“Steve, you’re kidding. You’ve been ten, twelve years on the force. You’ve got seniority, you’re a second-grade detective….”
“Do I look like any kind of detective to you?” He tapped his riotstick lightly against the blue and white helmet he was wearing. “Face it, this city is through. What they need here is animal trainers, not policemen. I got a good job coming, me and the wife are going to eat well—and I’m going to get away from this city once and for all. I was born and raised here, and I have news for you—I’m not going to miss it. They need police with experience upstate. They’d take you on in a minute. Why don’t you come with me?”
“No,” Andy said.
“Why you answering so fast? Think about it. What’s this city ever give you but trouble? You break a tough case and get the killer and look at your medal—back on a beat.”
“Shut up, Steve,” he said, without animosity. “I’m not sure why I’m staying—but I am. I don’t think it’s going to be that great upstate. For your sake, I hope it is. But … my joy is here. I picked it up, knowing what I was getting into. I just don’t feel like putting it down yet.”
“Your choice.” Steve shrugged, the movement almost lost in the depths of his thick topcoat and many wrappings. “See you around.”
Andy raised his club in a quick good-by as his friend pushed his way into the press of people and disappeared.
23:58—11:58 PM—ONE MINUTE TO MIDNIGHT
As the words slipped from the screen and were replaced by a giant clockface the crowd cheered and shouted; more horns sounded. Steve worked his way through the mass of people that filled the Square and pressed against the boarded-up windows on all sides. The light from the TV screen washed their blank faces and gaping mouths with flickering green illumination, as though they were sunk deep in the sea.
Above them, the second hand ticked off the last seconds of the last minute of the year. Of the end of the century.
“End of the world!” a man shrieked, loud enough to be heard above the crowd, his spittle flying against the side of Andy’s face. “End of the world!” Andy reached out and jabbed him with the end of his stick and the man gaped and grabbed at his stomach. He had been poked just hard enough to take his mind off the end of the world for a while and make him think about his own guts. Some people who had seen what had happened pointed and laughed, the sound of their laughter lost in the overwhelming roar, then they vanished from sight along with the man as the crowd surged forward.
The scratchy, static-filled roar of amplified church bells burst from the loudspeakers mounted on the buildings around Times Square, sending pealing waves of sound across the crowd below. “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” the thousands of massed voices shouted, “HAPPY NEW CENTURY!” Horns, bells and noise-makers joined in the din, drowning out the words, merging them into the speechless roar.
Above them the second hand had finished a complete circle, the new century was already one minute old, and the clock faded away and was replaced by the magnified head of the President. He was making a speech, but not one word of it could be heard from the scratchy loudspeakers, above the unending noise of the crowd. Uncaring, the great pink face worked on, shaping unheard sentences, raising an admonitory finger to emphasize an unintelligible point.
Very faintly, Andy could hear the shrill of a police whistle from the direction of Forty-second Street. He worked his way toward the sound, forcing through the mass of people with his shoulders and club. The volume of noise was dying down and he was aware of laughs and jeers, someone was being pushed about, lost in a tight knot of figures. Another policeman, still blowing on the whistle he held tight-clamped in his teeth, was working into the jam from the side, wielding his club heavily. Andy swung his own and the crowd melted away before him. A tall man was on the pavement, shielding his head with his arms from the many feet about him.
On the screen the President’s face flicked out of existence with an almost-heard burst of music, and the flying, silent letters once more took its place.
The man on the ground was bone-skinny, dressed in tied-on ends of rags and cast-off clothing. Andy helped him to his feet and the transparent blue eyes stared right through him.
“ ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,’ ” Peter said, the shining skin stretched tight over the fleshless bones of his face as he hoarsely bellowed the words. “ ‘And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And He that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.’”