"Why'd the locals have the good sense to call New York?" I asked. The helicopter rose off the pad, dipping its nose toward the water before lifting and turning to the north. Within seconds, we were directly over Roosevelt Island, about to clear the 59th Street Bridge, following the outline of Manhattan as it narrowed to Spuyten Duyvil, where the East River met the Hudson. Mercer pointed down at the remains of the deadhouse, the old smallpox hospital that had figured in one of our more challenging cases.
"They didn't," Mike said, answering my question. "But the commandant of the academy had the good sense to want to retrace the girl's steps. She was in Manhattan the day she went missing. Never showed up at Port Authority, so far as they could tell, for the bus ride back to school. Missing Persons routed the call over to us late last night."
Mike was clutching the back of Mercer's seat, barely able to look out the sides of the chopper, which were all glass, as we continued our noisy ride along the Palisades.
"No clothes at the scene again?"
"Not a shred."
"Anybody know how she was dressed?" I asked.
"She had to travel in uniform," Mike said. "Gray cadet jacket, white pants. Only way to get the military discount."
I thought of Arthur Huff and his West Point ring.
"You know the ring that Elise Huff was supposed to have been wearing?" I said, reminding Mike about my conversation with Elise's father. "That's a strange coincidence. I wonder if this victim had one of those, too."
"You know I don't believe in coincidence, Coop," Mike said.
"They've designated a colonel to be liaison to the investigation. Spoke to him this morning and asked him whether he thought there was any significance to Huff's ring. Says they stopped making them before this Wade kid was born, and she didn't have any relatives who'd gone to the school. Unlikely she had a ring like that."
Twelve minutes later, Sergeant Galiano told us to look off to the left. "The United States Military Academy. Damn impressive site." Mike braced himself and looked out at the magnificent campus below. I knew he had visited the Point countless times, out of his fascination with American history. Many of his heroes-Grant, Pershing, MacArthur, Eisenhower, Denman, and Patton-had been educated here, and occasional trips to its museum of military treasures added to his storehouse of knowledge.
"George Washington picked the spot himself," Mike said. "Considered it one of the most critical positions on the American continent."
"Why?" I asked.
The Hudson took a sharp S-shaped curve just above the hilltop setting of the original fortifications.
" 'Cause you could control all the river traffic from this place. South to New York, north to New England, and west to the Great Lakes. The Brits would have split the colonies in half-right down there-if Benedict Arnold had succeeded in giving the Point away, like he tried."
"Here's your rock," Galiano said. "Pollepel Island."
On the right side of the river, not far above West Point, the turrets of an enormous castle rose above the dense green growth that covered the ground.
Galiano swooped his bird close in on the south side and started to circle to the west of the abandoned ruin.
Mike gripped the seat back even tighter. He looked out the window, and I knew he was trying to see where Galiano would put down the chopper. "Hey, Sarge," he said, "I didn't bring the rosary beads."
"I'd say it's a little bit like Walt Disney meets Stephen King. Give me a minute."
As we hovered at the north end of the island I noted four or five more buildings, mostly roofless, smaller than the six-story castle that soared above the gray waters of the Hudson.
"There," Mercer said, pointing down through the glass bubble of the helicopter's nose. "Check it out. State police and army craft, off to the east."
On the edge of the rocky shore, there was a small cluster of boats.
Like the NYPD's emergency rescue craft, they had large initials on their tops and sides, for identification by other agencies approaching by air or sea.
Several men in windbreakers marked with orange neon sleeve reflectors were waving their arms at Galiano.
"Got it," he said. "There's a clearing on the southeast. That'll do me fine."
Mike closed his eyes and pulled his seat belt tighter. The chopper continued around the far side of the structures, banking as it made the final approach. It hovered again, swaying from side to side as Galiano took great care to avoid the surrounding trees and center on the only flat strip of land we had seen.
The big machine hit the ground with a thud, and we waited for the powerful rotors to come to a stop.
I could see the tops of the ruined castle and the thick tangle of weeds and vines that had swallowed the buildings' foundations. "It looks like we've traveled back in time," I said. "To another century."
"To a ghost island, Coop. That's what this place is," Mike said.
"Maybe we got some new ghosts now.
NINETEEN
A tall, heavyset man a little older than I held out a hand to guide me down from the chopper. "Step lively, miss. Snakes, spiders, ticks, and poison sumac."
"We were with his cousin, poison ivy, yesterday. I'm Mike Chapman." He introduced Mercer and me to our official greeter
Bart Hinson. State police. The brush that surrounded our landing pad was as tall as the trees behind it. Boulders and branches ringed the clearing that had been hacked out this morning for our arrival
Any developments?" Mike asked
Just trying to make sense of what we have here. Nothing much got done overnight. It's not easy terrain to search. Follow me," Bart said.
We entered a trail about twenty feet long, ducking beneath weathered limbs that had been intertwining, it appeared from their density, for many years. When we emerged, I faced the most unusual array of huge stone buildings-all with turrets and towers, elaborate carvings, and coats of arms.
The men waiting for us next to a crumbling entrance to the building complex were from a mix of agencies. There were six other troopers-two of whom specialized in crime scene work-four landscapers who'd been called in with chainsaws to make room for us to land, and a caretaker who lived on the mainland but supervised the property for the state.
Bart Hinson was the lead man. "I thought we'd show you where the girl's body was discovered," he said. "Tell you a little bit about this place."
I craned my neck to look up the side of one of the buildings that was about a city block long. It was covered in red paint that had faded over time. Written across it in chipped and mottled gold lettering were the words BANNERMAN ISLAND ARSENAL
You find the boat yet?" Mike asked. "That must be how the killer got her here."
Bart shook his head. "Well, up this way, everybody and his uncle has a boat. More docks than you got subway platforms. Fancy namebrand little yachts, simple outboard motors, fishing boats-just about every size and shape. Then you got your kayaks and canoes."
"I hear you."
Bart pointed at the caretaker. "He uses an aluminum rowboat to go back and forth. Wouldn't take much to slip over here and back even with someone else's boat and nobody ever know."
"How about the currents?" Mercer asked.
"This part of the Hudson is an estuary, so the tide changes from north to south a couple of times a day," Bart said. "It's been pretty calm this week. A strong rower wouldn't have much trouble if he knew the tides."
"I thought this was called Pollepel Island," I said, pointing up at the writing on the wall. "What's that sign about?"
"Pollepel was its name centuries ago. The Native Americans spun tales that this spot was haunted. Then along came the Dutch sailors, who had good cause to believe it was spooked, too," Bart said. "Thought it was the devil made the ships crash into the rocks and sink with all their goods aboard."
"Was this fortress part of West Point? Did the army build it to defend the Hudson from the east?"