The Kills (30 page)

I twirled
it for him a few times and got back on course. "See you in the morning.
Say hi to Valerie for me."

Office
workers unprepared for the change in weather were scurrying toward the entrance
to the subway station in Foley Square. I passed it by, cutting across City Hall
Park to walk south on Broadway, which was better lighted than the
less-trafficked and twisted side streets of the city's financial district.

The
gaping hole behind the Trinity Church graveyard that has become known to the
world as Ground Zero still took my breath away and turned my stomach whenever I
thought about it or, as now, skirted its perimeter. I kept my head down,
dodging pedestrians who moved northward as I sidestepped puddles to try to keep
my feet moderately dry.

At
Bowling Green, I took the fork to my left and trotted the last three blocks
down Whitehall, as the showers fell more steadily.

I was at
the very toe of Manhattan-the Battery-named for the row of guns that had once
guarded this vulnerable tip of the early colonial settlement. The address Paige
Vallis's boss had given to me, 7 State Street, was about the southernmost
building on the entire island, but for the fortress of Castle Clinton.

It was
hard to see numbers because of the dim street lighting, and I looked in vain
for something that resembled a Catholic church. People raced by me on their way
to the Staten Island ferry terminal and the express bus stop that would speed
them to their homes in the outer boroughs. I doubled back to find a coffee shop
and asked for more specific directions to the Rectory of the Shrine of St.
Elizabeth Seton.

I climbed
the staircase, fooled by the appearance of the original facade. The small
chapel had been an early Federal mansion-a private home-built at the end of the
eighteenth century. The slender Ionic columns and delicate interior detailing
had survived two hundred years of commercial development all around it, and was
now a small sanctuary named for America's first saint.

The
service was already under way. I walked to the far side of the room and sat on
a bench below a wrought-iron balcony, shaded by its overhang, and out of sight
of the others who had come to pay their respects.

There
were prayers and musical offerings, and a succession of Paige's business
associates extolled her virtues and mourned her untimely and unnatural death.
There were more men than women, all dressed in Wall Street blues and grays.
Most of the older women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

I didn't
know who, besides her boss and two coworkers, had known of Paige's involvement
in the criminal case. No one mentioned it in his or her remarks. I scanned the
room for the man who had told Paige that he was Harry Strait, but saw no one
resembling him here.

The last
hymn was "Now the Day Is Over." Everyone rose to sing and remained
standing as the organist played the recessional. By the time the crowd was
filing out, most of them were talking about how the market had performed today
and whether the Federal Reserve was likely to raise the interest rate in
response to recent signs of economic recovery. Several of them were planning to
gather to carry on their reminiscences of Paige over a few martinis at the
nearest watering hole.

I stepped
away from the group and sat in one of the last pews for a few minutes of quiet
reflection. I had not seen Mercer enter the rectory, and I assumed it had been
impossible for him to park in this crowded warren of narrow streets.

I closed
my eyes and thought about the Paige Vallis I had known, about the parts of her
life that she had let me enter, about the terrible distress she had been in
during the days and hours before her death. I didn't have to be reminded that
life isn't fair. That was something I encountered every day I went to work.

Shortly
before nine o'clock, the janitor came into the room with a large broom. He
asked if I would mind leaving, and I told him I was sorry to have stayed so
long. I said another prayer for Paige, and picked the umbrella up from the seat
next to me.

There was
no sign of Mercer Wallace. I ducked under the stairwell of the old building for
shelter from the rain, scanning the street in both directions to look for his
car. I took out my cell phone and turned it on.

"You have one unheard voice mail,"
the
recording said.
"Message one.
Eight-twelve
P.M.
'Hey, Alex. I'm stuck in the Thirty-fourth Street tunnel. Bad accident. I'll
get there as fast as I can.'"

A tall
figure in a hooded parka, umbrella over his head, ducked in beside me. He
smelled of alcohol and was mumbling to himself. I didn't wait to get a look at
him, but stepped forward again onto the quiet sidewalk.

The man
followed me, and I glanced around in hopes of spotting a uniformed police
officer. Traffic was still moderately heavy, cars going both to the northbound
entrance of the FDR Drive and west to the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. I jogged
across State Street to stand on the open median that divided the roadway,
trying in vain to hail a cab.

The man
loped after me. I could hear my own breathing now, as I tried to assure myself
he was just a bum, hoping to get close enough to snatch my bag. I saw a break
in the traffic and bolted back to the sidewalk, heading over to Broad Street.

I looked
over my shoulder and saw the man still coming behind me. The umbrella blocked
any view of his face, and the visor of the black rain jacket was pulled low
over his forehead. Where were all the yuppies who worked late in the
skyscrapers of these canyons below Wall Street? The driving rain seemed to have
kept everyone indoors.

I turned
the corner and saw the faded lettering on the old wooden sign outside Fraunces
Tavern, with its historic plaque noting the spot where General Washington bade
farewell to his troops. I pulled at the door handle with all my strength for
eight or ten seconds, until I noticed the small block lettering on the window:
CLOSED ON MONDAY.

