Extreme Denial

  Are trapped, Decker thought. The fire’s behind us. McKittrick’s ahead of us.

  What about the fire escape on this building? Decker wondered desperately as the flames roared louder. If we can get onto it... Too obvious. I have to assume McKittrick rigged explosives on it, as well. Even if he didn’t, we’d still be trapped between Renata in the courtyard and McKittrick on the roof.

  With no apparent alternative, Decker rose to attempt another frantic charge toward McKittrick’s voice. But the moment he did, a blast heaved the roof in front of him, knocking him back down, tearing another huge chunk from the building.

  “Naughty, naughty, asshole! You didn’t ask, ‘May I?’ ”

  Where is he? Decker thought in dismay. If McKittrick was on this roof, he wouldn’t be setting off bombs that he’d hidden here. He couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t blow himself up along with me. Then where?

  Again the answer was immediate. On the next roof. The reflection of flames revealed that the next roof was lower. McKittrick must be on a ladder bolted to the wall or on a crate or some kind of maintenance structure. Hidden, he can peer over the top of the wall, then duck down when he sets off a bomb.

  Decker aimed, saw what might have been a head inching up from the darkness beyond the building, started to pull the trigger, and stopped when he realized that what he had seen was only a wavering shadow caused by the flames.

  Behind him, the blaze surged closer, its progress barely impeded by the storm.

  “So what’s it going to be?” McKittrick yelled. “Are you going to wait to get barbecued? Or do you have the guts to try to come for me?”

  Yeah, I’m coming for you, Decker thought fiercely. The way to do it was directly in front of him, courtesy of McKittrick —the hole that the last bomb had blown in the roof.

  Responding to a sickening flow of heat from the roof behind him, Decker squirmed through puddles, reached the dark hole, gripped its sides, lowered his legs, dangled, and dropped.

  5

  He imagined jagged planks from the roof, pointing upright, about to impale him. What he struck instead was a table that collapsed from the force of his landing and threw him to the side, where he struck a padded chair that tilted, tumbling him to the wreckage-strewn floor. At least, those were the objects he thought he struck—the room’s draperies were closed; the darkness was almost absolute.

  From above, through the hole in the roof, he heard McKittrick yell, “Don't think you can hide from me, Decker!”

  In pain, Decker struggled to his feet and pawed his way through the darkness of the room, trying to find an exit. Fire alarms blared. He touched a light switch, but he didn’t dare turn it on—the abrupt illumination through the hole in the roof would make it obvious where he had gone. Heart speeding, he touched a doorknob, twisted it, and pulled the door open, but when he groped beyond it, he bumped into pungent-smelling clothes and discovered that he had opened a closet.

  “Decker?” McKittrick yelled from above. “If you're behind that ventilator duct...”

  An explosion shook the apartment, plaster falling. Urgent, Decker found another door, opened it, and felt a rush of excitement when he saw dim lights through windows. He was at the end of a corridor. Peering down from a rain-beaded window, he saw the chaos of fire trucks, police cars, and emergency workers at the front of the building. Lights flashed; motors rumbled; sirens wailed. Pajama-clad occupants of other buildings were hurrying out, the entrances not yet filled with flames.

  Smoke swirled around him. Unable to pause to rest, he turned and hurried along the corridor to reach the back of the apartment. He passed an open door that led to murky stairs and assumed that the people who lived in this apartment had hurried out.

  That possible escape route was useless to him. It didn’t matter if he saved himself. He had to save Beth and Esperanza. Before the smell of fresh paint warned him, he banged against paint cans, a rolled-up drop cloth, and a ladder. Stumbling on, he reached the rear of the building and discovered that the window to the fire escape wasn’t in a guest bedroom but, instead, at the end of the corridor.

  He thrust the window upward and crawled out onto a slippery metal platform. Flames spewing from the windows in the building to his right reflected off the fire escape. He prayed that Renata would not see him from below as he squinted through the rain toward the fire escape on the undamaged brownstone to his left. He had hoped that the two fire escapes would be close enough that he could leap from one to the other, but now, in despair, he was forced to accept the reality that his plan was hopeless. The other fire escape was at least twenty feet away. Even under the best of circumstances, in daylight, in peak condition, he couldn’t possibly reach it.

