Small Town

Now that was an interesting question. Maybe he wouldn’t shoot the man, not yet. Maybe it would be interesting to have a conversation with him. He was, after all, an important man. Or had been important, running the police department of the world’s greatest city. He might have interesting things to say. And then he could play a role in the last sacrifice.

But all of that would have to wait. “I have to move the boat,” he told the man, and, holstering the gun, he made his way back on deck.

As soon as the hatch closed behind the Carpenter, Buckram retrieved the ring of keys from under his buttock. He rolled over on his side, reaching with his left hand for his imprisoned right wrist, wishing that at least it could have been the other way around, with his less agile left hand immobilized and his right hand free.

Jesus, he told himself, you can always find something to complain about, can’t you?

He heard the boat’s engine turn over, heard sirens in the distance as fire engines sped toward the burning Boat Basin. The boat was moving now, away from the raging fire, and toward what?

The man had set a trap for him and he’d stumbled right into it. And he’d be dead right now if the pistol hadn’t misfired. Peter Shevlin’s pistol, according to the Carpenter, and it was supposed to be on top of the chest of drawers, and so was his cell phone, and if only he could get the little key into the little hole, which he couldn’t quite see but it had to be right about there, and—

The catch released and the cuff fell away from his wrist. He flexed his fingers, willed feeling and circulation back into the hand. The Carpenter had cuffed him too tight, an easy mistake to make, and safer from the Carpenter’s point of view than too loose. What he hadn’t done, and Buckram was glad of that, was cuff him correctly, with a cuff on each wrist and his hands behind his back.

The way Susan had cuffed him, for example.

But he didn’t have time to think about Susan. Didn’t have time to think. His hand was cramped, as if he’d slept on it, but he’d be able to use it. He got his feet under him, found a handhold, and managed to hoist himself into a standing position. Then his head spun, and he sagged against the chest of drawers. It was all he could do to stay on his feet.

There was the gun. A .22, from the looks of it, with a three-inch barrel and crosshatched black rubber grips. He went to pick it up but it stayed where it was, resisting him.

What was holding it, magnets? No, some sort of gripping devices, and if you pulled a little harder it came loose. His right hand had trouble getting a grip on it so he transferred it to his left hand.

Great. He was armed with a gun that wouldn’t fire, and that his opponent knew wouldn’t fire. And the boat had stopped moving, and the hatch was opening.

His mobility was his one asset, his foe’s ignorance of it the closest thing he had to an edge. He couldn’t lose it.

So he got back down onto the floor and slipped his hand into the cold steel cuff. With his left hand he closed the cuff, but just a little way, fastening it loosely enough that he could slip his whole hand right out of it.

At least he hoped he could.

The Carpenter headed the Nancy Dee

south, just as he’d done when he circled the island. Manhattan was on his left, his port side, and he stayed as close to shore as he conveniently could, past the old railroad yards. The first pier he came to was that of the Sanitation Department, at Fifty-ninth Street, and he stepped away from the tiller and lobbed two of his firebombs onto it. They exploded with a satisfying roar, and he kept heading south, not waiting to see what effect they had.

More piers, and he had the tiller locked so he didn’t have to tend it, he could go on lighting and hurling his bombs whenever he drew abreast of a likely target. Once he missed, and a bottle, its wick aflame, fell harmlessly into the water, neither breaking nor exploding. No matter — he had plenty of bombs left.

Ah, and now he’d come to where the cruise ships docked. There was only one berthed there tonight, and it was enormous, rising as high as an apartment house, holding as many people as a small village. He sailed as close to it as he dared, saw an opening on one of the lower decks, and scored a direct hit with one of his firebombs. The explosion echoed, the flames leaped. Oh, they’d probably put it out, they’d probably keep it from spreading, but they’d have their work cut out for them.

And then Pier Eighty-three, where the Circle Line vessels were berthed.

And this ship was not so tall, not so forbidding, and there was a vast amount of open deck space. The Carpenter rained bombs on the ship, setting fires everywhere. There’d be no human sacrifice, not unless they had a night watchman aboard, but the ship itself was sacrifice enough. Such a powerful symbol...