“I’m really not a big fan of heights,” I said as Luisa threw open the window to the fire escape.
“You might have mentioned that when we were devising your contingency plans,” she answered.
“Don’t be a wuss,” said Hilary.
The fire escape hadn’t looked so flimsy when we’d examined it the previous evening.
“Come on, Rachel,” Luisa urged. We could hear voices on the stairwell, and more footsteps.
I took a deep breath and stepped through the window and onto the rusty platform. Behind me, they eased the sash down.
The fire escape faced out on an alley and the backs of the buildings that lined Vestry Street to the north. I knew that if I thought any more about it, I wouldn’t be able to actually move, so I hoisted myself onto the ladder that snaked down the side of Emma’s building and scampered the four stories to the ground.
I quickly realized that I was not the alley’s only scamperer, but I really didn’t want to think about what, exactly, the other scamperers might be. The hammer that we’d packed in my duffel bag did an admirable job of shattering the window in the back door of the building directly across from Emma’s. The crunch of the breaking glass sounded tremendously loud, and I waited, frozen, for an alarm to go off. Miraculously, none did—at least, not an audible one—and the breaking glass didn’t seem to attract notice, either.
I stood on tiptoe and pointed the small penlight we’d also packed in my duffel bag down the inside of the door, using the sleeve of my coat to protect my hand and arm from any remaining shards sticking from the window frame. In movies, people always just reached through the door and turned the knob, but in real life, this presupposed very long arms and easy or absent locks. I could see a dead bolt as well as another lock above the knob, but my own arms were too short to reach either.
Continuing to resolutely suppress any thoughts about the small moving shapes darting around disconcertingly close to my ankles, I dragged over a convenient trash can. It was rubber, not aluminum, and the lid dented and sank a bit when I climbed onto it, but it provided the additional reach I needed. I groped around and managed to unfasten both locks and twist the knob open from the inside. That done, I returned the trash can to its original location and dashed through the door before anything could crawl up my pants legs.
I was in a dark hallway, but a glimmer of light indicated where it met up with the front of the building. I exchanged the penlight for my Olsen twin hat, pulling it down so that it covered all of my hair. Turning back, I stole a glance through the now glassless window. I could see people in Emma’s bedroom across the way, but they didn’t seem to be examining her windows or fire escape. Somewhat reassured, I proceeded down the hallway, which opened on to a blissfully empty foyer.
A few minutes later, I was walking up Greenwich Street, wondering when the creepy-crawly sensation of rats and roaches nipping at my ankles would go away.
I tried to take inspiration from The Pelican Brief, in which the female heroine, Darby Shaw, found herself on the run, trying to prove a case while being hunted by assassins. Julia Roberts played Darby, but she looked fetching in all of her various disguises. She also had Denzel Washington, not to mention the good fortune to be on the run at a time when hotels didn’t insist on credit cards for payment.
There probably were hotels in the city where I could pay cash, but I doubted that checking into that sort of hotel would do much to relieve the lingering creepy-crawly feeling. In fact, I feared that nothing short of bathing in acid was going to rid me of that.
I continued walking north, trying to figure out what to do next. This part of our contingency plan had been elegant in its simplicity, but it really only covered getting me out of Emma’s loft. If the authorities had managed to track me to Emma’s, it most certainly wasn’t safe to call Peter, and my friends were probably being interrogated by the police at this very moment.
There was only one other person I could think to turn to. And while he was no Denzel, I couldn’t begin to describe my relief when he answered my call from the first working pay phone I could find.
Jake was wonderful, calm and eager to help. “I’m at the office now, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come here or to my place,” he said. “The police are clearly extending their net to all of your friends, so they might think to go to my apartment, too. But let’s meet somewhere and I can help you figure things out.”
“Be careful,” I warned Jake. I’d been thinking about the dark-haired stranger as I searched for a phone, cursing myself for not realizing what could happen sooner. I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten to the Starbucks in the first place—whether he’d picked up my trail or had been following Jake—much less why he was following either of us, but once there I’d pretty much drawn him a map to my hideout. He must have tipped off the police to my whereabouts after eavesdropping on Jake and me.
It was dark enough that I risked taking a cab up the West Side Highway. It turned out that I had no need to worry; the taxi driver spent the entire ride chattering on his cell phone in a language I’d never heard before. Jake had suggested the West 79th Street Boat Basin. “The café’s closed this time of year, but the outside part is open and it should be deserted. I’m leaving now, so I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so.” Amazingly, he was still plowing forward on the Thunderbolt deal, even after everything that had happened and even though it had him and Mark slaving away at the office well after the technical close of business hours. At least being on the lam gave me a temporary reprieve from work
The driver pulled up to the designated taxi drop-off spot. He didn’t look up when I pushed the fare through the slot in the divider but sped away, still talking on his phone, as soon as I’d slammed the door shut behind me.
I made my way through the pedestrian underpass below the highway and then around the shuttered restaurant and out to the rotunda overlooking the Hudson. As expected, it was deserted, and I crossed to the balustrade, pulling up my collar against the wind coming off the water. It was a crisp, clear night, and I would probably have even been able to see stars if they hadn’t been obscured by the lights of the city behind me. A bright moon traced the outlines of the buildings on the opposite shore, and the George Washington Bridge stretched across the river farther to the north.
