Twist (26 page)

T
he next morning broke bright and cloudless, though already quite warm. Shadows were still long and sharply angled.

Carlie’s tousled blond hair and flawless flesh showed brilliant in the sunshine. She was on the steps of the main library at Fifth Avenue. A brace of fierce-looking lion statues,
Patience
and
Fortitude
, guarded the library entrance. At Minnie Miner’s suggestion, Carlie had chosen to stand near the concrete lion
Fortitude
.

Five blocks away, the killer sat in a diner over a breakfast of bagel and coffee and observed all of this on a TV mounted high behind the counter. The killer’s was one of several booths positioned where the TV was visible. He was familiar with the diner and had made sure such a booth was available before entering. He really didn’t want to have to return to his apartment and watch Carlie Clark on television there. That wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know.

One of the things he wanted to observe was how other people reacted to what she was doing. The other booths that gave visual access to the TV were occupied, one by two men in business suits, worrying over cups of coffee. Another booth contained three young women and a young man with his head shaved. They had substantial breakfasts in front of them and talked as if they were employees at the same place and often met here before work. The other booths contained single diners; an elderly overweight woman, a black man in a suit and tie, a middle-aged Jewish man wearing a yarmulke, an attractive young woman in a running outfit, built like a dancer.

A fair cross-section, the killer thought.

As he watched the TV, quite a crowd gathered on the library steps. More than a few people recognized Carlie and waved and cheered her on. Minnie Miner was yammering away in a microphone, but no one seemed to be paying much attention. The sound on the TV was muted to almost complete silence.

When the camera stayed on Carlie and she was obviously getting ready to speak, one of the white-clad countermen, who looked Middle Eastern and had the accent, veered in his hurried chores and turned up the volume on the muted TV. He then moved down the counter and stood where he could watch and hear, while he absently moved a wadded towel in aimless circles on the stainless steel surface.

In her brief talk on courage and the freedom of women to pursue happiness without fear, Carlie pointed out the lion
Fortitude
, using it as a model for all New York women. She mentioned the noble
Patience,
in repose across the wide entrance steps. Fortitude and patience made an unbeatable combination, according to Carlie, and most New York women possessed both. No one seemed to notice that neither of the lions was female.

When Carlie mentioned
Fortitude
again in her speech, the businessmen in the diner were silent, perhaps mulling over a major deal. Most of the others cheered or at least reacted positively. The dancer raised her coffee cup in a toast. They were getting into it, all right, though one of the girls and the man with the shaved head seemed to regard what Carlie was doing as a joke.

The killer felt a ripple of annoyance.

A string of commercials came on, a talking turtle, an aging movie star urging people to buy gold, an insurance company showing people with the wrong kind of insurance (not theirs) clanking about in cumbersome medieval suits of armor. The killer remembered the gold. Maybe something he should look into.

The camera panned the crowd on the library steps. No one seemed to have left.

In tight for a two shot:

“Inspiring words,” Minnie said, moving close to Carlie so they would both appear in the shot.

Carlie thanked her appropriately. She seemed surprised now that so many people had come to see her, and slightly ill at ease. All very genuine. It went down well with the crowd.

“Remember what this young woman says,” Minnie exhorted the crowd. “She’s standing up for all New York women. The toughest, most self-sufficient women in the world!”

More cheering.

Carlie mumbled her thanks into the microphone Minnie had thrust at her to make her even more ill at ease. The trick was not to be too slick. This was selling well. Ordinary women could identify with Carlie.

“Remember!” Minnie yelled at the dispersing crowd. “The first part of our show will be broadcast tomorrow from Liberty Island, home of Lady Liberty—the
real
Lady Liberty.”

This last remark seemed to have been directed at the killer personally, especially if you considered the sort of obscene jab Minnie made with the microphone.

Since the show was doing a special and shooting live all day, he thought that maybe later this morning he’d phone in to
Minnie Miner ASAP,
let Minnie and the other women of New York know what he thought about this latest Quinn stratagem.

Then he changed his mind.

There was always tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be too special to miss.

After tomorrow, he and Minnie could have quite a different conversation.

T
he next morning was not so clear and sunny.

Perhaps the heat wave and drought would be broken. The sky was low and leaden, and a light mist threatened to morph into a steady drizzle. Of course, New Yorkers, and some of the tourists, had seen this kind of morning before during the past month, and knew how rapidly it could turn into a sauna with no measurable rainfall.

By this time, they’d come to regard Mother Nature as a trickster. Allegorical maternal love wasn’t in fashion.

The killer, wearing jeans, joggers, and a light tan water-repellent jacket, boarded the ferry to Liberty Island. He could barely make out some of the larger islands. The Statue of Liberty itself he couldn’t see in the mist.

A surprisingly cool breeze danced over the water in gentle gusts, and there was a slight chop as the ferry, about half full of tourists, chugged away from its dock and out to where the sea was greenish gray except for successive lines of low white caps.

Without seeming to notice, Dred Gant scanned and classified the other passengers. A few of them could be undercover cops. In fact, it was almost certain that they were.

