Popping and cracking noises quickly followed, like distant firecrackers.
Suddenly someone shouted.
A tongue of flame licked high against the far wall. Dark smoke wisped and curled. Slowly at first, then faster.
“Fire!” came the cry. An alarm bell sounded, screaming across the large passenger cabin.
Yvonne leaped to her feet. More yellow flames danced from the corner. Electrical wiring began to burn. A thick, rubbery stench rose as the smoke grew black and thick. Immediately the sprinkler system turned on. Shower jets of water poured from above. One flame died, another took its place. Horrified passengers started to flee the cabin toward the deck. Yvonne fought her way through the aisle. She coughed as she frantically fanned at black smoke with her arms. She made it through the fire exit and out onto the narrow deck.
“Everyone stay put and be calm,” she shouted through spasmodic coughs, flashing her badge. “Police officer — ”
As the passengers huddled under the night sky the Pulaski shook violently. An explosion below deck ripped apart one of the passenger cars.
Instantly a fireball erupted outward from the stern, a great orange ball thundering over the water. Belching black smoke rose higher and higher all around. The main deck split like a volcanic fissure. Shards of glass flung outward. Passengers tumbled and rolled helplessly as the Pulaski yawed fiercely. People were yelling, desperately clinging to the railings. Engines whined and moaned.
A bomb, she realized. It had to be. Armageddon was aboard.
“Explosion!” came the cry over the ship’s radio from the pilot’s cabin. Emergency sirens whined everywhere. The SOS was instant, and so was the response.
Almost immediately police fireboats came racing from the harbor, tugboats not far behind. It would take long minutes, though, before they arrived, Yvonne knew. Enough time for Armageddon to wreak total havoc.
A pane of glass shattered. A single bullet slammed into a wooden pillar, chewing off slivers of painted wood and sending them hurling.
“Get down!” yelled Yvonne. “Someone’s got a gun!”
A stampede of riders fled in every direction as the word gun was heard and repeated. Yvonne, standing flat against the wall, drew her Smith & Wesson. She stooped and aimed straight inside the burning cabin. A figure darted among the aisles. Bending, scrambling among the melting plastic seats.
The fire was beginning to rage out of control. Lights flickered, then went out. The electrical wiring, made up of old fiber on a boat nearly fifty years in service, sizzled and hissed.
Thin ribbons of blue flame shot up furiously inside the cabin. Planking smoldered across the deck. Wood groaned and buckled, turning black. More flames, rippling here, then there. More screams from panicking passengers. A lone crewman fought his way inside, holding a fire extinguisher. He sprayed at the leaping blue/yellow tongues. One flame died, but as soon as it did, another shot up from a different direction to take its place.
“Off the ship!” the crewman was shouting back to the open deck. “Head for the lifeboats!”
Below, another car caught fire. Its gas tank detonated and ripped metal and steel and plastic apart. Again the Pulaski shuddered, more fearsomely than before. A gaping hole ruptured the hull.
A cyclone of hot wind whirled, hurtling more flames. The crewman was thrown back by the gust. He lost his footing and fell among the flames, screaming. Yvonne crawled toward the cabin’s wide open doors, but was halted by flashes of intense heat. She saw the crewman try and rise, stagger and collapse. A ghastly human torch entombed in fire.
She gaped in horror. Realized she couldn’t help. Just helplessly watched him die. In moments the entire passenger cabin had become a torch. Billowing smoke grew denser, hot and thick, pouring from the vents and broken windows and doorways.
The sirens continued to wail. So did the screams of the passengers. Above the din came the noise of slashing rotor blades. Police helicopters came swooping low from the sky. Fireboat’s yelping sirens pushed against the waves frantically, closing in like hunting dogs. But there was nothing they could do yet. Mushrooms of smoke lifted into the night, tossed by wind, causing great clouds that swirled above the listing ship. The Pulaski was foundering badly. Sprays of seawater careened over the deck. The damaged ship was taking on water at the rate of thousands of gallons a minute. Little short of a miracle now would stop it from sinking.