  Beth’s going to die up there, he told himself.

  Screaming silently that there had to be a way, he squirmed back into the apartment. The smoke was thicker, making him bend over, coughing. He entered a bedroom off the corridor and opened its window, leaning out. He was now closer to the other building’s fire escape. It looked to be no more than ten feet away, but he still couldn’t hope to leap from this window and reach the landing.

  There has to be a way!

  With a chill, he knew what it was. He ran back to the corridor. Flames had started to eat through the wall. Avoiding the paint cans, he picked up the ladder that he had almost tripped over, then guided it into the bedroom. Please, God, let it be long enough. Fighting for strength, he pushed it through the open window and aimed it toward the next building’s fire escape.

  Please!

  The scrape of wood against metal made him flinch. The tip of the ladder grated as it passed over the railing on the fire-escape platform. Had McKittrick heard?

  Something roared. Another explosion? Were Beth and Esperanza already dead?

  No time! Decker crawled from the window and pulled himself flat across the rungs of the ladder. Rain had already slicked it. The ladder bent under his weight. It began to waver. He imagined it giving way. He shut out the nightmare of his splattering impact against the concrete of the courtyard and focused his complete attention on the fire escape he was nearing. His hands shook. Rain made him blink. Wind twisted the ladder. No. He stretched his left arm to its limit, strained to reach the railing, and, at once, a stronger gust of wind shifted the ladder completely.

  The ladder’s tip scraped free of the railing. As Decker felt the vertiginous suck of gravity and began to drop with the ladder, he leapt through the darkness. His left hand grabbed the railing. But he almost lost his hold on the slippery wet metal. He flung up his other arm, snagged the fingers of his right hand around the railing, and hung breathlessly.

  The ladder crashed below him. Someone down there shouted. Had McKittrick heard? Would McKittrick understand what the sounds meant? Would he come to investigate?

  Dangling, straining his arms, Decker slowly pulled himself up. Rain lashed against his face. Wincing, he pulled himself higher. The railing scraped against his chest. He bent over and toppled onto the platform.

  The metal-vibrating sound he caused made him flinch. Trembling, he came to his feet and drew his pistol from where he had shoved it into his pants pocket. Staring toward the roof, prepared to shoot, he crept up the last section of steps.

  He had never felt this exhausted. But his determination refused to surrender.

  He reached the top and scanned the roof. McKittrick was three quarters of the way along a wall that led up to the roof on which Beth and Esperanza were trapped. Halfway up a ladder bolted to the wall, McKittrick peered over the top, able to use a remote-control detonator to set off bombs without fear of injuring himself.

  Decker stalked through the rain toward him.

  “Where the hell are you?” McKittrick screamed toward the other roof. “Answer me, or I’ll blow the woman all across Manhattan! She’s lying right next to a packet of C-four! All I have to do is press this button!”

  More than anything, Decker wanted to shoot, to pull the trigger again and again, but he didn’t da
re, for fear that McKittrick would retain the strength to press the detonator and kill Beth seconds before Decker could save her.

  The clatter of heavy footsteps on the fire escape made him drop toward the cover of a ventilation duct. Indifferent to the noise they made, murky figures charged into view at the top of the metal steps. McKittrick whirled toward what now obviously were three firemen, their protective hats dripping water, their heavy rubber coats and boots slick with rain, reflecting the flames. With his left arm hooked around a rung in the ladder, McKittrick used his right to draw a pistol from his belt. He shot all three. Two of them fell where they were. The third stumbled back, toppling off the edge of the roof. The roar of the flames obscured the crack of the shots and the fireman’s plummeting scream.