He knew he was being led into a trap, and Carlie Clark was the bait. The thing was, he couldn’t resist. There were, he had learned, different kinds of addictions.

One of his was a certain kind of woman. Another was besting an arch enemy.

Farther out on the bay, it was cooler and the water was choppier. Feeling slightly nauseated from the boat’s motion, Dred stood leaning back on the rail and looking around. There were two uniformed cops on board, standing and talking near the wheelhouse.

As the ferry neared the dock, the killer heard a low tone, like an expensive auto horn, and the rhythmic slapping of water against the hull was broken. While slower, the slapping sound gained in volume. The ferry was tossed about, but gently.

Dred looked over and saw a blue and white NYPD Harbor Unit patrol boat glide past. It wasn’t nearly as large as the ferry, but it was much faster and more maneuverable.

God help us if they ever arm them with torpedoes
, the killer thought. He was fervently anti-war, and had marched in more than one political protest.

The nimble blue and white patrol boat passed the larger and less bumptious ferry and disappeared in the gray mist. It was already tied at the dock when the ferry arrived.

With the other passengers, the killer gravitated toward where a ramp led to the dock. They hadn’t yet gotten the signal to leave the boat. Even tied at the dock, the ferry still rose and fell slowly with the lapping waves. The human stomach wasn’t made for this. Dred’s nausea had lessened, but it would be a relief to be on stable land.

After a few minutes, a signal he didn’t see or hear was given, and eager passengers surged toward the dock, land creatures that had experienced too much of the sea.

“We have a rare treat today,” a guide’s amplified voice said. Dred couldn’t see him, or very many other people, so gray and thick was the mist. About half the passengers had opened umbrellas, though rain wasn’t actually falling.

The speaker continued: “A television show some of you locals might have seen,
Minnie Miner ASAP
, is interviewing a young woman who is in open defiance of the serial killer unfortunately named after our great lady—the so-called Lady Liberty Killer.” A few people groaned their objections, but others applauded as if they’d already heard of Carlie Clark and what she was doing. New Yorkers needed encouraging news these days, and Carlie was supplying it.

Dred walked farther on shore, until he heard a repetitive clinking and slapping sound. He realized he was standing next to a thick metal pole, near the top of which an American flag whipped in the breeze off the water. The flag was flapping like a loose sail, causing ropes and pulleys to clink against the metal pole.

Then, though the sky remained gray, the mist momentarily cleared, and directly ahead of him
she
loomed.

The sudden sight of her weakened Dred’s knees and paralyzed him where he stood. She was facing away from him as if he were unworthy of her attention, rising over three hundred feet, her torch raised high.

She seemed to dwarf
everything
.

He hadn’t expected to be so strongly affected. No one could have. He heard people around him express their awe.

The Lady Liberty Killer was helpless. He couldn’t move one step closer to her.
He couldn’t!

His plan had been to stab Carlie Clark to death as she stood talking and taunting, live (so to speak) on television. Then, in the resultant tumult, he would slip away. He was wearing dark pants and, beneath his buttoned shirt, an NYPD pullover nylon jacket. His NYPD billed cap was rolled up and tucked in a pocket. He’d obtained the items weeks ago, paying cash, knowing that someday he’d have a use for them. They were knockoffs, sold all over Times Square, and were impossible to trace.

After the attack, he would become one of many cops, running this way and that, futilely trying to find the killer. Despite the daunting nature of his plan, Dred couldn’t help but find some humor in it. The old Keystone Cops. He could picture them rushing here, there, and everywhere in panic, and all because of what
he
had done. It would be a challenge not to smile.

Getting through security had been no problem. He’d had no bags or packages to check and leave in a locker. The innocent-looking camera he’d been allowed to carry onto the island was altered so part of its metal framework could be detached and used as a sharply pointed knife.

It had been a daring but thoughtful plan of action that would work by virtue of its audacity. He had faith in it. Faith in the odds. Faith in fate.

But Dred’s awe and paralysis, complete and unexpected, changed all that. He should never have come here. He had underestimated
her
. The effect
she
would have on him, his plan, his fate.

The odds.

What he had to do now was get away—and fast.

If he could make himself move at all, he must speed up his escape. He wouldn’t be evading only the police; he’d be escaping
her
.

Forcing himself to walk, he stumbled toward a nearby complex of buildings where a restroom might be found.

One foot in front of the other
. That was what it took.

“You okay?” a voice asked.

He stood straighter, made his stride looser. “I’m fine.”

He sensed that whoever had asked about him was still watching.

Inside the nearest building, where souvenirs were sold, he found a men’s restroom, went into a stall, and sat slumped on the commode with his head in his hands.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He wasn’t going to kill Carlie Clark now. Not today. He wouldn’t have the opportunity, and wouldn’t be able to seize it if he did have it.

The towering statue, which he’d read was smaller than many people imagined, didn’t look at all small to him. It stood facing the sea as if it owned all water everywhere and was raising an arm in triumph. The immensity, the audacity of the thing, forced out all other thoughts.

Escape. That was all that occupied the killer’s mind now.

