The killer lunged again. The tip of his weapon dug into the wall, catching the sleeve of Mike’s jacket and pinning him in place, just as his foot caught Mike directly in the gut.
“Coop!” he called out from the darkened pit. “Hang tough. Catch this and you’re out of here.”
Mike pitched something out of the hole. In the few seconds the object was airborne, I realized it had to be the Glock. He couldn’t loosen his arm sleeve from the bullhook to take aim, but he had flipped the light pistol up over his head in my direction. Mike knew he was no match for Zukov’s killer instincts, and ridding himself of the deadly weapon would eliminate giving it up to the skilled fighter.
There was no way for me to grab the Glock as it sailed over my head like a small missile. It must have landed on nearby rocks, clattering against them as it dropped.
“Run, Coop!” he shouted at me again.
“No, Mike. No. I’m not going,” I said, trying to keep my voice strong. “You’re trapped.”
It sounded as though Zukov had kicked again. There was a loud thud and an ungodly sound from Mike’s throat.
“Get the gun and shoot this bastard, will you?”
“Are you pinned to the wall?”
“No more,” he said, sounding weak and exhausted. He must have ripped his jacket loose from the point of the bullhook. “Beat it.”
Then I heard the resurgence of Chat Grant’s desperate sobs, and the beginnings of a fistfight between Mike and Zukov. I knew I had no choice but to find the loaded gun and use it.
FIFTY-THREE
I beamed the flashlight down the slope behind me.
There was a dense tangle of brush and shrubs, and about ten feet beyond that, something flat that looked like a granite step. It was the only visible surface that would have produced the noise made when the gun fell to the ground.
The grunts and pounding sounds of Mike and Zukov hitting each other propelled me toward the large stone even faster. When I reached it, stood on it, and looked down, I could see it was just the top piece in a staircase of at least fifteen steps. They were dug deep into the ground, most of the lower ones covered by rotting wooden beams that framed the sides.
Now all was silent again. There was no noise coming from the old foundation and I got no answer when I called Mike’s name.
I took a few steps in, then hesitated, staring into the blackness beneath me and smelling the dank odor from within the belly of this obsolete seaside structure. Even a quick glance showed it to be more formally crafted than the old laundry building that was simply scooped out of the Penikese dirt. It must have been the remains of the mansion that my brothers had explored as kids.
I looked back over my shoulder. Of course the pit had gone quiet. Fyodor Zukov’s body was outlined against the low-hanging clouds. He had grabbed on to the strip of blue aerial silk that he’d hung between the boulder and the concrete slab from down below with his long fingers, and he was climbing out of his lair, swinging himself up with all the grace and agility of his craft, in order to come in search of Mike’s gun — and me.
“Are you there, Coop?” Mike’s voice sounded a million miles away now that the killer was poised in midair between the two of us.
I didn’t want to answer or give my position away, so I turned off the flashlight and stuffed it into my pants pocket. Maybe Zukov hadn’t seen me yet. I had already committed myself to take the steps down — most reluctantly — padding farther along in my soft moccasins, hoping not to kick any loose rocks or debris in my path.
“That’s how they punished us, Detective. Two or three nights in solitary—‘in the hole,’ as they liked to call it. Bracing winter air. Builds character, is what they told us,” Zukov said. “I played with the snakes, actually. I found them nicer to be with than most people.”
And as cold-blooded as the young delinquent too. I was halfway down the steps, feeling ahead of me with one foot for any sign of the gun.
“You tend to those wounds. I’ve got to find your friend, haven’t I?”
I froze in place. What had he done to Mike? I could barely breathe as panic seized my chest and fogged my thinking.
Fyodor Zukov was one of the few people on earth who had walked every inch of this island. If there was a crevice in which to hide, I longed to find it. But I knew that if he got the Glock before I did, Mike Chapman and Chat Grant were doomed.
Above me I could hear him tread on the brambles and branches, first moving quickly over the ground to the side of the opening. Then suddenly, with his catlike moves, he was directly above me, his arms outspread and almost hanging there, like a silent apparition.
There was no hiding from him now. He had obviously seen that the slope to the water’s edge was too covered in growth for me to maneuver through in the dark. I had to get my hands on the gun before he had me trapped in this clammy cellar.
I took the last four steps as fast as I could move, listening to Zukov’s triumphant laugh when he spotted me below him.
I looked up in horror as he launched himself from the overhead wooden beam at the top of the staircase. Gripping it tightly, he pumped his legs back and forth, throwing himself down and forward, suspended from the crossbars, coming toward me as easily as if he were sliding along a length of rope.
I crouched as he approached, fearful that he would kick me in the head with one of his long legs. As I put out my hands to balance myself on the floor, I could feel the coldness of the gun. I reached for it and secured it in my waistband, pulling myself upright with some reserve of courage I didn’t know was there.
I was running across the smooth surface of the cement flooring. There had to be a closet to hide in or some object to stow myself behind while I got the gun in position. I knew it had a spring-loaded firing pin safety, and it would be a struggle for me to remember what I had learned about the weapon from my last trip to the NYPD’s range.
Zukov had his feet on the ground and was giving chase. This subterranean space was vast and full of as many apparent dead ends as a maze at an English country manor. I passed a dozen small rooms but none had doors, so I didn’t turn to go into any of them.
In the dim light I could see a massive wall looming straight in front of me. I looked to both sides, surprised to find a narrow opening to my right, and charged through it. Another huge room opened up before me, baffling me with what its uses had been and where it would lead me.
We were on equal footing on the flat surface. I was fast, too, with long strides that were a pretty decent match for the aerialist when he was earthbound.
I raced past scores of wooden planks that had once probably served as shelving for something in this damp basement. There was broken glass all over the floor and I needed to get through this space before Zukov tried to bring me down on it.
Another turn and the darkness lightened a bit. There were no windows in this next great room, but the thick granite walls narrowed at the far end.
It looked like there was an opening to the outside — almost as wide as the room itself — that had been boarded over with plywood, and someone had punched an enormous hole through it ages ago. My eyes had adjusted to the dim interior when I’d descended the staircase minutes earlier, but now it seemed as though the foggy exterior light beyond the room was, by comparison, as bright as neon.
I beat Fyodor Zukov to the wall by a matter of seconds. We were both winded and the only noise I could hear above the sound of his heavy breathing as he tried to grab hold of me was the waves crashing against rocks very nearby.
I bent down and stuck my right leg through the hole in the plywood. Zukov tried to pull me down by the collar of my jacket, but I threw back my head and the top of his hand was impaled on the jagged edge of the splintered wood pieces that hung like stalactites. He recoiled in pain and I pressed ahead, crawling through the space to what I assumed would be freedom.