Terminal City (42 page)

Ten seconds later, Zoya let out a shriek. I ran toward her in the dark space, farther away from the corridor that led to the two catwalks, and to the stairwells that eventually could take us down to the concourse.

There was a body on the floor, directly in front of the door to the operations command center. A man in some kind of military camouflage who’d been shot in the chest. He was African American, so I knew that it wasn’t Nik Blunt.

Zoya was out of control. She began banging on the door of the operations center.

I knelt beside the soldier—a National Guardsman or reservist. I grabbed the Bic lighter from Zoya’s hand to take a cursory look at his face and chest. The man was dead.

“Let me in,” Zoya yelled to whoever was inside.

Keith Scully and his colleagues had obviously stationed someone outside the room where the trains were controlled. It appeared that Nik Blunt had killed him and taken whatever gun—whatever kind of weapon—the dead man had thought would protect him.

“Nobody’s coming in here,” a voice called back. “Who are you?”

“I’m—I’m—just a woman. Just—just—help me. What’s the difference?”

“I’m a prosecutor. I’m Alex Cooper,” I said. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“You got ID? You got a badge?”

“No, no, badge. But you can call the stationmaster. Call the police commissioner. They’ll tell you who I am.”

“Lady, we can’t call nobody. How the hell do I know who you are? Somebody was supposed to be outside this door keeping us safe. Sounds like he’s gone. We’re barricaded in here till I see the man I work for. All our furniture’s against the door, so don’t try anything.”

“The man guarding you is dead,” I said.

I didn’t know whether I was talking to Yolanda Figueroa’s boyfriend or not, but it wasn’t the time to break that sad piece of news to him.

“I’ve got a gun, lady. Locked, loaded, and perfectly legal. Try to get yourselves in here and you’re dead, too.”

Zoya started stumbling forward again, farther into the dark hallway, into what was unfamiliar territory for me.

I stood beside the man who’d been killed, unable to move.

Then I heard noise, remote but audible. Someone was playing with the lock that I’d jammed with the corkscrew, jimmying it, trying to force it open.

I reached up for one of the horizontal steam pipes and grasped on to it. It was so dark that I couldn’t even see Zoya, but there was only one direction in which I could move.

In ten or twelve steps, I could hear her breathing. I practically bumped into her, where she had stopped at an intersection in the narrow passageway.

I drew next to her and whispered in her ear, as softly as I could. “I think Nik’s going to be coming back this way. We won’t be able to talk. We can’t use your lighter.”

“How do you know he’s coming?” She was panicky, shaking like a leaf.

“There’s someone trying to get through that door on the landing we just left. If it was cops, they’d be calling out to us by now. They’d be offering help.”

“But you said—”

“We had to leave the position Mike sent us to, so the guys don’t know where we are anymore, Zoya. How can they help us till they do?”

“Well, I’m getting out. I’m getting out of here.”

“Where are you going? I’m trying to help you stay safe. There must be some hiding place you remember.”

She turned her back to me and started to walk briskly. It was too dark to run.

Zoya Blunt had no intention of answering me. She was simply trying to put as much distance as she could between her brother and herself.

She made a right turn at the intersection in the corridor. I had no choice but to follow her.

We must have taken another twenty or thirty steps. To my right was a series of doors—probably equipment closets. I slowed down to twist the knobs, but nothing gave.

Zoya Blunt stopped short just ahead of me. To her left were only two choices: a steel-framed door or a wooden staircase located at the bottom of a dozen steps.

I watched as without hesitation she chose the door.

I was practically on her back as she worked the handle. There was no lock.

Zoya pushed on the door and it swung open.

I looked out and gasped. She had stepped out onto the sloping roof of Grand Central Terminal, twenty stories above 42nd Street.

FORTY-SEVEN

Rain pelted my face as I froze in the doorway, half of me inside and half out. Thunder rolled overhead.

“You can’t do this, Zoya. You’ll fall!”

She sat down on the copper plates of the rooftop and started scooting sideways like a crab, heading to the west side of the building. Clearly neither she nor her brother shared my fear of heights.