  With his left arm still hooked around the ladder, McKittrick fumbled to put his pistol back under his belt. His left hand held the detonator. Taking advantage of McKittrick’s distraction, Decker scrambled from behind the ventilation duct, reached the bottom of the ladder, and jumped, clawing his fingers toward the detonator. He hooked it, and as he dropped, he wrenched it from McKittrick’s grasp, nearly yanking McKittrick off the ladder. McKittrick cursed and tried to raise his pistol again but found that it had snagged on his belt. When Decker fired, it was too late—McKittrick had given up trying to take out his pistol and instead had jumped from the ladder. As Decker’s bullet slammed against the wall, McKittrick collided with Decker, sprawling with him onto the roof, rolling through puddles.

  Decker’s hands were full, his left with the detonator, his right with his pistol, his position too awkward for him to aim the weapon. Tumbling onto Decker, McKittrick punched and grabbed for the detonator. Decker kneed him and rolled to gain the distance to aim, but the blow to McKittrick’s groin had not been solid, and McKittrick’s pain was not great enough to prevent him from scuttling after Decker, striking him again, chopping at his right wrist, knocking the pistol from his hand. The weapon splashed into a puddle, and as McKittrick dove for it, Decker managed a glancing kick that knocked McKittrick away from the weapon.

  Decker staggered backward. He bumped against the parapet and nearly toppled over. McKittrick groped again for the pistol under his belt. Decker had no idea where his own pistol had fallen. With a firm grip on the detonator, he pivoted to take cover on the fire escape, felt his shoe slip off something that one of the firemen had dropped, understood what it was, picked up the fire ax with his free hand, and hurled it toward McKittrick as McKittrick freed his pistol from his belt.

  Decker heard McKittrick laugh. The next thing, Decker heard the whack of the ax against McKittrick’s face. At first, Decker thought it was the blunt top that had struck McKittrick. But the ax didn’t drop. It stayed in place, projecting from McKittrick’s forehead. McKittrick wavered as if drunk, then fell.

  But that was not certain enough. Decker lurched forward, picked up McKittrick’s handgun, hoped that the roar of the fire would conceal the noise, and shot him three times in the head.

  6

  “Decker!”

  He was so unnerved he didn’t at first realize that Esperanza was shouting to him.

  “Decker!”

  Turning, he saw Esperanza on the roof where McKittrick had set off the explosives. Behind Esperanza, flames rose, hissing in the rain.

  Decker took a step but faltered. Shock and fatigue had finally caught up to him. But he couldn’t stop. Not when he was so close to saving Beth. Delirious, he reached the ladder. He didn’t know how he got to the top. He and Esperanza made their way around gaping holes in the roof and found Beth crawling in a desperate effort to get away from the fire. Behind her, the plastic sheet she had been lying on burst into flames.

  As Decker helped to lift her, flames revealed the further damage that had been done to him. “McKittrick’s dead.”

  Beth murmured, “Thank God.”

  “But we still have to worry about Renata.” Supporting Beth on each side, he and Esperanza stumbled away from the heat of the blaze and moved toward the ladder.

  Again, Decker’s consciousness faded. He didn’t recall getting Beth to the bottom of the ladder, but he retained sufficient presence of mind to stop and lean Beth against Esperanza when he came abreast of McKittrick’s body.

  “What’s the matter?” Esperanza asked. “Why are you stopping?”

  Too weary to explain, Decker searched through McKittrick’s wet clothing and found what he needed: McKittrick’s car key. On the phone, McKittrick had bragged about watching from down the street when Decker arrived at the brownstone. They had a good chance of finding the Pontiac McKittrick had used.

  But that wasn’t all he had to find. McKittrick had knocked Decker’s pistol from his grasp. It couldn’t be left behind. He tried to re-create the pattern of the fight and stumbled over where it had fallen into a puddle. But after putting it beneath his belt, he grudgingly understood that he still had something to do. Dizzy, he wavered. “It’s never over.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “McKittrick. We can’t leave him like this. I don’t want him to be identified.”