Yvonne raced toward the stern. There, from the shadows, a figure showed itself defiantly along the edge of the upper deck. More than instinct assured her who it was. At last she stood face to face with the killer whose life had become so much a part of her own. For a long moment they stared at each other, unmoving.
Jaime DeVicente stood with a Magnum pistol held in both hands, feet planted wide apart. He was wearing a ski parka and ski hat, a lifejacket underneath. He meticulously aimed downward at the panting woman. A thin, cold smile crossed his face. He steadied himself as the boat rocked, tried to focus amid the blazing conflagration.
The blast of the gun sent shock waves like another explosion. The bullet sailed past her head. Yvonne hit the deck and fired her .38. Flames licked high between her and her assailant. She fired again. The bullets whistled.
The figure dodged with agility along benches and between fanning flames. A frightened passenger was shoved out of his way as the killer sought shelter.
Yvonne, coughing, her face blackened with smoke, clambered two and three steps at a time to the fore of the upper deck. She crawled between two rows of wooden slat benches. Another bullet whizzed by, barely missing. She ducked and fell flat. Both hands firmly around her gun, she opened fire again, this time in rapid succession.
The shadowed figure ran off into the dark, leaping over railing, down onto the main deck, racing toward the lifeboat. Her first shot was way off, second smacking into a wide pillar beside the running man. The third looked like it hit him. She heard what sounded like an animal cry. He faltered, holding onto his right leg, stumbling, trying to get out of the line of her fire. He made it up on his feet and back into the shadows before she could safely get off another shot.
Yvonne followed as best she could. She’d hit him, she was sure. But how badly? There was no way of knowing. Only a thin line of blood where he’d been.
Mayhem swelled all around. Fleeing passengers seeking refuge on the upper deck knocked her down. She rose to her knees, staggered up with her gun in hand.
A shrill voice slashed above the noise. “Bitch, you’re dead!”
Yvonne swung around, gun tightly held.
He stood below, aiming up at her. For an instant her eyes met his. Both frozen in place like statues. And in that instant they understood each other. Knew as much about each other as well as lovers do. Wants, fears, lusts, secrets.
“Goodbye, cop,” came the shriek from the wounded killer.
The ship keeled. Armageddon momentarily lost balance. So did Yvonne as they simultaneously fired.
A barrage of flames interfered with her vision and impeded her aim. Her shot was as far off the mark as his had been, she instinctively knew. A wall of fire arose and licked between her and Armageddon.
She ran the other way, passing the pilot’s cabin. The door was flung open wide. A cold shiver made her pause. She stopped in her tracks. There, slumped over the crackling radio and panels of controls lay the lifeless body of the ferry’s captain. Armageddon’s Magnum had blown away half his head. Blood formed in little pools over the controls, at his feet. The cabin walls were splattered red. A continuous voice over the radio desperately pleaded for the captain to respond.
Yvonne went to the hand mike. “The pilot’s dead,” she said evenly. “He’s been shot.”
“Who is this? Who is this?” came the plaintive call.
Yvonne didn’t answer. She put the hand mike down and made her way back outside. Wild, savage wind greeted her, nearly sweeping her off her feet. She looked up at the sky, holding hard onto the railing. Less than fifty feet above her head a p
olice helicopter hovered. She could see the outline of the co-pilot as he called out.
“Don’t panic,” came the echoed orders from the helicopter’s bullhorn. “Everyone remain where you are. We’re lowering ladders … ”
Yvonne went around the pilot cabin and managed to make her way back to the main deck. The smoldering scene of smoke and flames and death made her cringe.
All at once mighty jets of water came pouring over the deck. The fireboats had closed in. Some passengers were screaming, others crying, still others too numb even to move as the first helicopter lowered.
Inflated rubber rafts were dropped roughly into the dark waters. Flak-jacketed amphibious police clambered aboard, lowered from the helicopter ladders. They scrambled everywhere with military efficiency. Like sheepdogs gathering strays they collected the passengers and hurried them toward the waiting lifeboat and rafts. Over the sides the passengers were being heaved to safety. Yvonne clambered between them in an effort to try and find Armageddon again.
