Terminal City

FORTY-FOUR

Yolanda Figueroa was the first of us to step into the darkened corridor. Zoya was behind her, and I was third in line.

“I’ve been up in these hallways several times a week for nine years,” Yolanda said. “I can find my way down easily and guide you there. For now, you should follow the pipes.”

“What?” Zoya asked.

“Some run vertically and others horizontally. Just keep a hand on the ones that travel lengthwise over your head. They go the full distance of the corridor. Holding on to one of them will steady you. Keep you from bouncing off walls.”

There was an eerie stillness in the short hallway that was even more unpleasant as we made the right turn into the longer one that led back in the direction from which I’d arrived. Earlier in the evening I had been able to hear voices on the loudspeaker from time to time-some of them familiar to me. Now, no one was speaking.

I flicked on Zoya’s lighter again. It was a plastic disposable Bic, and I had no idea how much butane was left in it. I could see that there were no obstructions ahead of us so I turned it off.

Yolanda was more sure-footed than we in moving forward. I reached up to grab the old piping overhead, which was dust-covered and rough with rust. It made me more comfortable than the prospect of stumbling as I walked. Zoya Blunt couldn’t reach the pipes, so she held on to the bottom hem of Yolanda’s uniform jacket.

We reached the end of the corridor, and Yolanda pulled on the heavy door and opened it.

“No officer here,” she said.

“There wasn’t one when your partner and I came up,” I said. “The last cop I saw was guarding the elevator door one flight down.”

I moved into place, around Zoya, to face Yolanda. For the first time since the blackout, I could see into the terminal.

“Oh my God,” I said.

“If you can’t deal with heights, then don’t look down.”

Off to my right, the pounding rain hitting the long windows over Lexington Avenue in sheets was now accompanied by ragged streaks of lightning. At that very moment, a clap of thunder caused Zoya’s heels to lift off the ground.

The lightning illuminated the all-glass catwalk, focusing me on the dizzying effect of the translucent flooring we had to cross to get to the stairs that were next to the incapacitated elevator.

“I can’t do it,” Zoya said.

“This is no time to be afraid,” I said softly. “I can’t stand heights, either, but it’s our way out of here.”

“It’s not about heights.”

“What, then?”

I was looking down through the glass at the floor of the concourse below us. I’d never seen it cloaked in darkness before. I could make out figures moving across the wide space but had no idea who they were or what they were doing.

“We played on these catwalks all the time when we were kids. My dad used to rest in the lounge. The engineer’s lounge.”

“Quick, Zoya,” I asked. “Where’s that?”

“On the fourth level, southeast corner. We played hide-and-seek,” she said, trembling again. “Nik will see me if I walk out on that glass. I know he will.”

Yolanda was determined to get us down. “He doesn’t know you’re here, Zoya. He’s looking for cops. He’s looking for ghosts that don’t exist. Besides, you can’t glance up from down below and know who anyone is. Trust me, I’ve spent hours looking for trespassers who get in here. You gotta be face-to-face, not looking at the soles of someone’s shoes.”

There was a flash of light that blinded me for several seconds. The three of us retreated from the lip of the catwalk back into the stairwell.

“Was that lightning?” Zoya asked, holding on to my arm.

Yolanda answered. “No. Emergency Services must have gotten some floodlights set up. Looks to me that’s what it is.”

“That will help,” I said. “They’ll do floodlights and bullhorns.”

“It won’t help anything,” Zoya said, clutching on to me. “They’ll just make it easier to see us walking across up here.”

Yolanda was losing patience with Zoya Blunt. “Tell you what. You two stay right here in this landing, okay? You can lock the door to the corridor we just came from till I get back. I’ll go down to get the other officer and you can wait-”

“We don’t split up,” I said.

“Shit. You’re worried ’cause you don’t have a gun, Ms. Cooper? We’ll get somebody up here with one in five minutes.”

“It’s not about the gun, Yolanda. I just don’t want you to be alone.”

