heard it: Thwack thwack thwack …The sound of angels’ wings. The sound of a helicopter.
    Hope turned and craned her neck. Emma looked down at the dirty pavement. Rory felt, rather than saw, that they had stopped, and was rushing back to his sister. Thwack thwack thwack…
    Then Hope saw it: high over the Hudson, a police chopper was describing a lazy arc in the sky as it surveyed the area along what the locals still referred to as the West Side Highway, even though the highway was long gone. It was not threatening, not alarming, but the sight and sound brought back unwelcomed memories for both Hope and Emma.
    “Food!” shouted Rory, rushing ahead.
    In their ignorance, they had wandered north of 14th Street, where Rory had spotted a Sabrett’s hot dog vendor wheeling his pushcart north. A hot dog was far from haute cuisine, but it was certainly better than nothing.
    The vendor, however, didn’t seem to want to stop. From time to time he glanced down at his watch, and then cast a look at the sky, but he kept pushing the cart north on Seventh Avenue, Rory on his heels. “Hey, mister, wait up! We wanna buy some hot dogs.”
    The pushcart vendor, however, didn’t stop, but kept up his steady pace. He wasn’t exactly running—you couldn’t really run with a pushcart, Rory noticed—but his pace was quick, almost double-time, and he either didn’t hear Rory or wasn’t inclined to stop.
    “Hey, mister!”
    The man looked over his shoulder: “Off duty!” he shouted and kept right on moving.
    Hope watched her son chase the man up the avenue. She had already learned the hard way that, in New York, when people said they were off-duty, they were off-duty. A couple of fruitless interactions with yellow cabs and the mysterious dome-light signals had taught her that.
    Still, Rory was not about to give up. When the vendor had to halt at a light, the boy caught up with him. “Three hot dogs, please,” he said, brightly.
    The man turned to look at him. Rory wasn’t much good at guessing grown-ups’ ages—they all looked old to him—but he figured the guy had to be somewhere between 20 and 50, African American, with close-cropped hair and a small mustache. He noticed the man had a couple of tats on his big arms. He looked like he worked out pretty regularly, and you wouldn’t want to mess with him.
    “Off duty,” said the man and started up the pushcart