He was gone. Lost amid the madness he’d created.
XXXI
She sat with her hands buried in her face. Shock was wearing off. Warren impatiently waited for her to continue. “I know I hit him with one shot. But I couldn’t get a clear sight. Too much smoke, confusion. He couldn’t have been very hurt.”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead. Damn lucky. Even luckier they didn’t put cuffs on and drag you in.”
She stared at him. “There was total havoc. As soon as my lifeboat reached shore I lost myself in the crowds. Ambulances everywhere. Press. Cops, medics. It was easy. I wasn’t hurt. While they were busy loading the ambulances I just simply and quietly walked off.” She laughed hollowly. “I don’t suppose they managed to get cuffs on DeVicente, either.”
Warren sighed. “You know better. He’s loose. Must have swam to shore in the dark, wound or no wound. Shit.” He spat out the curse. He’d been half out of his mind with worry about her. She knew that. Knew he was looking for her, should have stayed put somewhere until he reached her. “But no,” he said, as if thinking these thoughts aloud. “It had to be your way. DiPalma’s way, as usual. And now we have another corpse on our hands.” The message she’d given Karen reached him too late. He and Spinrad had rushed to Yvonne’s apartment, arriving long after she’d gone. It had been empty. Yvonne gone, Ellen gone. Warren had immediately put out an APB on them both. It was about at the same time of the ferry bombing that a squad car had found the body lying at the edge of the park. And found the corpse of Ellen Booker. Shot once through the heart. Magnum. The same weapon that only short hours later nearly killed Yvonne.
“I suppose you blame me for Ellen’s death, too.”
He frowned. “No, Yvonne. But she was still in our custody. Our responsibility.”
“She’d lied to us, Warren. Held back information that might have saved Link, as well as herself. It was already too late when I got there. I explained it to you. And I warned Ellen to stay put. If you put a trace on EMS’s calls you’ll find I did place one through for her.” Her voice betrayed the misgivings and mistrust she was feeling against almost everyone — except Warren. “It was then I finally called Karen.”
“We know you did.” He sounded tired also. Massaging his temples, he added, “Only Ellen apparently decided on her own what to do. Poor kid must have been crazy with fear. Figured she could run, find somewhere or other to hide. Christ, I don’t know. Now she’s dead, and you almost found yourself alongside her on a slab in the morgue.”
“But I didn’t.”
Karen Resnick quietly came in the living room with a steaming pot of coffee. She let Warren pour the cups while she shut the curtains to keep out the afternoon sunlight. After she left Warren spoke.
“Why did you come here, Yvonne? You know I’m supposed to bring you in.”
She rubbed at her inflamed eyes. Her head was spinning, heart pounding. “I … I don’t know. Guess I had nowhere else to go.”
Warren went for the phone. He lifted the receiver. Their eyes locked.
“Won’t you hear me out before you call?”
“What’s the use? Winnegar wants you off. Simple as that. I was sure you knew that. Figured that’s why you were hiding from me.”
“Wrong. Didn’t know. Didn’t know a blessed thing. Just thought it would be better if I went underground. Especially after the note.”
“What note?”
Yvonne slumped deeper into her chair. It all seemed so long ago, so distant, that she’d all but forgotten no one knew about the death threat Armageddon had left. When she finished explaining it to Warren, he was incredulous. “Only a damn fool would do something like that.”
“I didn’t want you involved, Warren. God knows it was tough enough having to worry about myself. It was already out of our hands. Don’t you see that? My thing. Mine alone. No one could have helped.”
“It’s done now, anyway. I have to notify Downtown.”
“Why? Just tell me why they want to pull me back.”
“Feds are taking over. FBI wants it. I don’t know.”
“And what about Armageddon — the exposition?”
“They don’t buy it.”
“Don’t buy it?” Winter blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell is going on here, Warren? All of a sudden they pull me — all of TTF — off the case. For what? Federal control? FBI might very well take over command, but they’d never hamper an ongoing investigation.”