I followed her progression with my eyes but was too paralyzed to copy her moves. The tiles were slippery from the storm. Zoya’s skirt ripped as she slid down to the edge of the roof, catching herself on the concrete trim that decorated the entire edge of the vast building.

Fear was a powerful motivator. She rolled onto her hip and clawed her way up the side of the incline, closer to the top, then continued to propel herself westward.

Zoya had left me behind. I understood why but didn’t know which way to go to save myself.

Nothing was moving below me on 42nd Street. Undoubtedly, the massive police operation had resulted in the closure of all traffic routes around the terminal.

There was a flash of light that stunned me for a few seconds.
More lightning
, I thought.

But when I picked my head up, there was a row of Emergency Service floodlights aimed at this side of the roof. Some were on the roadway, and others were directed straight ahead, on the Park Avenue Viaduct that encircled the building directly below me.

I ducked back inside, rain-soaked and confused. I stepped out of my wet sneakers and left them next to the door.

It suddenly occurred to me that there were police snipers in every office building on the opposite side of the street. If Nik Blunt had chosen to escape on foot, on any one of the streets or avenues, the sharpshooters would have been waiting for him. And of course, the rooftop was another possible route for someone as nimble as Blunt.

I closed the door and tried to think about my options.

Then I heard footsteps. It was neither pounding rain nor the sound of Zoya Blunt scrambling across the roof of the terminal.

The steps came from the corridor we had just traveled, and since no one was calling my name, I assumed the person approaching me was Nik Blunt.

I went down the short wooden staircase, wondering why Zoya—who clearly had played in this vast attic as a child—hadn’t taken this passage. I assumed it was because it did not lead out to the rooftop, which, to me, was a good thing.

At the bottom of the steps was an enclosure—also made of wood, somewhat decomposed and rotted out—which was probably original to the old building.

“Who are you?” It was Blunt’s voice. The same one I’d heard after he’d disposed of Yolanda’s body.

I took another two steps and was inside the shed, out of sight.

“I saw you peeking out from the landing. Guess nobody told you it was a bad night to be working late.”

I was relieved that the killer had no reason to know my name or my role in this manhunt and seemed unaware of his sister’s presence in the terminal.

I turned around to see where I was, whether entrapped in this wooden corral or if there was another way out.

My eyes became accustomed to the light and in front of me I could see the interior of a gigantic clock, the rear side of huge pieces of stained glass that fronted on 42nd Street.

The spectacular timepiece was, I knew, the largest clock ever made in the Tiffany Studios. It was part of the iconic statue
Transportation
that was Grand Central’s face to the world.

Blunt was getting closer. “I need you to take a walk with me,” he said. “Come on out, wherever you are.”

I knew the clock faced due south. Its center was bright blue, with painted rays of sunlight dancing around the dial. Each of the Roman numerals was also gilded against a deep-red circular background.

Blunt was playing with the knob on the door handle that led to the roof, the same exit Zoya had used.

I saw a small plaque on the wall of the clock room. Next to the numeral VI on the giant face, which was probably a dozen feet in diameter or more, were the words
OPEN HERE
. It must have been the way custodians could reach the exterior clock face for maintenance and repairs.

“Well, well. You must have had a change of heart. There’s a puddle at this door by the roof, so I’m guessing you decided not to take that slippery slope after looking out.”

I reached for the long handle next to the numeral VI. It opened inward. I squinted at my wristwatch, which said it was 12:26. I looked up and the tip of the minute hand on the Tiffany clock face—an enormous gilded pointer—was just coming into view in front of me.

It was a heavy piece of steel, taller than I was, with a soldered-on extension that stuck out on both sides of the sharp point. Just beyond the minute hand, I could see the bottom of the famous sculpture that surrounded the clock—a thick rim bordered with oak leaves and cornucopia.

