A block east, Billy glanced behind him – he saw no one that was a threat – and stepped into a clothing store. He paid cash for a Yankees baseball cap and a pair of cheap sneakers. He tugged the hat on and swapped shoes. His old ones he didn’t throw out – concerned that the police might search the trash cans and find a pair of Bass with his prints on them – but when the clerk wasn’t looking he left one in a bin of discount shoes and the other on a rack, behind a row of similar footwear. He then stepped outside, striding fast toward his goal: the subway that would take him back to Canal Street, back to safety. Head down, once more, examining the congested sidewalks, filthy, marred with ovals of dog pee and dark dots of chewing gum, bordered with tired slush.

Yet no one looked at the coveralls, at the gear bag, no one glanced his way as if wondering: Is he the man who killed that girl in SoHo? The man who was nearly cornered and gunned down at the hospital in Marble Hill?

Walking fast once more, inhaling cold air rich with noxious exhaust. Of course he wouldn’t take the Number One train, which had a Marble Hill stop, because it was so close to the hospital. He’d spent days studying the New York City transit system. He was making for a station farther east, even if it meant a fast walk through unpleasant weather and amid more unpleasant people.

Yo, I hook you up …

And there were lots of them. The crowds were thicker now, more shoppers – taking advantage of the pre-Christmas season to stock up on presents, he guessed. Dressed in dark clothing, worn and shabby.

Doctor Moreau’s Swine-men, Dog-men …

Some police cars sped past, heading toward Marble Hill. None of them paused.

Breathing hard, chest hurting again, he finally approached the metro entrance. Here the trains were not underground but elevated. He swiped his Metrocard and walked nonchalantly up the steep stairs and onto the platform, where he huddled as the damp wind sliced around him.

He pulled his cap lower, swapped the reading glasses for some with different frames, then pulled his gray scarf up around his mouth; the air was frigid enough so that this didn’t look odd.

Scanning for police. No flashing lights on the streets below, no uniformed officers in the crowds or on the platform. Maybe—

But wait.

He noted two men in overcoats about thirty feet away on the platform. One looked his way then turned back to his companion. They stood out here, being white and dressed in conservative clothing, white shirts and ties, under the bulky coats; most of the other passengers on the platform were black or Latino or mixed, and dressed much more casually.