“Listen Yvonne, I don’t know. Obviously things are going on beyond our control or understanding.”
“Political things, maybe?” She said it with cynicism.
“Careful, Yvonne. You’re treading on dangerous waters.”
“I know exactly what I’m treading on.”
He grimaced. He didn’t like this turn of events one bit more than she. He wasn’t a fool, had kicked around P.D. long enough to know when something smelled. However, he knew enough not to delve deeper when direct orders were implicit. “Our directive comes right from Winnegar. I was there when they were given. They came directly from the commissioner, whom I assume received them from City Hall. FBI pressure. They want this thing wrapped up. Washington’s been heavy-handed on the mayor, I suppose.”
“Or the governor’s mansion in Albany,” she hissed. “Warren, pieces are missing here. We both know it. Don’t they want Armageddon caught?”
“Want it straight? Sure, they want this killer caught. Dead. Or locked away forever. But it sounds as though they don’t want TTF to be the ones to solve it.”
“Or is it me they’re concerned about? Maybe I was finding things out better left in someone’s closet.”
“Spit it out, Yvonne. What’s your theory?”
She shuddered involuntarily. “I don’t trust them, Warren.”
“Who?”
“Anyone. P.D., Winnegar. Anyone. We’ve stumbled across something with wider implications.”
“That’s crazy. You’re taking this too far. All theoretical. Neither of us can prove a word of it.”
“Then why? Why pull me — all of us — off, when we’ve broken this thing, and maybe, just maybe, are ready to put an end to the terror tomorrow?”
He thought before answering. “I honestly don’t know. But we can’t buck HQ, Yvonne. Leave it to the FBI. They want it, they can have it.”
“And to hell with all our work? The thousands of hours spent following up the minutest detail. Now we finally strike paydirt. What happens? They relieve us? I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. No, someone wants us and perhaps TTF altogether removed from the rest of the investigation. Why? So some scummy politician can save his political ass? Is that it, Warren? Is that what Link died for?”
“Cheap shot, and you know it. No one benefits from this. No one.”
“Know what I think, Warren? They’re running interference straight from the governor’s office. The state capital’s been pulling a few strings, a few favors. Next year’s an election year, isn’t it? Tarnish DeVicente
, scratch his background, and you’ll find one rotten can of worms. He’s been holding back evidence from the start, impeding a federal investigation. And know what? I think the governor is aware of it. Only now, a scandal is really going to hurt. It’s gotten out of control. FBI, the media, questions to be answered. Blows things up right in our governor’s face. Picture a judicial investigation, open to the press and public, conducted by an independent prosecutor. William DeVicente will be ruined, and you know it. Guess what? He’d take our beloved governor right along with him. Reelection chances? Out the window. So the pressure’s on. Really on. Limit it. Keep it manageable. Minimize the damage. They’ve squeezed us, Warren. All of us. Used us up and down. Now we’re supposed to grin and bear it like good soldiers. Never mind what happens tomorrow if Armageddon isn’t stopped.”
“The FBI won’t stand idle. They want this killer as much as we do. You know that.”
She agreed. “But they don’t have Armageddon in their grasp. We do. I do.”
“Let it go. Please, Yvonne. For all our sakes, let it go.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Still determined to do it on your own, huh? No matter what the cost. Still has to be on your terms.” She drank her coffee hot and black and sugarless. It tasted awful to her. Made her nauseous. “Sure I was playing it by my rules,” she said. “So I buried myself — where no one would find me.” She regarded him tearfully. “You can’t let them pull me off now, Warren. Let Winnegar know my side, what I’ve learned. Tell him to force the FBI to move on it. Say I phoned you from somewhere but refused to say where. That you’re still searching. He’ll buy that. We both know he will. Just one more day, Warren, that’s all I need.”
“You think Armageddon is still planning to show up tomorrow? Even after you shot him?”
Her eyes were cold and unblinking. “He’ll show. All the more. Because he knows I’ll be there.”
He reached inside his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Had quit the chain smoking habit years ago. Picked it up again beginning last night.
Black Midnight Page 26
