There was a flash of light that stunned me for a few seconds. More lightning, I thought.
But when I picked my head up, there was a row of Emergency Service floodlights aimed at this side of the roof. Some were on the roadway, and others were directed straight ahead, on the Park Avenue Viaduct that encircled the building directly below me.
I ducked back inside, rain-soaked and confused. I stepped out of my wet sneakers and left them next to the door.
It suddenly occurred to me that there were police snipers in every office building on the opposite side of the street. If Nik Blunt had chosen to escape on foot, on any one of the streets or avenues, the sharpshooters would have been waiting for him. And of course, the rooftop was another possible route for someone as nimble as Blunt.
I closed the door and tried to think about my options.
Then I heard footsteps. It was neither pounding rain nor the sound of Zoya Blunt scrambling across the roof of the terminal.
The steps came from the corridor we had just traveled, and since no one was calling my name, I assumed the person approaching me was Nik Blunt.
I went down the short wooden staircase, wondering why Zoya—who clearly had played in this vast attic as a child—hadn’t taken this passage. I assumed it was because it did not lead out to the rooftop, which, to me, was a good thing.
At the bottom of the steps was an enclosure—also made of wood, somewhat decomposed and rotted out—which was probably original to the old building.
“Who are you?” It was Blunt’s voice. The same one I’d heard after he’d disposed of Yolanda’s body.
I took another two steps and was inside the shed, out of sight.
“I saw you peeking out from the landing. Guess nobody told you it was a bad night to be working late.”
I was relieved that the killer had no reason to know my name or my role in this manhunt and seemed unaware of his sister’s presence in the terminal.
I turned around to see where I was, whether entrapped in this wooden corral or if there was another way out.
My eyes became accustomed to the light and in front of me I could see the interior of a gigantic clock, the rear side of huge pieces of stained glass that fronted on 42nd Street.
The spectacular timepiece was, I knew, the largest clock ever made in the Tiffany Studios. It was part of the iconic statue Transportation that was Grand Central’s face to the world.
Blunt was getting closer. “I need you to take a walk with me,” he said. “Come on out, wherever you are.”
I knew the clock faced due south. Its center was bright blue, with painted rays of sunlight dancing around the dial. Each of the Roman numerals was also gilded against a deep-red circular background.
Blunt was playing with the knob on the door handle that led to the roof, the same exit Zoya had used.
I saw a small plaque on the wall of the clock room. Next to the numeral VI on the giant face, which was probably a dozen feet in diameter or more, were the words OPEN HERE. It must have been the way custodians could reach the exterior clock face for maintenance and repairs.
“Well, well. You must have had a change of heart. There’s a puddle at this door by the roof, so I’m guessing you decided not to take that slippery slope after looking out.”
I reached for the long handle next to the numeral VI. It opened inward. I squinted at my wristwatch, which said it was 12:26. I looked up and the tip of the minute hand on the Tiffany clock face—an enormous gilded pointer—was just coming into view in front of me.
It was a heavy piece of steel, taller than I was, with a soldered-on extension that stuck out on both sides of the sharp point. Just beyond the minute hand, I could see the bottom of the famous sculpture that surrounded the clock—a thick rim bordered with oak leaves and cornucopia.
I didn’t like my odds, but I had no intention of waiting for Nik Blunt to put his hands on me. I lifted one leg over the outer edge of the circular window—numeral VI on the giant clock face—grabbing hold of the minute hand to stay in place. I was tempted to use that long hand to anchor me, but I was afraid it wouldn’t hold my weight. Then I swung my other leg out, so that I was seated on the window’s metal frame, facing south across 42nd Street.
I pulled the casing closed behind me. Now I was alone on the rooftop of the terminal, outside in the furious storm, rain cascading down my head and shoulders while I tried to figure out how to find a safe place to conceal myself.
I couldn’t see anything because of the darkness and the blinding spotlights of the NYPD. It was probably better for me that way. I hoped the night-vision goggles of the snipers afforded them greater sight than I had. I needed them to establish that I was a disheveled-looking woman—barefoot, in jeans and a vest—and not the killer they were ready to take out.
I tried to channel Mercer’s steady voice. I had never known anyone with the serenity that he always displayed. I imagined him standing behind me, steadying me, talking me into a way to save myself.
I heard the metal door that led to the roof, the one that Zoya had escaped through, open. Even if Blunt looked out there for either of us, she had long ago rounded the corner of the building, and I was too far in front of him, blocked from view by the statue above the clock.
“Maybe you slid right off the roof,” Blunt yelled out into the night. “What a mess you’d make all over the sidewalk.”
Lightning split the sky in two. My hair and clothing were soaked from the heavy rain.
I closed my eyes and had my silent conversation with Mercer. I needed to get off the frame of the clock. I had to move away from this opening, which was likely to be Nik Blunt’s next point of approach.
I counted on Mercer to calmly coax me to move, even though he was in another part of the building. Time to go, Alex. Just step yourself down on a piece of that granite, I imagined his voice in my ear. Hold tight. Don’t look down. I’ll come and get you soon.
