Putting the pocket warmer away, she braced herself and crawled toward the dark edge of the roof. For safety she finally went down on her stomach and slithered as best she could with all the equipment. The edge loomed closer, the wind rocked her prone body. Cold ripped into her, cutting under the pea jacket, so bitter that it felt like fire against her skin. She kept telling herself that she was crazy, she had to turn back, there was no way to endure this for more than a few minutes.
But she went on, dragging herself closer and closer to the edge of the roof. At least the alley was on the south side of the building and her back would be to the wind.
She reached the edge, touched the concrete lip of the roof with her gloved fingers and paused. The lip was about three inches high, a bare handhold. Methodically she inventoried: thermos, radio, camera, weapon. OK, now pull into position. She dragged herself closer to the edge, pulling with her cold-stiffened fingers until her face was just at the lip of the roof. Before her was an empty expanse that plunged into dark. South of the building was a sea of brownstones and older, lower apartments. Beyond them she could see all of midtown Manhattan, the lights glimmering in the wind, the moon now risen high above the city. In the sky the anti-collision strobes of passing planes stuttered. Far to the west a fitful carmine glow marked the very end of day. But here the night was total, and the alleyway below was unlit except by the faint glow from the windows of apartments low down in the building.
Clumsily she maneuvered the camera before her face, felt for the button, and turned it on. Immediately the readout jumped into the viewfinder and she pressed the focusing lever. The alleyway swam into view, uncannily bright and detailed. She could see trashcans, see the frozen snow covering their tops. The brownstone houses across the alley all had gardens, and she could look into their shadows and see the frozen remains of summer flowers, the hard limbs of naked trees. The windows of the brownstones were almost too bright to look at, but when her eye adjusted she could see people inside, most of them sitting like statues before television sets. One young family was eating dinner at a table behind a glass door. There were four of them, two adults and two children. She could make out the faces clearly.
Now she pulled the camera back, cradling it against her chest, and drew the walkie-talkie around to her face. It had been hanging from its strap along her back. Clumsily she turned it on, held it to her ear so that the mouthpiece fit under her lips. This would be the only voice transmission and she didn’t want it to last any longer than it had to. For all she knew they were out there somewhere right now watching and waiting. “You there?” she asked quietly.
At once there was a reply, Wilson: “Hear you.” She reported briefly. “I’m in position, camera operating, cold as hell.”
“Hell’s hot.”
“Right. Let’s test signals.”
She released the mike button, then pressed it once, holding it down for about three seconds. Downstairs
Wilson followed suit. The result was a detectable change in the hiss that came from the speaker. She replied with two presses of her mike button. Wilson responded immediately with the same. The emergency signal, three presses, was not tried. It was reserved only for trouble. If one and two worked, three would also. “OK by me,” she said. “OK,” came the reply. “You’ll get your first signal five minutes from now.”
Then there was silence. In five minutes Wilson would press his mike button once and she would reply with the same. So it would go for the next two and a half hours. Every five minutes they would renew contact, thus insuring that the cold would not lull her into sleep. If she ever failed to reply they would be on the roof in a matter of minutes. She thought of them down there together in that apartment and hoped they kept away from each other. Wilson and Dick were not friendly, to say the least And Ferguson was so nervous the least bit of tension might send him into a panic. The wind rocked her body again, making her cling to the edge of the roof with her free hand. Leaving the walkie-talkie against her ear, she withdrew the pocket warmer and put it on the roof just beneath her chest, making a tiny area of relative warmth that would keep her neck from freezing as the tendrils of Arctic wind curled around her body.
She repositioned the camera and made a sweep of the alley peering through the viewer. Nothing. Closing her eyes she turned her face into the pocket of warmth under her chin. The wind kept pulling at her, kept her body tense, her mind on the ragged edge. It was going to be a long and brutal watch. The first signal came through and she replied, then made another sweep and again bowed her head.
This continued through the first hour. At the end of that time she pushed back from the edge of the roof, put her equipment down, and stood up. Methodically she stomped until she was sure her feet were unfrozen, then jogged in place for a few moments. She blew into her gloves, grateful for the warmth that this produced. She drank a few swallows of coffee. Overall she was in good condition. She struggled across the roof and peered down the three street sides. Each one revealed the same scene: an empty street with the ice glaring yellow-white under the sodium-arc streetlights. Aside from a few parked cars there were no signs of humanity.
Then she noticed one of the cars. It was double-parked and it looked a lot like an NYPD unmarked car. Why the hell would it be here? It could only be a stakeout. But from this height who could be sure? Then the wind hit her and she had to go back to hands and knees, crawling precariously across the roof once more. Let them stake the place out, maybe they would come in handy one way or another. Goddamn them, they were watching Dick. Those were Internal Affairs Division investigators for sure. When you thought about it, it was almost funny. She huddled down and made another sweep.
“You’re through, kid,” came Wilson’s voice. She buzzed back, saying nothing, and immediately retreated to the doorway. It seemed like an eternity had passed up here. Her whole body ached except for her feet, which were ominously numb.
They were waiting for her in the stairwell. Ferguson was bundled up now. She passed the equipment to him and told him about her experience with the wind. He nodded, his face sunken and silent. Dick replaced all batteries—pocket warmer, camera, walkie-talkie and then tucked a hot thermos under Ferguson’s arm. The scientist slammed through the door with a bang and a gust of frigid wind.
The brutal conditions hit him harder than he had expected. He struggled to keep his balance, slipped and collapsed against the door. This whole thing was such a farce. Instead of hiding up here they should be down in the alley under spotlights making the open-handed gesture of friendship from Beauvoy’s diagrams. The wind cut into him, making his muscles convulse. How could those cops possibly take this punishment? He tried to move out, fell back again. His eyes were tearing now, the tears freezing and obscuring his vision. He got to his feet, took a few staggering steps forward. His legs shot out from under him and he landed painfully on his side, smashing the absurd, unwieldy gun into the ice beneath him. He struggled to his stomach and got out the radio, began calling them. This roof was beyond his capabilities; despite the others he was going to have to take his chances with communication—in the alley.