"Give me the goddamn map," he screamed at me. He had frozen in
place, it seemed, now aware of the dangerous trail he had undertaken.
"Give me the paper!"
The wind played with him, too, and his words were lost somewhere
over the roiling water.
My next two obstacles were relatively flat and elongated. I moved
across them easily and counted only three more on my course to the big
rock.
A glance back and it was clear that Shreve was consumed by his
desire to get to the map. He had made the decision to come after me.
His feet held on the third step, and he paused there to figure how to
make it safely onto the next one.
The great buildings of the United Nations were directly across to my
right now. Lights were going on in some of the offices as the sky began
to brighten. The city was coming to life. Someone would find me.
My foot reached out to anchor itself on the next rock, but it was
peaked and ragged, with no flat area on which to step, I leaned forward
and grabbed its crest with my clasped hands stretching out the toe of
my right foot to find a hold on the slippery cover. It seemed secure,
and so I pulled myself forward, balancing my one hundred fifteen pounds
on either side of the crest. As fast as I could free my hands and move
again, I teetered forward to the adjacent perch, almost at my goal.
As I stood on the next-to-the-last rock, I was ready to launch
myself to safety. I grabbed at the naked shrub that was poised on the
ledge in front of me and tried to pull myself onto the slick boulder.
But the ice beneath my left foot ruptured sharply and my entire leg was
submerged in the frigid water. I clung desperately to the small gray
stubble of the branch that was supporting me and kicked my quickly
benumbed leg furiously to get it out of the icy river.
Slowly and agonizingly, I hoisted myself onto solid ground Shreve's
scream pierced the air and the wind slammed its sound against my head.
I opened my eyes and saw him grasping for my leg, which was dangling
over the side of the great boulder. He was trying to get me to save
him, I thought, not to hurt me, although it hardly mattered at that
point. As he had reached out for me, he slid off the peaked rock and
collapsed through the slim coating of ice. "The rope!" I yelled at him.
"Throw me the rope." But the wicked current tugged at him and swept him
away from the rocks. I pulled myself up to a standing position using
the sturdiest branch of the small bush, but with my hands still tied I
was unable to extend my reach near the drowning man.
Shreve screamed once more as he struggled to keep his head above the
waves. The turbulent inky water had claimed him, and he was dragged
downriver at ferocious speed. He shouted something again, gurgling
insensibly as he was pulled down by the paralyzing force of the raging
flow.
I lowered myself onto the ground, wet and frozen. I rested my head
against a low stump and gave up waiting for salvation. The Pepsi-Cola
sign flashed and there seemed to be early morning traffic racing along
the FDR Drive.
The little red snub-nosed tugboat of the New York City Fire
Department seemed to be making a beeline for my deserted boulder. I
tried to tell myself its crew would see me here, with dawn breaking
through the night sky. As it neared me, on its prow I thought I could
make out the figures of Mike Chapman and Mercer Wallace, standing
beside two uniformed firemen. Mercer must have repeated the story I fed
to Shreve about the Blackwell
Jeopardy!
clue, and Mike had
made the connection.
Cold, exhaustion, and hunger overwhelmed me.
I closed my eyes.
"When I came to, the first thing I saw was the pure white
counterpane on my hospital bed. I felt warm and comforted for the first
time in days. Looped around the upper rim of the metal railing was an
intravenous tube. The IV pole was next to my headboard, and I could see
that the glucose solution was almost empty. I must have been badly
dehydrated.
I looked at the clock on the bedside table and it said 11:42. The
shades were drawn three-quarters of the way down, open enough to reveal
that it was night.
I rolled from my side onto my back, wiggling my toes as I did so. I
lifted each foot, one at a time, to reach my hands, and counted to make
sure I had all my toes.
When I moved onto my other side, my cheek scraped against something
hard. There, pinned against the corner of the pillow, was Jake's
glittering little bird atop a rock.
Through the glass windows that separated my room from the nurses'
station, I could see five people standing together. Jake Tyler and
Mercer Wallace were leaning against the counter watching Mike Chapman
and laughing at him. He was gesturing with great animation, regaling
two nurses with his war stories and adventures.
I knew it wouldn't take long for Mike and Mercer to coax me back to
Blackwells, with the old map, to dig for diamonds with them. They would
find my stalker, too. I was sure of that.
Outside the door to my room was another IV stand. Attached to it,
hanging upside down, was a bottle of champagne. Tommorow would begin a
happier new year.
I smiled and closed my eyes.
Acknowledgments
I never asked permission of Alex Cooper—the real
one—when I purloined his name for my heroine several years ago. He and
Karen have been dearest friends, perfect traveling companions, great
readers, and part of the family since Justin and I first met. I
treasure their friendship.
A very special credit is due to Judy Berdy, who shares my passion
for Renwick's stunning skeleton, and who helped enormously with my
research about Blackwells Island. To Judy and the Roosevelt Island
Historical Society, I am enormously grateful.
I was fortunate to find a wealth of material, in the form of old
institutional records and reports, at the superb library of the
New-York Historical Society. My thanks to Betsy Gotbaum, and the
librarians who take such fine care of the antique documents.
The archives of
The New York Times
and the microfiche
files of the New York
Herald Tribune
were also invaluable.
And two books,
Gotham
by Edwin Burrows and Mike Wallace and
The
Other Islands of New York City
by Sharon Seitz and Stuart Miller,
provided wonderful vignettes of the crime scene.
Several characters take their names from real individuals. That is
because a number of very generous people contributed to a variety of
charitable causes and public service auctions in exchange for the
opportunity to have a figure named for them in an Alexandra Cooper
novel. Some are good guys, some are suspects, some are perps—that's the
chance they take. They all have my thanks for their good cheer and
benevolence.
Robert Morgenthau remains the professional patron saint of
prosecutors, and I am always mindful of my great fortune in working for
him for a quarter of a century. My friends in the New York County
District Attorney's Office Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit are the very
best in the business. They prove it every day of the year. The men and
women of the NYPD who risk their lives for all of us on a daily basis
have my most sincere gratitude, and our colleagues at the Office of the
Chief Medical Examiner continue to amaze me, giving us cold hits and
solutions to major cases with increasing frequency.
Everyone at Scribner has made this experience a real joy. That
starts at the top, with the generous support of Susan Moldow, which I
appreciate tremendously. Giulia Melucci is the best publicist in a
tough business and a delightful friend.
Susanne Kirk, my beloved editor, started me on this path a few books
back. She has been with me every step of the way, and her reputation as
the finest in this field is well deserved. Her heart is in these books,
along with my own, and that means the world to me. Thanks, also, to her
assistant, Erik Wasson, for his good cheer and attention to detail.
My agent and pal, Esther Newberg, is beyond simple acknowledgments.
She has changed my life. How did I ever get so lucky?
Family and friends make all this possible. My incredible mother,
Alice—and all the Fairsteins, Feldmans, and Zavislans— continue to give
me joy and encouragement.
And most of all, my husband, Justin Feldman, remains my devoted
coach, most loyal fan, and constant inspiration.
About the Author
Linda Fairstein,
America's foremost prosecutor of crimes of sexual assault and domestic
violence, has run the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit of the District
Attorney's Office in Manhattan for almost three decades. A Fellow of
the American College of Trial Lawyers, she is a graduate of Vassar
College and the University of Virginia School of Law. She is the author
of three earlier international bestselling Alexandra Cooper novels,
Final
Jeopardy, Likely to Die,
and
Cold Hit
as well as the
nonfiction book
Sexual Violence, a New York Times
Notable
Book in 1994 She lives with her husband in Manhattan and on Martha's
Vineyard.