How would Pam Lear ever sleep again? How would she get these memories, these images, out of her mind's eye?
"The island, Pam," Mike said. "Did he say anything at all about how he was going to leave the island? The storm's letting up. I've got to go meet up with my partner at the ferry office, to look for Wilson, figure out if he got off here before the boat stopped running. We need to lock him up so this never happens again."
Fear overtook the girl's exhaustion. She grasped Mike's hand. "What do you mean he isn't locked up yet? How did you find me? He must have told you I was here," she said. I didn't think she had enough fluid in her body to form more tears, but they were running down her cheeks. "I can't believe he's gotten away."
"We'll get him," Mike said. "That's what I'm here for."
He tried to pull away but her small hand, with rope burns creasing her wrist, dug tightly into him. She was trembling from head to toe as she pleaded.
"I beg you not to leave me here. I don't want to die. I don't want him to come back and kill me.
FIFTY-THREE
I'll go for Mercer," I said.
"Not happening, kid."
I started to walk to the door, after tucking the drapes around Pam's body. It wasn't a conversation I wanted to have in her presence. I lowered my voice. "Something's holding Mercer up. The only phone is in Russell Leamer's office and-"
Mike followed after me. "Don't do this."
"If Rasheed were still around, we'd all be locked in that dungeon by now. He had his moment. And he doesn't carry a gun."
"How do you know?" asked Mike.
"Because he didn't threaten to shoot Pam, did he?"
Mike glanced over his shoulder at her.
"And I run faster than you can, so you do some hand-holding for a change," I said.
"I'm going to stand right here in this doorway."
"And what do I do, fire the cannon when I reach the office, just to give you a heads-up?"
"I can see you most of the way there," he said. "Get going, Blondie."
I was off the porch and jogging down the rain-soaked path that bordered Nolan Park. In less than three minutes I reached the side of the rangers' office and turned the corner to get to the door. Governor's House was out of sight at this point. The river was still churning, but the flooding seemed to have crested. The little ferry was nested below the terminal on the Manhattan side, and I guessed it would be some time before boats made the passage again. I went up the steps and pushed open the door.
I could see Russell Leamer's back. He was leaning over the desk, his Smokey Bear hat and oversized slicker outlined against the cloudy harbor. The door slammed closed behind me.
"Ranger Leamer," I said. "Mercer never got to the Governor's House. Where did you send him? Is it possible he went to the wrong building?" He stood up straight and turned around, pointing a gun at my chest.
It was Troy Rasheed, wearing Leamer's outfit. He smirked as he studied the NYPD hostage squad logo embroidered on my jacket, taking a step in my direction. With his left hand, he stroked the long thick scar that ran down that side of his neck.
"Well, well, Detective, why don't you talk to me? I have to say I really like your uniform."
FIFTY-FOUR
Irecognized Mercer's gun. "Where's Mercer? The man whose gun that is."
"What's that old saying about the bigger they are and how hard they drop?"
I needed to stay calm. I was no use to any of us if I let this monster outsmart me. I needed a way for Mike to know that Mercer was down and that Rasheed was now armed with a semiautomatic weapon. I needed to keep her attacker away from Pam Lear
Mercer!" I screamed out. Maybe one of the cloudbursts I thought was thunder had been gunshots. I took a deep breath.
"Now that's a stupid thing to do, Detective."
I didn't think Rasheed would shoot me so quickly. He would torture me first, like he had the others, if time and the elements favored him. That scared me far worse than the thought of a single bullet.
"I'm not alone. There are other officers here," I said.
"That's a pity, isn't it? You all get shipwrecked or something?" He laughed at what he must have figured was his own joke. "The whole island seems pretty damn quiet to me. Your friends hiding? You think they'd like to watch?"
I glared back at him, willing myself not to tremble like Pam Lear.
"Now where is it you keep your gun? You got no hips, girl."
"I-I-uh-I didn't have my gun with me last night. I do U/C work. No guns. They pulled me off a detail to come out in the middle of the tour." This was hardly the moment to deny that I was a cop. He was going by the clothes I had on, and I knew he'd understand the lingo.
"An undercover police lady. Undercover what?"
"Narcotics."
"Not in Harlem you haven't been no undercover. Nobody stupid enough to sell horse to you," he said.
"Cocaine's my thing. Coke and Ecstasy. Upper West Side. Yuppies."
"You bring any along?" Rasheed asked, still stroking his scar. From under the cuff of the jacket, I could see the letters tattooed on his left hand, the initials of one of his victims. "What's your name, girl? Just hold on to your jeans with one hand, right there on the thigh. Pull on it and let me see what you've got."
I kept my eye on the gun while I obeyed his command.
"Now the other one."
He seemed satisfied that I wasn't wearing an ankle holster.
"Where's Mercer?" My beloved friend had been through one shooting on the job not too long ago. I couldn't bear to think he had been hurt again. "That's his gun."
"Fine piece."
"Sig-Sauer. Nine millimeter." I figured I might as well use the little bit of knowledge I'd picked up at the range the previous week. Maybe he'd think he'd be better off if he kept the gun away from me. Maybe he'd think I'd know how to use it if I got my hands on it. "Same as mine."
"I guess I'd better find out where that's at then. They'd make a pretty pair," he said. As he moved toward me, I took a step back.
"In my locker," I said. I lifted my windbreaker up and showed him the waistband of my jeans. "No Sig."
I started to reach into the pockets to turn them inside out.
"Hold it, bitch. I'll be doing that myself."
I knew the door was just inches behind me. I didn't want Troy Rasheed's hands anywhere on me.
"You're not leaving yet," he said, thrusting an arm over my shoulder to hold the door in place.
My back was flush against it. He was practically leaning his body on mine, and the handle of the knife he'd abandoned-the one I'd found with the canteens-was pressing into my spine. I didn't mind the discomfort. I just didn't want him to find it.
Rasheed put his left hand into my deep jacket pocket and pressed it in place, rubbing up and down slowly, then from side to side. He may have been looking for a gun or a waist holster, but he was also delighting in repulsing me with his touch.
He leaned back so he could reach his arm between our bodies to check my other pockets-jacket and jeans on my left side-raising the gun above my head with his right hand.
"You're sweating, girl," he said.
"It's August."
He laughed.
The warm moisture from my pores was mixing with the cool dampness of the rainwater that had saturated me.
He found something in my jeans pocket and slowly pulled it out. "A Yankee fan. I like that in my women."
It was the ticket stub from a game I had been to earlier in the month. While he read the small print, I looked out at the river, but not a single boat was plying the choppy water yet.
"Who'd they play?"
"Boston. We crushed them."
Troy Rasheed was so close to me I could smell his stale breath and foul body odor. I couldn't take the chance of closing my eyes for a second, so I focused on a door to the side of the desk that opened into a second room. Maybe Mercer and Russell Leamer had been forced in there.