Killer Heat

FORTY-SEVEN

Joe Galiano was poised to take off the moment Mercer closed the door and belted up

We've got to go to Governors Island, Joe. We've got to search there."

"Have you lost it, Coop?"

"Call Peterson, Mike. Tell him to get a crew over as fast as humanly possible. Tell him to call the Park Service and- Lightning sliced the sky ahead of us and thunder boomed over the sound of the chopper's engines.

"Pay no attention to her, Joe. Let's get this buggy home."

"That was Nelly Kallin I called. Forget Kiernan Dylan. Troy Rasheed has taken that girl to Governors Island. Don't fight me on this one, Mike. That's where they went on Sunday. That's where she is," I said, not speaking the words dead or alive.

Mercer had flipped open his cell to make the call. "She's right. And I bet we find that jeep parked in a lot not far from the Battery Maritime Building, if Troy hasn't skipped town."

The chopper rocked from side to side as the winds pounded it.

"What's the verdict, gentlemen? We pass right over the island on our way home," Galiano said.

Mike was clutching the edge of his seat as he argued with Mercer. "You said they were checking everyone going on and off the island on Sunday."

"And Pam Lear had Park Service ID. She had a uniform, too. According to the timeline that Lydia just gave us, they wouldn't have arrived till late in the day, when all the feebs were monitoring departures. I doubt she and Troy had any problem getting on the island, blending into the crowd. She would have looked more like she belonged there than anyone else. It's good, Mike."

"You know the island, Joe?" Mike's fear of flying was justified in the storm. "I guess if the Wright Brothers could take off and land there, you'll figure it out."

"We once had a mayor named La Guardia," Galiano said. "He wanted to make the place the city's first airport. Been there dozens of times for training exercises. There's a nice flat spot in the middle of Colonels' Row."

The chopper bounced its way back across Brooklyn as we sat riveted in our seats, contemplating Pam Lear's fate.

"Hang on," Galiano said, clearing the rooftops of the old buildings as he aimed for a level space in the middle of the lawn.

The chopper's struts slammed into the ground and we rocked into place. The thunder rolled over us, louder and closer than it had been just minutes ago.

I picked my head up to look over Mercer's shoulder, and as I did, the entire Manhattan skyline faded to black.