Dred removed his outer shirt to reveal his official-looking NYPD pullover wind shirt. It was so dark a blue it was virtually black. The same color as his NYPD billed cap. The pullover was three-quarter length, which changed or disguised his build. The cap? Almost everyone looked like everyone else in a baseball cap.

He used a dime to loosen a screw on the left side of the camera, and levered out a five-inch pointed blade. The camera itself would serve as the makeshift knife’s handle.

He now had all he needed—cursory NYPD identification clothing, his courage and guile, and a knife.

He folded the stiletto-like blade back to rest at the bottom edge of the camera and slid the removed screw into his pocket. It would take seconds to turn camera to knife, and the best thing was that if he happened to be asked about the camera, it still functioned as exactly that—a digital camera. He would snap the questioner’s picture and show the image to him or her.

He checked himself in the mirror, drew a deep breath, and then left the restroom.

From this point on he would think of himself as a cop, act like a cop, walk like a cop—and if he must, he would talk like a cop.

 

 

Dred knew the tiny island would be teeming with undercover cops, as well as cops dressed much like him. Not to mention Quinn and his detectives.

The best thing would be not to go any farther onto the island. He would be at a disadvantage; he understood that. The more people he encountered, the worse for him. He wasn’t himself.

Or he
was!

He couldn’t return to the restroom. There was a limit to how much time he could spend there without attracting attention.

He looked back at the ferry boat, tied up now at the dock. It probably wouldn’t return to shore without passengers, and not all of those passengers would be the ones who’d just arrived.

He edged sideways where he could see a sign that noted departure times. The next departure was in almost half an hour.

Could he make himself inconspicuous on the tiny, flat island, pretending to be a cop, for half an hour? What were
those
odds?

He didn’t like the answer to that question.

Dred figured the farther he stayed away from the statue, the better. He didn’t know if he had the nerve to approach
her
, anyway. Certainly he didn’t want to test himself.

He knew what his best chance would be, and it would take nerve. He would wait until the boat was about to finish boarding passengers, and then simply walk on board. His expression would have to be neutral, his stride loose. He would
belong
there. Simply one of many New York cops, leaving the island to return to the city.

He’d have a story—something he could make up about a scheduled court appearance—if he needed one. He always had a story.

And if he didn’t have a good enough story . . . ? Things could get ugly.

 

 

For the next seventeen minutes he stayed in the vicinity of the dock, moving around with feigned casualness, avoiding clusters of people.

Somehow, for seventeen minutes, it worked.

But a pair of uniformed cops had walked past him five minutes ago, nodded, and given him a funny look. He didn’t have a badge showing. Other cops might think he was undercover, but not quite. Undercover light. Did such a thing exist?

Not hardly.

If they believed that, it wouldn’t be for long.

It was time for a different tactic.

Dred walked directly toward the docked ferry boat, striding more purposefully as he got closer. As if he belonged here.

When he reached the docked boat, he walked to the ramp, gave a casual salute to the captain—or whatever he was—in the wheelhouse (or what he thought of as the wheelhouse). Then he deftly ducked under the chain and strode across the ramp onto the boat.

The captain was busy talking on what looked like a cell phone. The call wasn’t about Dred, because he’d been talking when Dred came up the ramp. So no worry there.

Dred began to roam around, as if checking the boat for stowaways or anything else that was suspicious. The guy in the wheelhouse stared at him for a few seconds, then looked away. Some kind of big deal was happening on the island; that was all he knew. Dred was simply a New York cop doing his duty. Always on the lookout for terrorists. More power to him.

A blue and white NYPD Harbor Unit patrol boat appeared out of the mist with its bow pointed toward the dock, causing Dred to hold his breath.

But the boat swung north and continued past the dock, heading toward Ellis Island, leaving a long, curved wake and gentle waves that rocked the ferry.

Dred began to breathe again.

The watery growl of the patrol boat died in the distance.

The ferry boat captain remained concentrating on his phone conversation. He was trying to wrangle theater tickets for a play tonight. For a change,
really
good tickets. Third row center, orchestra. Normally the play would be sold out, but because of the serial killer wandering around the city, theater business was down. Tickets for great seats were plentiful.

It’s an ill wind . . . ,
the captain thought.

Though he was a weekend sailor and didn’t buy into that old saying, or very many others.

Still, orchestra-level Broadway play tickets . . .

 

 

Dred remained shocked by his strong reaction to the statue. He had to get farther away from
her!
And as soon as possible. He stayed near the boat’s stern, where he was least visible to the captain. He could see through tinted glass that there was someone else on board, a man with his back to Dred, seated and watching a big-screen TV. The screen showed a long shot of the Statue of Liberty. It zoomed in on the statue’s base, then on Carlie, her stance bold, the sea breeze whipping at her hair. She gesticulated as she spoke, and it struck the killer that she was a natural public speaker. There was a shot of a sizable crowd, applauding. Dred had no way of being sure what she was saying, but he had a pretty good idea.

There was a scuffing sound behind him. Soles on the deck.

He looked away from the TV, and there was a genuine NYPD cop, in full uniform, standing and grinning at him.