“We patrol alone most of the time. We only have partners in the tunnels and for VIP security setups. I’m used to this.”

Yolanda Figueroa was determined to head out on her own. Zoya Blunt had seated herself in a corner of the dark landing. I was torn between how to handle both of them.

Just then, Keith Scully’s voice shouted through a bullhorn. “Sorry for the glitch, guys. The stationmaster tells me that Mr. Blunt put his finger on something called the red button, to rather dramatic effect. He’s managed to jury-rig the power controls in the terminal, so I apologize for the loss of light and sound.

“I also apologize for putting so many of you men and women, whom I respect enormously, in danger. So I’ll give Mr. Blunt exactly three minutes to show the white flag. If not, then there’s no deal on the table. The district attorney has withdrawn all possible plea discussions. And I’m reminding you that Nik Blunt is armed and extremely dangerous. We’ll get you some light back as soon as we can.”

“Another ten minutes,” I said, “and we’ll be able to see where we’re going and who’s around to help us.”

“I’ll be back before then,” Yolanda said.

A crash of thunder cracked the quiet of our landing.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” she said, Glock in hand. “I’m going down this staircase, just the way you came, Ms. Cooper. If you can bring yourselves to do it, just inch out a bit and you can watch me cross over on the catwalk. Right inside that door across the way, you said there’s an officer on patrol. You won’t ever lose sight of me.”

I peered out onto the catwalk. The improvised lighting from below and the occasional streaks of lightning from outside showed that it was empty, top to bottom.

Yolanda Figueroa stooped in front of Zoya Blunt, resting a hand on her knee. “You okay with this? Is this what you want?”

The young woman bit her lip and nodded.

Then Yolanda smiled at her. “My boyfriend’s one of those guys in the operation room, so you know I’ll be right back. Gotta keep him safe at all costs.”

No wonder the cop was so eager to get extra protection for the men in control of the train lines.

She stood up. “You get it now, Ms. Cooper? Or are you heartless?”

“I can’t fight with you, Yolanda. He’s a lucky guy, so you’d better be careful.”

“I’m good at my job. I’ll be back.”

Yolanda Figueroa took the staircase down, moving faster without us. When she reached the floor below, about fifteen stories over the main concourse, I watched from my vantage point, where the catwalk met the enclosed landing that shielded us from sight. I envied the confidence with which she strode over the glass bricks, backlit by an occasional lightning flash.

She pulled on the door and it opened. She disappeared inside.

Since the elevator was incapacitated, I knew it would take several minutes longer for her to jog down the many steps necessary to get to the ground floor, and several more to find Scully or our team.

“You okay?” I asked Zoya, lighting another cigarette for her.

“I just want to sit here. This is fine.”

The storm was passing right overhead. The lightning streaks and thunderclaps were coming much closer together in time.

But only ninety seconds later, the door that Yolanda Figueroa had entered, one flight beneath us, burst open onto the catwalk.

From the angle at which I watched, I could see the figure of the young woman-gone almost limp, her head flopping against her chest-being pushed back out over the glass flooring by a young man dressed in camouflage clothes and assault boots.

I knelt beside Zoya and put my hand up to signal her to stay back.

Nik Blunt had Yolanda in his arms. It appeared from the blood on both her upper body and on Blunt’s clothing that he had already slit her throat.

I was helpless as I watched him drag her to the window he had opened over the concourse. “Hey, Scully! Commissioner!” Blunt screamed out into the poorly lit space.

Someone played the floods until they caught the two bodies-one alive, one probably dead-framed in the giant glass box so high above them.

“Hey, Scully! You looking for your officer?” Blunt screamed. “I told her to mind the gap, but she didn’t listen to me.”

I watched as Blunt threw Yolanda’s body to the concourse fifteen flights below. Before she hit the marble floor, snipers were firing at Blunt, bullets seemingly deflected by the thick panes of glass.

“I told her,” he yelled down, laughing as if he’d been seized by a demon, before he scurried back to the safety of the landing and let the door slam behind him. “I told her to mind the gap.”