I felt for the base of the great sculpture with my toes. The shape of the oak leaves that formed the bottom of it made a perfect foothold. The rough-hewn granite, exposed to the elements and weathered for more than a century, was far less slippery than the panels on the roof of the building where I’d watched Zoya struggle and slide.
I put one foot ahead of the other, bending over and reaching for the next garland in the elaborate carving.
I looked up. I had stepped a few feet away from the face of the clock. Directly overhead was the statue of Mercury, and almost within my reach, the giant draped leg of the reclining goddess, Minerva. I was desperate to pull myself up beside her and be sheltered by her strong, still figure. Then I thought of Mike and how he could tell me what each of these gods represented—Hercules, Mercury, and Minerva. I smiled at that connection.
Then I heard the metal casing on the clock scrape against itself as the circular numeral VI window opened. I could see Nik Blunt stick his head and neck through the hole, and I pressed myself against the cold, wet stone so that he couldn’t make out my position.
I didn’t move. I watched as he threw one leg over the frame at the bottom of the circular window. The minute hand was about to cross through to the next numeral.
Nik Blunt grabbed the neck of the minute hand—which was longer than he was tall—and hoisted himself up on it, swinging his other leg out onto the granite base of the sculpture. He appeared, again, to be fearless.
When he came to rest on the foundation of the sculpture, he balanced himself by grasping a piece of the granite, his cheek resting against the bottom of the clock.
Within seconds, he started to take in his surroundings. When he changed the angle of his head—looking to the right—we locked eyes immediately.
Nik Blunt laughed. “You must be a cop.”
I couldn’t speak. I shook my head violently from side to side.
“You’ve got the vest,” he said, stepping closer to me and extending his right hand in my direction. “And that desperate look about you.”
I was above him now, s
lowly working my way up the pediment of the sculpture. He didn’t appear to have a gun—or at least not one in his hand. I had no idea how many rounds of ammunition he’d already discharged in his spree.
I reached into my jeans’ pocket. The small Swiss Army knife that I had taken from Zoya was closed, but with the nail of my forefinger, I pulled at the notch in the tiny blade and opened it. I doubted it was even two inches long.
“Not so fast, girl,” Nik Blunt said as he reached up and grabbed my left ankle. “Another notch for my dead cop belt. Ladies’ day. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I shook my leg and broke loose. He was not quite close enough to get a good hold on me.
There was a cornice of the pediment over my head. I reached for it with my right hand—the one holding the tiny, red-encased blade—and then passed it to my left hand, clinging to the wet granite with both of them.
Nik Blunt swiped at me again, and this time connected. He was holding the leg of my pants with his right hand. He repeated his mantra. “My good fortune, Officer. It’s ladies’ day.”
I looked down at him. I held the knife tightly in my hand, then leaned over and swiftly plunged the tip of it into the skin of his wrist.
He recoiled in pain, the knife sticking in place.
Blunt swiveled, trying to flick it off his right hand, still clutching a piece of the granite carving with his left.
As he turned his head away from me, the night sky blazed with floodlights. The snipers in the building across the street opened fire, five or six of them at once.
I shuddered and clutched at the granite as tight as I could, praying the bullets wouldn’t miss their mark.
Blunt stretched out his hand to reach for my foot again—to take me down with him. Blood gushed from his mouth as he tried one last time to speak.
I kicked him away, grasping at the stone hem of Minerva’s robe to keep my balance. I didn’t know how many times Nik Blunt had been shot by the sharpshooters, but I had no doubt that he was dead before he hit the street.
FORTY-EIGHT
“Ladies’ day, my ass,” Mike said.
He and Mercer were standing at the base of the pediment, as soaking wet as I was. Each of us was holding on to some decoration on the enormous statue. I was too shaken to try to climb down and into the terminal again. I didn’t trust my own footing.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Mercer said. “I’m going to step back inside, through the clock.”
“Please don’t. You’re the only one who keeps me calm.”
“I won’t leave you until Emergency Services sets up out here. Mike and I—”
“Sorry, but Mike makes me too nervous.”
“What?” Mike said. “Stick with me, kid. I’m going to break into that Shake Shack and make you a great big chocolate—”
“Don’t tell me what you’re going to do. Get me down off this roof now.”
“They’ve got rappel ropes and a harness, Alex,” Mercer said.
“Are you crazy? I’m not rappelling anywhere.”
“Just a precaution. I told them you’d feel more secure that way.”
“I almost died. Nothing’s going to make me feel secure tonight.”
“How about if I put some brandy in the shake?” Mike asked.
“Stop talking to me. Mercer’s trying to explain what I have to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Mercer said. “You know these guys are the best.”
Emergency Service cops talked jumpers off bridges and saved people trapped in elevators. They plunged into the Hudson River after boats overturned and dragged folks out of burning cars. I had seen dozens of rescues on the news, but I still didn’t want to be their next guinea pig.
“I must have to do something. That’s what scares me. I’m tired and wet and cold and terrified.”
“You can just stand where you are,” Mercer said. “They’ll wrap you up and take you in. They’ll carry you.”