I paced the flagstones, partially out of nerves and partially to keep warm. The temperature had dropped considerably during the day. As I waited, the initial quiet gave way to the sounds of traffic from the highway and water lapping against pilings. In the distance I could hear sirens, but they quickly faded away. If it was more police, coming after me again, they were heading in the wrong direction.
I squinted at my watch, trying to make out the time. It was nearly nine, a full forty-five minutes since I’d spoken to Jake. He may have been detained by something at the office, or perhaps he had trouble finding a cab. I hoped the delay didn’t have anything to do with the mystery man in the suede jacket. I paced some more and tried to think warm thoughts, but neither imaginary Caribbean beaches nor imaginary hot chocolate could compete with the very real wind chill.
Suddenly, I felt a rush of air whooshing past me and heard a strange, high-pitched whine. Before me, a piece of the stone balustrade dislodged itself and flew into the water. Then I felt another rush of air and heard the whining noise again. A few feet away, a flagstone dissolved into fragments.
Startled, I turned, holding up an arm to shield my face against the wind, only to feel yet another rush of air and hear another whining noise.
It was then that I noticed the smoke coming from my sleeve. I lowered my arm to get a better look. A neat hole had been drilled through it, fractions of an inch from the arm inside. I could smell burnt wool, and the edges of the hole were still smoking.
Somebody was shooting at me.
I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I was too scared.
And then another flagstone dissolved at my feet.
chapter twenty-one
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I was wrong. It didn’t take an acid bath to get rid of the creepy-crawly feeling of vermin and beetles nipping at my ankles. Pieces of rock actually nipping at my ankles did the trick nicely.
My feet moved without conscious bidding. I ran to the far side of the rotunda and scrambled over the waist-high wall, landing on a narrow strip of dirt on the other side.
Panting, I took stock of the situation. The narrow strip of dirt was the only thing between me and the river’s edge. Even if I were dressed for a swim, and even if I had any confidence that a swim in the Hudson would be healthier than getting shot, I doubted that I’d be able to last more than a minute in the frigid waters. But perhaps my would-be assassin thought that I’d taken the plunge. I didn’t hear any additional flagstones exploding.
Very quietly and very slowly, I raised my head to scope out what might be happening on the other side of the wall. I was rewarded with another bullet, this one tracing a course through the very top of my Olsen hat. It was a very good thing I hadn’t gone with a knit skullcap or a simple headscarf. And it was too bad that I hadn’t thought to buy a bulletproof helmet instead of an Olsen hat. The smell of burned hair wasn’t pleasant, but it was probably better than the smell of burned scalp or brains.
“Stop!”
The voice yelling this was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. And if that was all that my unknown would-be assassin had wanted—for me to stop—simply asking in the first place would have been far more polite than starting off by shooting, especially since I hadn’t been going anywhere, only pacing, when the shooting began.
“Who’s there?” This came from another voice, one which I recognized immediately. It was Jake’s, and he sounded surprisingly close, as if he was only a few yards away on the other side of the wall. He must have arrived on the scene between bullets.
I put my hands over my ears. The last thing I wanted to hear was the sound of Jake’s head getting blown off.
“Put your gun down!” the first voice shouted.
Jake had a gun? That was weird. Unless it meant—
“Or I’ll shoot,” the first voice added, sounding closer this time. Again, I tried to place it. I definitely knew it from somewhere. It couldn’t be the dark-haired stranger—I’d never heard him speak before.
“Who are you? And how do I know you’re armed?” Jake countered. That was a stupid question. We knew the guy was armed because he was shooting at me.
Unless, he wasn’t the one who had been shooting at me.
Which meant that Jake had been shooting at me.
After luring me to a nice, dark, secluded spot conveniently adjacent to a river that offered a superb outlet for body disposal.
I’d have plenty of time at a later date—at least, I hoped I would—to review the new heights of stupidity I’d reached and the countless ways in which I’d actively rationalized away all of the signs that had been pointing to Jake as a potential evil-doer. I did give myself a moment to wonder at his ability to blush on cue, and to seethe at the manner in which he’d manipulated me and my trust, but a more extensive session of self-flagellation would have to wait.
I steeled myself for another peek over the wall. This time nobody shot at me. The men on the other side were too busy with each other. My eyes found Jake easily enough. He was crouched in an archway on the interior side of the rotunda. He was wearing a ski mask of all things, but an inch of golden hair at the nape of his neck gleamed in the moonlight, as did the metal of the gun, complete with silencer, he was gripping with both hands.
The other guy was harder to spot. His voice was coming from closer to the entrance, but he kept himself well hidden as he and Jake debated which of them had guns and who was going to put his gun down first.
I spied another glint of light on metal just as the sound of a gunshot exploded in the night. The gun firing this time wasn’t equipped with a silencer, the way Jake’s was. I dived back behind the wall with a shriek.
