Linda Fairstein - Killer Heat

Mike and I jogged along in tandem while Leamer, slowed by his long raincoat, lagged behind.

When we reached the deep archway that led into the prison, Mike waited for Leamer to take us inside. Now, in complete darkness, the three circular tiers of cells looked like the hellholes they were refitted to be during the Civil War.

"Where?" Mike shouted at Leamer.

We had tried these cell doors on Saturday. Now Mike was ready to tear through the entire prison again.

Leamer held out two keys on a chain. "These open everything in here."

Mike unhooked one from the chain.

"Coop, you take him and start on the top. Anything locked, open it up and look."

I couldn't move. Huge waves were pounding against the lowest row of casement openings. Water was pouring onto the earthen ground floor of the dank building, and it looked like it wouldn't be long until it was partially submerged.

"Upstairs, kid," Mike shouted at me. "The faster you move, the faster we're out of here."

I followed Leamer into the staircase and up to the third tier. He opened the doors that were locked and shone a flashlight, but there was nothing at all inside.

I could hear Mike clanging each of the cell doors below us and I yelled to him. "All clear on three."

Back down the steps to the middle tier, where the only locked cubicles had a few piled-up chairs stored in them.

Leamer shone his light into each of the others as we made our way around the perimeter.

"Stop!" I shouted abruptly. "What's in there?"

It was one of the open cells, one that Mercer had examined on Saturday.

"Looks like-like," Leamer pulled on the heavy iron door and we walked in. "Like old canteens."

The two canteens looked like something out of Frank Bannerman's military catalog. Beneath one of them was a knife-an open switchblade with six inches of rusty steel forming its sharp point.

I picked up the items and ran past Leamer, down the staircase to where Mike was completing his search of the ground floor.

He took the knife from me and closed it. Then shook the canteens, one at a time, turning them upside down. The first was bone dry, but a bit of water trickled from the second one.

"Park Service use anything like these?" Mike asked.

"No, no, we don't. There's no potable water on this island," Leamer said. "We bring it in by bottles."

"So anybody planning an overnight visit might come prepared with some of them?"

"We don't allow overnights."

"Troy Rasheed's a guy who specializes in what isn't allowed," Mike said, turning slowly in place as he eyed the tiers around him once more. "There must be a basement here, isn't there?"

Russell Leamer was watching the waves wash through the casements, as uneasy as I was about them.

"Not in Castle Williams, Detective. It's too low, too close to the water level."

"But I thought there was a dungeon on the island. Most of the military accounts from that period said there was a black hole."

Leamer took the other sets of keys from his pocket and jangled them, searching for one to hand to Mike.

"That's in the Governor's House, Detective, on the eastern side of the island. There's a dungeon where prisoners were kept in the basement of the post headquarters. That's the black hole.

How fast can you move?" Mike asked the ranger.

The cobblestones had been made slippery by the rain. The three of us took the back way along Colonels' Row, slowed by the slick road surface, to get to the ivy-covered brick house that stood separate from the officers' quarters.

Leamer was puffing as he walked, trying to explain what we were going to find. "It was called the Governor's House when the British held the island but not used by our military as a residence. It was actually the place in which court-martials were held. Mike was trying to move the older man along.

"And now?"

"It's in better shape than many of the buildings, furnished-for ceremonial purposes-but nothing much has been done with it since the coast guard left."

"And the dungeon? Is it accessible?"

"I don't think so. I mean, I can't imagine anyone has tried to use it. I've never seen it myself," Leamer said. "You know, there was also a tunnel below that building, according to legend."

"For what?" Mike asked, impatient for Leamer to keep pace with him.

"It was sealed up years ago. But when the British controlled the island, the first governors in residence here built a tunnel below Buttermilk Channel large enough for horses and a carriage so that they could make their escape if war threatened."

I had reached the hedges in front of the imposing mansion. "Buttermilk Channel?"

"The spit of water that separates the island from Brooklyn," Mike said, waving his hand toward the rear of the house.

"So there's a way to get on and off this place without a ferry?" I asked.

"So I'm told," Leamer said. He mounted the staircase between two white Romanesque columns and we waited behind him as he put one of his keys in the lock.

I heard the click of the release and saw Leamer push on the door, but it didn't open. He stepped away, fumbled with another key, and tried again. No click. He was back to the first key. Again, a click, but the door didn't budge.

Mike took the keys from Leamer's hand. He unlocked the door and leaned his shoulder in to shove it, but there was no give.

"Something must be blocking it," Leamer said.

"From the inside," Mike said, finishing the ranger's sentence.

Lightning lit up the sky and thunder growled at us. I hoped I wasn't imagining that it was beginning to move away from overhead.

Mike handed me the knife and one of the canteens, then vaulted over the wrought-iron porch gate and raised his hand in front of one of the double-hung windows, smashing the other canteen through the glass. He broke a second and a third pane, reaching through the hole and up to the latch that secured the window in place.

The old frame was swollen from the heat and humidity, so Mike had to play with it for several minutes to raise it up. He brushed away the chunks of glass and raised himself onto the sash, through the opening. I watched as I put the switchblade in the rear pocket of my jeans. When I looked up again, Mike had vanished inside the Governor's House.

Russell Leamer was backing off the porch. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he didn't want to be a party to it. It sounded like Mike was moving something heavy out of the way. I could hear it scraping across the floor.

When he opened the door to let us in, he had his gun in his hand. Leamer groaned.

"Give her your flashlight," Mike said to the ranger. "Go back to your office and send Mercer up here as fast as you can possibly go. Ask him to call the lieutenant first and tell him we've got a situation on the island, got it? Get somebody airborne."

"What kind of situation?" Leamer whined.

"He'll understand me. And you, Coop, glue yourself to my ass, okay?"

Leamer took off immediately. I stepped over the threshold, around the massive mahogany table that someone had put in place to block the door.

"Hold that light up," Mike said.

He started to walk from the entrance through a formal parlor, the walls of which were decorated with an assortment of antique military weapons. Portraits of bearded officers from another age were hung over the fireplace between the windows, and heavy gold drapes, faded from decades of exposure, still framed most of the windows.

Mike held out his arm to slow me down while he turned the corner into the next room. He motioned for me to join him. I had the same nerve-wracked feeling I had experienced at the shooting range, that someone would dart out from behind a door and fire at Mike before he could defend himself-and me.