Linda Fairstein - Killer Heat

But there was only a succession of musty office suites, handsomely furnished and all seemingly undisturbed. At the very rear of the house, overlooking the narrow channel that separated the island from Brooklyn, the interior silence was broken as Mike's foot crunched down onto more shards of glass.

He didn't have to speak. I could see, too, that the pane closest to the handle of the back door had been broken and that someone had knocked it in, as if to gain entry from this side of the mansion. When the break-in had occurred, and whether the burglar was still anywhere around, was impossible to tell.

Mike and I crossed the small room, emerging into a larger office, clearly the centerpiece of the house. An enormous colored map of the island as it looked in colonial times hung over the mantel.

Mike was looking for doors now, for a way to get into the basement of the old building. We found the central staircase that led up to the second floor, but that was of little interest to him. He wanted to go belowground.

He tapped the wooden boards behind the staircase, rapping every ten or twelve inches, until we both heard a hollow noise. There was an elaborate panel in the wainscoting that ran through the entire house, and Mike played with the raised carvings on it until he found what he was looking for. A piece of wood lifted up, revealing a keyhole.

I tried to steady the light on his hand as he sorted the keys. There were three-one for the front door and two others that were marked with the initials for Governor's House.

On his second attempt, the door opened. We both stood perfectly still for almost a minute, waiting to hear if there was any noise below. Nothing.

Mike turned to me and whispered, "Stay up here."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't, Coop? Stay here."

Thunder clapped outside the house. The storm hadn't moved as far as I thought.

"Glue, Detective Chapman. It's hopeless. I'm with you."

One side of Mike's mouth twitched, but he wouldn't give me a full smile. "Hold the light over my shoulder."

He grabbed the banister with his left hand and tested each plank before he put his weight down on the old wooden steps. One at a time, I descended behind him-first one flight, then around a landing that twisted to the basement.

Halfway to the bottom, I could see that the fetid room was partially flooded. It wasn't surprising, since it was so far below the level of the house, adjacent to the channel.

Mike stopped a step or two above the floor. It was obvious in the flashlight's beam that the surging water had come through a small pair of windows that were set into the floor, probably the only source of light and ventilation in this dreadful room.

"Raise your light," Mike said.

All around the blackened cellar were the remnants of a primitive prison. Dungeon -Russell Leamer's phrase-seemed like a much more appropriate word.

Thick bars formed a barrier between the open area around the foot of the staircase and the four walls of the room. Behind them were tiny cells, each barely large enough to hold a single individual. Neither a cot nor a mattress could have fit in such a confined space. It was clearly meant to be a barbaric form of punishment.

I moved the light up and down along the bars, around the circumference of the room. I did it a second time, sweeping the monochromatic walls horizontally.

"Too good for Troy Rasheed," Mike said, taking a step back up toward me. "I hate being wrong."

I clung to the banister as he went by me. Sitting on the lowest dry step, I took one last look, aiming the flash lower than my first two efforts.

Lightning backlit several of the cells through the two small windows as I guided my own beam over the surface of the water.

"Pam?" I screamed, grabbing at the leg of Mike's trousers to pull him back down.

In a far corner of the room, curled on its side, was the naked body of a young woman who was hogtied with legs and arms behind her- the only way someone could have fitted her in the space of one of the cells. A third of her body seemed to be submerged in the rising water lapping at her lips and nose.

A piece of cloth gagged her mouth. Her eyes were open, staring back at me, and Pam Lear was still alive.

Mike jumped from the steps onto the floor of the basement and sloshed through the muddy water to Pam's side.

"I'm a cop, Pam. You're all right. You're going to be fine. I had never seen anyone's eyes opened wider, still full of fear and overflowing with tears that began to run into the water under her head.

Mike pulled the filthy piece of cloth out of the girl's mouth and she began to gasp for air, breathing and sobbing, unable to form or speak any words. Before I could remove my jacket, Mike had taken his off and put it over her body. The dirt that was caked all over her from head to toe didn't conceal the lacerations on her torso or her goose bumps from the chilly dampness of her cell.

I lifted my leg to step over Pam, so that I could help Mike cut her bindings. Her chest was still heaving wildly and her eyes followed me with understandable distrust.

Mike was used to dealing with corpses. He liked every aspect of the cold, clinical procedures of a homicide investigator. It was with living, breathing, emotionally scarred victims that he was most uncomfortable.

But this time he was giving it all he had. He was kneeling in the water, talking to Pam and explaining what he was doing, in an effort to comfort her

You'll be fine," Mike said, stroking the hair that was clotted to her head. "We're going to get you out right now, get you safe and warm." Thunder clapped again and her body shook.

"You're alive and we're here to help you and-"

Just don't tell her that nobody's going to hurt her before we know where her torturer is, I thought.

She was still trying to control her breathing-how long had she been gagged?-and still couldn't find her voice. The only thing that came out of her mouth was guttural, choking sounds

My name is Alex. I'm going to touch you, Pam. I'm going to help Mike get these ropes off your hands and feet." She had been manhandled and abused and assaulted by a stranger, and we needed to reassure her that our contact was meant to be helpful to her

You've got that knife?" Mike asked.

Her eyes popped again. She looked at us as though we were her abductors. "No," she said, gulping in more of the muggy air. "No, no, no knife.

"It's okay, Pam. I won't hurt you," I said. "That's the only way we can get you out of these ties."

Mike was dabbing at her face with his handkerchief. He held Pam's chin in his hand and gave her his classic Chapman grin. "You wouldn't want my friend Alex to cook for you, but she's got long, skinny fingers that are going to get you undone much faster than I can. Just stay with me, Pam. Trust me."

I took the switchblade out of my pocket and opened it. On the blade, on top of the rust, there were dark stains, probably Pam Lear's blood.

Mike kept her focused on his face, telling her how happy he was to find her, talking to her about school and history and her summer job. He knew that more highly charged words-family and friends, who they were and where they might be-were the wrong connection to make at this moment. Too likely to result in more of a meltdown.

I leaned in over Pam's hands, which were tightly bound against her lower back. "I'm going to lift your arms a little bit, to get them away from your body," I said. "Is that okay?"

"Yes," she said, the breaths coming more regularly now. "Yes."

"If it feels too tight, you tell me and I'll ease it back down." I raised her left arm-the one beneath her body-and rested the tip of her elbow on top of my knee, to give myself a bit of room to maneuver. I didn't want her to feel the back edge of the knife's blade against her skin.