Linda Fairstein - Killer Heat

We were inches apart now. He laughed at me. "Oh, I do know that you will, girl. I know that you will."

With the barrel of Mercer's gun, he pushed the frizzy hairs off my forehead.

"Just-just a different place than this," I said. "Upstairs, where there's more light."

"No need to get all shaky on my account. You take off that jacket and I'll make you feel better, Alex. Alex, that's right?"

I had lectured to school groups scores of times. I had urged children-and women, too-not to get into cars with their abductors. The statistics were shocking. The likelihood of victims being found alive after they submitted to entering a vehicle was minuscule. The best time to fight was before being finally caged. If I was to escape from Troy Rasheed, gun or no gun, I would have to do it before he backed me into this room.

He put his free hand on the sleeve of my jacket and pulled on it.

"I'll take it off myself," I said. That way, I could have better access to the knife.

"That's my girl. I'd like to put this gun down, but I can't do that until you're settled in, you hear?"

Now he was pulling at his lip again, kneading it between two fingers.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said, grabbing my stomach and bending forward as I dropped my jacket to the ground. I wasn't faking it. I was overcome by nausea.

"Not on my time, babe. You just breathe in some of this nice sea air and swallow hard."

I leaned my head back and inhaled.

Rasheed make a sucking noise, then bowed forward, like he was reaching to kiss me.

"You're bleeding," I said to him. "Your lip is bleeding."

He didn't take his eyes off me. He lifted his left hand and rubbed it across his mouth. "Ain't nothing to be scared of, Detective. You might like the taste of blood."

Troy Rasheed put his fingers up again, exposing the inside of his lower lip.

"That's my new one, sugar," he said, showing me the tattoo, still so raw it was irritating the surface. "I did that for my girlfriend last week. My old girlfriend."

He laughed as he wiped his mouth again. I guess he had run out of room on his body to pay homage to each of his victims. Those were Amber Bristol's initials on his lip.

Step inside, Alex," Rasheed said.

I stood at the edge of the door, my back against the jamb. He pushed me and I swiveled halfway into the room.

He put the gun in his other hand, holding it to my stomach, and kneeled down to reach for the coiled rope.

I wasn't going to let myself be tied up. Not while I had an ounce of strength in me. With my left foot, I kicked at the pile of rope and heard it topple over, away from me

Damn it, bitch," he said, grabbing at my leg to stop himself from falling with it.

I reached into my rear pocket with my right hand and withdrew the knife. I pressed the switch and the blade snapped open while Troy Rasheed tried to regain his balance and get to his feet.

"It's time we get down to business," he said, lifting his head, his lips glistening with his own blood. "C'mon, Alex. You be nice."

He was on his knees, trying to stand, when his eyes met mine and he said my name again. I raised my arm over my head and plunged the knife as deep as I could into his chest. Blood spurted out through the hole in his shirt and Rasheed collapsed forward, driving the blade even deeper into his body.

Troy Rasheed was still screaming when I ran out through the gates of the fortress, crossed the drawbridge, and raced across the grassy lawn that sloped downhill. I didn't care whether he had laid traps that would ensnare or injure me. Anything would be better than the torturous death that he had planned.

I stayed on the cobblestone path, shouting Mike's name as loud as I could. The smooth, cold stones felt good beneath my feet, and the pebbles that peppered them barely slowed me down.

I veered to the right when I saw the roadway that led into Nolan Park, up to the Governor's House. In less than three minutes, I reached the porch of the old building. The door was wide open. I called for Mike and for Pam Lear, but the house was deadly still.

I stood on top of the steps, looking out on the quiet scene. Then I remembered the old bell buoy, the one Mike and Mercer and I had passed on the first day. It was closer to the Governor's House than the Park Service office. I could be there in seconds, making more noise than this island had heard in centuries.

I flew down the steps and took off to the left, sticking to the cobblestone path.

The bright green and red bell buoy was more than twenty feet tall. The huge base on which it rested, once bobbing in the sea to warn passing ships, was waist high. I climbed onto it, resting the bloody knife on the ground, working my way inside the frame of the structure.

The brass bell resting in the metal grid was five times the size of my head. I grabbed it with both hands and stood back. With a deafening clang, the clapper struck against the side of the bell. It rocked from side to side, with a clamor that should have alerted anyone in the city that there was life on the little island.

Once it settled down, I released it a second time, then jumped down from the buoy and started on the roadway to check on Mercer and call for help.

I was running on pure adrenaline now. Halfway down the hill, I heard Mike calling my name.

"Coop," he shouted. "Where are you, Coop?"

He must have been standing in front of Leamer's office. The sound was coming from that direction.

"Stay where you are," I yelled back. "Don't move. I'm almost there."

I didn't want Mike venturing out any farther into territory that might have been sabotaged by Troy Rasheed. I didn't want him to encounter that wounded animal, still armed with Mercer's gun.

I ran the rest of the distance as fast as I could. There was a black Bell helicopter dipping its nose toward the spot in the distance where Joe Galiano had let us off so many hours ago.

The instant I saw Mike Chapman jogging up to meet me, he opened his arms and I fell into his embrace. It took him a few moments-and a reassurance from me-to realize the blood on my shirt was not mine.

You look good there," Mercer said to Mike.

Mike was sitting in Keith Scully's high-backed leather chair, smoking a Cohiba. "You'd look good just about anywhere tonight, Mr. Wallace. If you're still seeing double, then you'd better keep your eye on me for a while. Blondie's a mess."

It was late Tuesday evening and we were in the office of the police commissioner on the fourteenth floor of headquarters. Scully had left for another press conference with the mayor, this one announcing the capture of Troy Rasheed on Governors Island. The prisoner was still in surgery at Bellevue Hospital for the collapsed lung he'd suffered when I stabbed him. Pam Lear's parents had driven to the city from upstate New York to take her home.

I stood next to one of the large windows overlooking Lower Manhattan and the East River. The city appeared to have resumed normalcy after the storm. Power had been restored, traffic was flowing with a regular rhythm, and the Staten Island Ferry was back in service. The water looked as smooth as silk.

Mercer had been treated for the injuries from Rasheed's detonation of the sting grenade. He and Russell Leamer had been knocked out, literally unconscious, when Rasheed opened the door of the office and threw in one of the small spheres, which exploded right next to them. Leamer remained in the hospital overnight for observation, with trauma to his visual cortex. Mercer's vision had cleared by late afternoon

"Where did they find him?" I asked Mike, fixated on the placid scene outside.

I had been treated and released, too, like Mercer. I was only beginning to get details of the arrest.