I didn’t like my odds, but I had no intention of waiting for Nik Blunt to put his hands on me. I lifted one leg over the outer edge of the circular window—numeral VI on the giant clock face—grabbing hold of the minute hand to stay in place. I was tempted to use that long hand to anchor me, but I was afraid it wouldn’t hold my weight. Then I swung my other leg out, so that I was seated on the window’s metal frame, facing south across 42nd Street.

I pulled the casing closed behind me. Now I was alone on the rooftop of the terminal, outside in the furious storm, rain cascading down my head and shoulders while I tried to figure out how to find a safe place to conceal myself.

I couldn’t see anything because of the darkness and the blinding spotlights of the NYPD. It was probably better for me that way. I hoped the night-vision goggles of the snipers afforded them greater sight than I had. I needed them to establish that I was a disheveled-looking woman—barefoot, in jeans and a vest—and not the killer they were ready to take out.

I tried to channel Mercer’s steady voice. I had never known anyone with the serenity that he always displayed. I imagined him standing behind me, steadying me, talking me into a way to save myself.

I heard the metal door that led to the roof, the one that Zoya had escaped through, open. Even if Blunt looked out there for either of us, she had long ago rounded the corner of the building, and I was too far in front of him, blocked from view by the statue above the clock.

“Maybe you slid right off the roof,” Blunt yelled out into the night. “What a mess you’d make all over the sidewalk.”

Lightning split the sky in two. My hair and clothing were soaked from the heavy rain.

I closed my eyes and had my silent conversation with Mercer. I needed to get off the frame of the clock. I had to move away from this opening, which was likely to be Nik Blunt’s next point of approach.

I counted on Mercer to calmly coax me to move, even though he was in another part of the building.
Time to go, Alex. Just step yourself down on a piece of that granite,
I imagined his voice in my ear.
Hold tight. Don’t look down. I’ll come and get you soon.

I felt for the base of the great sculpture with my toes. The shape of the oak leaves that formed the bottom of it made a perfect foothold. The rough-hewn granite, exposed to the elements and weathered for more than a century, was far less slippery than the panels on the roof of the building where I’d watched Zoya struggle and slide.

I put one foot ahead of the other, bending over and reaching for the next garland in the elaborate carving.

I looked up. I had stepped a few feet away from the face of the clock. Directly overhead was the statue of Mercury, and almost within my reach, the giant draped leg of the reclining goddess, Minerva. I was desperate to pull myself up beside her and be sheltered by her strong, still figure. Then I thought of Mike and how he could tell me what each of these gods represented—Hercules, Mercury, and Minerva. I smiled at that connection.

Then I heard the metal casing on the clock scrape against itself as the circular numeral VI window opened. I could see Nik Blunt stick his head and neck through the hole, and I pressed myself against the cold, wet stone so that he couldn’t make out my position.

I didn’t move. I watched as he threw one leg over the frame at the bottom of the circular window. The minute hand was about to cross through to the next numeral.

Nik Blunt grabbed the neck of the minute hand—which was longer than he was tall—and hoisted himself up on it, swinging his other leg out onto the granite base of the sculpture. He appeared, again, to be fearless.

When he came to rest on the foundation of the sculpture, he balanced himself by grasping a piece of the granite, his cheek resting against the bottom of the clock.

Within seconds, he started to take in his surroundings. When he changed the angle of his head—looking to the right—we locked eyes immediately.

Nik Blunt laughed. “You must be a cop.”

I couldn’t speak. I shook my head violently from side to side.

“You’ve got the vest,” he said, stepping closer to me and extending his right hand in my direction. “And that desperate look about you.”

I was above him now, slowly working my way up the pediment of the sculpture. He didn’t appear to have a gun—or at least not one in his hand. I had no idea how many rounds of ammunition he’d already discharged in his spree.

I reached into my jeans’ pocket. The small Swiss Army knife that I had taken from Zoya was closed, but with the nail of my forefinger, I pulled at the notch in the tiny blade and opened it. I doubted it was even two inches long.

“Not so fast, girl,” Nik Blunt said as he reached up and grabbed my left ankle. “Another notch for my dead cop belt. Ladies’ day. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

I shook my leg and broke loose. He was not quite close enough to get a good hold on me.