“With my luck the ropes will break.”
“They hold water buffalo, Coop,” Mike said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Please make him wait inside.”
Mercer waved a hand at Mike.
“You’d have a quicker time of it,” Mike said, “if you got one of those animal tranquilizer darts. She’ll be easier to move if she’s not croaking at you.”
Mike disappeared through the large circle on the clock face. Mercer stroked my shoulder and counted the minutes with me until the Emergency Service cops reached my side.
FORTY-NINE
Power was restored in Grand Central Terminal shortly after 1:00 A.M. Nik Blunt had indeed tampered with the red button that controlled the power and the rails. It took an electrical crew more than an hour to undo the problem.
Most of the officers—city, state, and federal—were doing damage control and cleanup of the concourse by the time I reached the stationmaster’s office to see Commissioner Scully.
On the way downstairs—by elevator, to avoid the glass catwalk—Mercer told me that Zoya Blunt had been rescued from the rear of the rooftop before I was brought inside. She had been taken to a hospital to be examined—for both physical and psychological injury. Beyond the scrapes and bruises she’d sustained in her effort to escape, the most profound effect of the evening was the emotional trauma she’d suffered in confronting the scale of her brother’s pathology and monstrous nature.
Mike was waiting for me with Keith Scully. He wrapped a blanket around me and brought me a steaming hot cup of tea.
“How do you feel?” the commissioner asked.
“Numb. Totally numb.”
“That was smart.”
“What?”
“Luring Blunt out on the roof so the snipers had a clean shot at him.”
“Smart?” I shivered uncontrollably as we talked. “Zoya and I were backed into a corner. She took the lead and I assumed she knew where she was going. Climbing out on the rooftop was never a part of my plan, but if it’s what kept me alive, I’m glad I did it.”
“I’m sure you would have liked the shots to have come more quickly,” Scully said, “but there were so many guys in camo tonight, they couldn’t be sure it was Blunt until he turned his head in the direction the snipers were aiming from.”
I’d have nightmares for months, I knew that. Any bad dreams about my fear of heights and falling would be trumped by all of the images of the night’s bloody deaths.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I reached for the tea, but my hand was shaking too much to hold it. “I didn’t just imagine that, did I?”
“Yes, Alex. Nik Blunt is dead.”
I thought of Corinne Thatcher first. Her slit throat was the earliest sign I’d had of this killer’s brutality.
“Has any more information come in?” I asked.
“Let’s get you dry clothes and something stronger than tea,” Scully said. “There’s plenty of time for questions tomorrow.”
“I want to know about the Thatcher girl first,” I said. “Why did he target her?”
Keith Scully had been busy piecing the puzzle together in the short time he’d had, in preparation for the media assault that would follow in the morning. “The squad finally found her boyfriend in the DR.”
“Paco?” I asked.
“Exactly. The guy with the grudge against the president.”
“Because his brother lost both legs in Afghanistan, right?”
“Yeah,” Scully said. “Paco met Nik Blunt at the VA hospital.”
“The Veterans Affairs hospital?”
“Yeah. East 23rd Street. Paco was there taking his brother for treatment. Blunt was visiting a guy he’d worked with overseas. They both got to talking about political beefs. Paco figured Corinne might be an ally for Blunt because she worked with returning vets and their families. He connected the two of them.”
“Because she’d become disgruntled,” I remembered her parents saying to us.
The invisible strings that tied random people together w
eren’t so coincidental in the end.
“So he meets these girls—at least these two, that we know of,” Scully said. “At some point he gets bold enough to tell them he has a plan—”
“Do you know what plan?”
“No, but some kind of fireworks in the most public setting he can think of.”
“Grand Central Terminal. With the president on the horizon.”
“You know how it is, Alexandra. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry will come forward tomorrow with a sighting or story about an encounter they’ve had with the killer. A theory or a motive that the journalists and profilers will jump on. Bottom line? Nik Blunt’s a psycho. Meets these young women. Thinks they sympathize with him.”
“About a cause,” I said. “Only Zoya told us he’s never really had a cause, other than himself.”
“What sends him over the edge?” Scully asked rhetorically. “Maybe the moment finally comes for his big plan to be realized, and both women turn him down. He figures they know too much and might betray him. So the voices in his head tell him to kill.”
“The way he’s killed before—civilians in a village in Uganda. Maybe others,” I said. “It was so obvious to us all that he had to have done something as violent, as extreme, before these murders. But he had no criminal record in the States.”
“NorthStar will be answering for that.”
“I know where Corinne and Lydia wound up, Keith. But where did he meet with them? Where did he take them to drug them?”
“There’s a whole cache of materials in one of the little ‘caves’ in the tunnel,” Scully said, “near the Northwest Passage.”
“Surely neither one of these victims would have set foot in the tunnels.”
“I’m not suggesting that. But we found a lot of ammo in one of them, and a whole lot of journals with rants and diatribes. Some receipts from flophouse hotels he might have gotten them to visit, if they were bleeding hearts.”
“His cave in the tunnel,” I said, “is it anywhere near the one that Carl lived in?”
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