But this shot hadn’t been meant for me. I heard Jake curse and metal clattering along flagstones. When I poked my head over the wall again, I saw that Jake’s gun now lay several feet away from him, and he was bent over, nursing one hand in the other. Apparently the other guy had pretty good aim.
My rescuer emerged from the shadows and sprinted across the rotunda. He grabbed Jake’s gun, hurling it out over the balustrade and into the river. Then he turned to me. I started to duck, but he didn’t raise his gun. “Rachel, get out of here!”
He, too, was wearing a ski mask. He also knew my name. And I still couldn’t place his voice. I personally didn’t own a ski mask and was feeling at a distinct disadvantage, both fashion-wise and in terms of having even the slightest idea of what was going on.
“Who are you? What is this all about?” I demanded, climbing back over the wall.
He turned to Jake. “Count to five hundred before you move. And I’m serious—I will shoot you if you follow us.” He’d been yelling before and now he was using a loud whisper. Maybe if he used a normal tone I could place it.
“Come on,” he urged, in that same loud whisper. “Let’s go.” He grabbed my arm and began running toward the entrance.
“I can run by myself,” I told him. He let go of my arm but didn’t slacken his pace.
We raced around the corner, side-by-side.
At which point I encountered another object, moving in the opposite direction but at a comparable velocity.
The impact threw me to the ground and knocked the wind out of me. It appeared to do the same to the other object who, upon closer inspection, was a man. He clearly hadn’t been keeping up with Men’s Vogue because he wasn’t wearing a ski mask, although he was wearing a suede jacket. Which allowed me to identify him as the mysterious dark-haired stranger.
My rescuer in the ski mask had stopped running and paused to help me up. “Are you okay?” he asked, still whispering.
“I’m fine,” I said,“but I don’t think he is.” The stranger was flat on his back, and in the dim light I could see a deep gash just below one eye. “We should get him some help.” I didn’t know if he was a good guy or a bad guy, but he was probably in need of stitches. Amazingly, I still had my emergency escape duffel bag with me, and I found a piece of cloth inside to press over the cut. It was a rag from Emma’s studio, not a sterile bandage, but it would be a shame to let blood drip all over the suede.
Between the two of us, we managed to get the wounded and only partially conscious man into a standing position. We half walked, half dragged him the short block to Riverside Drive and into the lobby of the closest apartment building. There was a doorman there, seated on a high stool and watching a small television. When he saw us, he sprang to his feet. The three of us probably didn’t look as polished as the building’s usual visitors.
“Please—this man’s been hurt. Could you call an ambulance?” I asked.
My ski-masked rescuer, meanwhile, deposited the bleeding stranger onto the stool the doorman had vacated. Without another word, he dashed back out the door.
“Wait!” I called. I dug through my pockets and pulled out some cash. Pushing the crumpled bills into the doorman’s hand, I rushed to follow him.
But he was already nearly a block ahead of me, his figure receding in the darkness as he ran north on Riverside Drive.
chapter twenty-two
I t was only ten o’clock when I reached the designated corner at Ninth Avenue and Forty-second Street, but it had already been a trying night, given all of the scampering and scrambling I’d been doing.
The corner wasn’t very busy. At this time of the evening, the tourists were safely stashed away at the Broadway theaters nearby, and the Lincoln Tunnel traffic had long since thinned out. Nor was the corner as seedy as one would expect from Forty-second Street. Giuliani and then Bloomberg in collaboration with Disney and other corporate patrons had taken one of Manhattan’s seedier neighborhoods and thoroughly sanitized it. The sanitization had its advantages, but as a fugitive from
justice I felt that I’d earned the right to refer to Forty-second Street as The Deuce. It seemed unfair that the area was too clean and shiny to merit underworld parlance now that I was a member of the underworld.
I was getting a bit antsy and starting to worry that this part of the contingency plan had gone awry when a gleaming black BMW 645ci pulled up to the curb. I knew it was a 645ci because its owner had bored me on more than one occasion extolling its many tedious virtues.
I sidled over to the car, swinging my hips to the best of my limited ability.
“Hey, baby. Wanna date?” I asked.
Luisa looked up at me in disgust from the driver’s seat. “Charming.”
I shrugged. Forty-second Street was still Forty-second Street, after all.
She shifted the car into park and slowly unfastened her seat belt. “This is a very nice car,” she said. She’d been reluctant for her car to be involved in our contingency planning and had only agreed after significant coaxing. When I’d reached her from a pay phone a half hour earlier, I could tell she’d been hoping that I would be able to arrange alternative transportation for myself and that this part of the plan would never go into effect. And telling her about being shot at had seemed to only heighten her reservations, masked rescuers notwithstanding.
“I know. You’ve told me that before. Several times.”
“Technically, it’s my sister’s car. But it’s only that the registration is in her name. It’s easier that way, since I’m not a permanent resident. But everyone knows this is my car. I’m the only one who’s allowed to drive it.”
“I know,” I repeated.
“It requires careful handling.” She ran a loving hand over the polished wood of the dashboard.
“I’ll handle it carefully.”
She looked at me, and then at the dashboard, and then back at me. “I’m trusting you,” she said.
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