The cell
phone was still clasped in my hand. These streets behind the main thoroughfares
were too small and winding to use as a sensible retreat. I dialed 911 and moved
through the shadows around the corner onto Coentes Slip. Behind me I heard the
crashing sound of a metal garbage bin rolling on the ground. I glanced back and
stepped out of the way as it rolled toward me. My pursuer was not in sight, but
three enormous rats were scrambling over the remains in the barrel as its lid
flew off.

The
operator asked what the emergency was. "There's a man after me," I
said, breathless from the combination of fear and running.

"You'll
have to speak more slowly, ma'am. I can't understand you."

"It's
a man-"

"Did
you say asthma, ma'am? I know you're breathin' hard. Is this a medical
emergency?"

I could
see the figure again, as I approached the intersection of Water and Broad
streets. "No, it isn't. I want a police car."

"You
say you're in a police car? I don't understand your problem, ma'am."

I dashed
across the street again, splashing in a large puddle that had pooled at the
edge of the curb. I had listened to thousands of these 911 tape recordings.
Some of the operators had lost their jobs as a result of their responses-telling
a rape victim whose lungs had been collapsed by stab wounds in her chest that
she damn well better speak up loud enough to be heard and stop that stupid
gasping-along with wonderfully compassionate responses that had saved lives
with their ingenuity. This communication problem was clearly my own fault.

I stopped
and tried to speak more clearly into the phone. "I'm being followed by a
man. I need the police."

"What
has the man done to you, ma'am?"

Nothing,
I thought to myself. Absolutely nothing.

"Ma'am?"
she asked once more.

I looked
again and watched as he dodged between cars whose windshield wipers were
throwing off pints of water. I still couldn't see his face, so I focused on his
lower body. His pants looked like the navy blue of a police officer's issue,
and his shoes were the shiny black brogans that went with that kind of uniform.

"I-I
think he's trying to attack me."

"Where
you at?"

"The
intersection of State Street and Whitehall."

"Stay
on the line with me, okay? I'm gonna get you someone."

I ran
again, crossing the last section of highway and climbing over the barrier that
separated it from the pavement near the entrance to the Staten Island ferry
terminal, dropping the umbrella as I slid off the divider to the ground. My
long-legged pursuer vaulted the concrete block, his umbrella blown inside out
by the biting wind that kicked up off the harbor.

The boat
whistle blasted and caught my attention, buoy bells clanging in the water
beyond it and gulls screeching overhead. I had not been on the ferry in more
than twenty years. I didn't know the part of the island at which it docked nor
whether its fifty-cent fare had doubled or tripled.

In the
distance, at the mouth of the drab-looking double-ended boat, I could see
clusters of drenched commuters gathering past the turnstile, trying to get
inside the dry cabin for the ride home. I started to run in that direction.

Something
crashed down on my right shoulder and I dropped onto one knee. Lightning
flashes streaked through my eyes and I extended my left hand to push back up to
a standing position. The man in the black rain gear lifted the closed umbrella
over his head and brought it down toward my back again. I rolled as I saw it
coming, swirling in a puddle of cold water.

I was
screaming now, hoping to get the attention of someone on his or her way to the
departing ferry. The honking car horns, the foghorns, the far-off sirens of
what I hoped was an approaching police cruiser all masked my cries.

The heavy
black shoe swung at me as I got to my feet and started to run directly for the
boat. The arms of the giant iron turnstiles stood in front of me. There was not
enough room to pass beneath one, so I turned around and hoisted myself atop the
stanchion to swivel around and get to the other side. Again he came at me, and
this time, before dropping down, I bent my right leg and kicked hard, landing a
blow with my foot against his chest. He yelled out and fell back a step or two.

Now
people stopped. I must have looked deranged. My hair was hanging in wet clumps
and my clothes were mud-soaked from that last roll on the ground. I had jumped
the turnstile and I had kicked a stranger in his gut for no apparent reason.

I ran
past the onlookers. Another man in a brown uniform with a Department of
Transportation logo on his jacket reached out a hand to slow me down and
collect the fare. I screamed at him to get out of my way, shoved him against a
column with both hands, and jumped onto the ferry as the boarding ramp was
being pulled out of place. A police car stopped thirty feet away, at the point
I had crossed the road in my run to make the boat.

Another
DOT guard clamped his hand on my shoulder and I grimaced in pain.

"Take
it easy, lady. Calm yourself down," he said to me. "The kicking and
shoving is over. You're under arrest."

I was
probably the happiest prisoner in history.

"I've
got the money to pay the fare," I told the officer, knowing it was a story
he had probably heard every day that he was on duty.

"It's
a free ride, lady. That's not the problem."

"No,
no. I mean I realize that I jumped the-"

"Guess
you haven't been on board since ninety-seven. The token's been eliminated.
You're not in trouble for beating the fare."

I didn't
even mind that there was no reason for me to be in cuffs, in the safe hands of
PO Guido Cappetti.

"Assault
on a peace officer," he said to me. "I saw you shove that guy right
out of the way."