  McKittrick’s deadweight was awkward as they carried the body toward the ladder. Esperanza climbed up onto the roof. With effort, Decker hefted the body to him, then climbed up after it. They grabbed McKittrick’s arms and legs, moved as close to the flames as they dared, and heaved. The body disappeared into the fire. Decker threw the ax after him.

  All the while, he was fearful of Renata. Wary, he and Esperanza returned to where they had set Beth down. They continued with her across the roof, determined to use the farthest fire escape, one that wouldn’t take them down toward where they thought Renata was waiting for them.

  “Maybe there’s another way,” Esperanza said. He guided them toward a shedlike structure on the next roof, but when he tried to open its door, he found it locked. “Turn your faces.” Standing on an angle so his bullets wouldn’t ricochet toward him, Esperanza fired repeatedly toward the wood around the lock. That section of the door disintegrated, the door jolting open when Esperanza kicked it.

  Inside, away from the rain, the dimly lit stairwell was empty. There was no sound of occupants rushing down the stairs.

  “They couldn’t have helped but hear the sirens. The building must have been evacuated,” Decker said.

  “But the fire hasn’t reached this far. It’s safe to use the elevator,” Esperanza said.

  The elevator took them down to the ground floor. When they emerged onto the cluttered chaos of the street, overpowered by the din of engines and water being sprayed and people shouting, they struggled to make their way through the crowd. Flashing lights made them squint.

  “We’ve got an injured woman here,” Esperanza said. “Let us through.”

  They squeezed to the right along the sidewalk, passed a fire truck, and avoided paramedics who rushed toward someone on the opposite side of the truck. Decker felt Beth wince each time he moved with her.

  “There’s the Pontiac,” Esperanza said.

  It was near the corner, a recent model, blue, apparently the one McKittrick had been driving. When Decker tried the key in the passenger door, it fit.

  Thirty seconds later, Beth was lying on the backseat, Decker was kneeling on the floor next to her, and Esperanza was behind the steering wheel. An ambulance blocked the way. “Hold Beth steady,” Esperanza said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Take a detour.” Esperanza started the engine, put the Pontiac in gear, and swung the steering wheel severely to the right. Pressing the accelerator, he jolted up onto the sidewalk.

  Beth moaned from the impact. Decker leaned against her, working to keep her from sliding off the seat. Pedestrians scattered as Esperanza aimed the Pontiac along the sidewalk, reached the corner, and jounced down off the curb.

  Beth groaned, her pain more severe.

  “That’ll do it.” Esperanza glanced in his rearview mirror, sped to the next corner, and turned. “No one’s fol
lowing us. All you have to do now is relax, folks. Enjoy the ride.”

  Decker didn’t need encouragement. He was so exhausted that breathing was an effort. Worse, he couldn’t control his shivering, partly because of the aftermath of adrenaline but mostly, he knew, because of his bone-deep chill from having been in the rain for so long.

  “Esperanza?”

  “What?”

  “Find us a place to stay. Fast.”

  “Is something—”

  “I’m think I’m starting to get”—Decker’s voice was unsteady—“hypothermia.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I have to get out of these wet clothes.”

  “Put your hands under your armpits. Don’t go to sleep. Is there a blanket or anything back there?”

  “No.” Decker’s teeth chattered.

  “All I can do for now is put on the heater,” Esperanza said. “I’ll find a take-out place and get hot coffee. Hang on, Decker.”

  “Hang on? Sure. To myself. I’m hugging myself so hard, I—”

  “Hug me,” Beth said. “Closer. Try to use my body heat.”

  But no matter how tightly he pressed himself against her, her voice seemed to come from far away.

  TWELVE

  1

  Decker dreamed of Renata, of a tall, thin, dark-haired woman with a grotesque voice and a gaping hole in her throat. He thought that the figure looming over him was Renata about to crush his head with a rock, but just before he prepared to strike at her, his mind became lucid enough for him to realize that it wasn’t Renata who leaned over him, but Beth, and that the object wasn’t a rock, but a washcloth.

  Someone else was with her—Esperanza—holding him down. “Take it easy. You’re safe. We’re trying to help you.”