"No, sir."
"Lock this door and don't open it until you see us again, okay?"
"But the water-I've got to get up to higher ground. There are government documents I've got to save and-"
"Documents? We're looking for a human being. We're hoping to find her alive, okay? You wait right here by the phone until the last possible moment-unless you're going to help with this. And if anybody from the police department calls in with information for us, you stand up by that cannon out there and scream your lungs out till one of us gets back to you."
Leamer's jaw dropped as we walked out the door.
More thunder boomed overhead, like giant bowling balls banging against each other, as we ran from Leamer's tiny office, across the roadway, onto the porch of one of the barracks that lined the waterfront.
Then a loud noise jolted me, coming even closer to us, as Joe Galiano's chopper rose into the sky over the surging river, heading away from the island.
FORTY-NINE
Galiano going for a joy ride?" Mike asked. He was tense and wired. I could read it in the way he tapped his foot and played with the zipper on his jacket.
"Apparently his communication system was still working on board the bird-a little more high-tech than the rest of this place," Mercer said. "Commissioner Scully ordered him back. Wants to be able to get a SWAT team in here, in the event we find anything, the moment he can assemble them. That's what Peterson said. "
"You know this place," I said to Mike. "Where do we start?
He squatted beside me, drawing lines in the rain that covered the gray floor paint. "Here's where we are, right next to the ferry slip. This is the route we took the other day, remember? Gotta go with Nelly's instinct and start at the Super 8.
"Does the time frame fit with the dates Rasheed might have been here?" I asked.
"Yeah, the motel was built in the early eighties, along with a bowling alley and theater, when the coast guard had charge of the island."
Mike pointed in the opposite direction from which we'd come. "It's off that way. You need a break, want to stop, we just pull in on the porch of any of those houses in Nolan Park."
There was a slight grade in the road as we doubled back past the enormous British cannon at the top of the ferry landing and ran up the roadway. The handsome row of yellow houses, once fancy homes to the generals, looked like the empty set of a horror movie. The tree-lined park that had been lush with foliage just days ago had been stripped bare of its leaves in the last few hours. Old screen doors torn off their hinges by the wind flapped against the hollow buildings, and broken glass from fragile windows lay scattered about on porches and steps.
At the end of the park, Mike hooked a turn. The Super 8 stood out from the rest of the elegant architecture like a dreadful anachronism.
Mike got to the office door first and opened it. The room was bare except for the original counter, where I imagined Wilson Rasheed once stood to register his odd little family.
"Check out over there," Mike said to Mercer, pointing to the twostory wing on the far side of the office.
Door after door opened without resistance. There was nothing left inside, no furniture at all, but the men went into every one of the dozens of rooms, looking for signs of habitation in any of the spaces. I waited in front of the motel, under cover of the entrance, scouring the grounds that spread in either direction.
Mike's frustration was obvious. "Hurry up, Mercer. Let's go into each of these houses," he said, retracing our steps to Nolan Park. "Can't tell if the windows were broken in the storm or by vandals before it. You do the ones on the west side and I'll take the east. Coop, plant yourself on a front porch right in the middle and don't move."
There were almost twenty of the old buildings framing the park. The men disappeared into the two houses that formed a V at the highest point in the row, and I took shelter six doors down, hanging on to a pillar to stabilize myself against the strong gusts.
Windows rattled behind me, and as Mike and Mercer made their way from basements to attics down the row of houses, I could hear doors slamming and heavy footsteps pounding the floorboards.
The men were fifty feet beyond me now, and Mike waved for me to catch up with them. They were headed back in the direction of Russell Leamer's office. I ran behind them, slowed by the water that squished out of my sneakers as though I were jogging on a treadmill made of sponge.
Leamer opened the door and we pushed one another inside.
"Any calls from my boss?" Mike asked.
"None."
"You got word on the storm? On getting the ferry back?"
"The eye just seems to be stalled right off the coast, Detective."
"We were here on Saturday, Mr. Leamer. There were locked doors inside Castle Williams. We need your keys for those padlocks."
"I-uh-I can't. There's nothing in those cells."
"Give me the keys," Mike said. He raised his voice and he jabbed his finger at Leamer's chest.
Leamer turned to his desk. He fingered a key in his hand but hesitated to open the drawer. "If I've got the only keys to these locked spaces, then how could anyone else-"
"We're dealing with a killer who's got a history of burglary, okay? Don't ask me to explain things, just do whatever I tell you. You're coming with me, and I want to know why the cells are kept locked."
"In Castle Williams?"
"Yeah."
"Because they're in such bad shape it would be dangerous to let visitors in. There's just junk inside. Old furniture, folding chairs for events that we hold here. Nothing of value."
"C'mon. First stop," Mike said to Leamer.
"Troy Rasheed is so used to prison, so comfortable behind bars, it's a good idea he might be in one," Mercer said. "Go ahead. Take Alex with you. I'll stay near the office."
I didn't want us to split up. "Let's just leave the phone, okay?"
"I need you with us, Coop. Mercer's fine."
I shook off the rain, ready to go out into the storm with Mike and Russell Leamer, who was slowly putting on his slicker and large hat.
"The walkway's flooded," Leamer said. "We've got to take the road."
The river had continued to surge over the old seawall and the only way we could get back to the fortress was on higher ground.
Mike and I jogged along in tandem while Leamer, slowed by his long raincoat, lagged behind.
When we reached the deep archway that led into the prison, Mike waited for Leamer to take us inside. Now, in complete darkness, the three circular tiers of cells looked like the hellholes they were refitted to be during the Civil War.
"Where?" Mike shouted at Leamer.
We had tried these cell doors on Saturday. Now Mike was ready to tear through the entire prison again.
Leamer held out two keys on a chain. "These open everything in here."
Mike unhooked one from the chain.
"Coop, you take him and start on the top. Anything locked, open it up and look."
I couldn't move. Huge waves were pounding against the lowest row of casement openings. Water was pouring onto the earthen ground floor of the dank building, and it looked like it wouldn't be long until it was partially submerged.
"Upstairs, kid," Mike shouted at me. "The faster you move, the faster we're out of here."
I followed Leamer into the staircase and up to the third tier. He opened the doors that were locked and shone a flashlight, but there was nothing at all inside.
I could hear Mike clanging each of the cell doors below us and I yelled to him. "All clear on three."
Back down the steps to the middle tier, where the only locked cubicles had a few piled-up chairs stored in them.
Leamer shone his light into each of the others as we made our way around the perimeter.
"Stop!" I shouted abruptly. "What's in there?"
It was one of the open cells, one that Mercer had examined on Saturday.
"Looks like-like," Leamer pulled on the heavy iron door and we walked in. "Like old canteens."