Deadly Heat

Some of the protestors, schooled in civil disobedience tactics, threw

themselves down and linked arms on the ground to form a barrier between the passing

crowd and the police who were attempting to contain them. As the cops advanced to

deal with the human chain, Rook decided he didn’t like his proximity to the

flailing and shouting and drifted across the street into the park, circling around

the mob toward the rear of the action.

He passed a Statue of Liberty street mime, a “living statue” in turquoise

greasepaint. In a Chinese accent Lady Liberty hawked a souvenir pose with him for

only ten dollars. As he walked on, the asphalt path Rook followed curved through the

park to Castle Clinton, the sandstone fort built as a cannon battery to protect

Manhattan from the British in the War of 1812. Port-a-johns set up for the protest

lined the castle’s north wall near overflowing trash cans and about two dozen

stragglers who had decided sharing some choice weed held more allure than a long

walk. He came upon some plastic tubs filled with melted ice and a few unclaimed

bottled waters floating between the cubes. His tongue still felt furry after the

long night, so he helped himself to one while he leaned against the castle and

watched the rear flank of the march shuffle uptown.

About four blocks away, two NYPD helicopters hovered at different altitudes over the

skyscrapers of the Financial District. He felt the sun on his face and listened to

their engine hums mix in with the bullhorn shouts and the chorus of chants. Off to

his right, he heard a sound like a large flag fluttering. But when he turned, he saw

it was just someone pulling the white fabric flap aside to open the covered first

aid tent. He watched the choppers some more, envisioning Heat and the others

underneath them, sweeping those streets and checking garages, and wishing he could

be part of the action. But then another noise coming from that tent drew his

attention.

Rook heard a whinny.




Hoof clops came next, and a draft horse ambled out of the large white event tent.

Rook dropped his bottle of water and already had his cell phone out by the time the

red Boz Brigade cart rolled into view behind the horse and stopped. A man walked out

of the tent on the far side, blocked by the carriage. But the limp visible under the

chassis told Rook all he needed for confirmation.

Nikki answered her phone without a hello. “No, Writer Boy, you still have to stay

put.”

“He’s here,” he said in a whisper.

“Where?”

“Castle.” And as soon as Rook said it, the serial killer climbed up, stood on the

coachman’s step, and made eye contact. “Rainbow.”

Up on Whitehall Street, Nikki held her phone away from her ear, about to tell Agent

Callan about Rook’s sighting, when their radios came alive with calls from both

choppers. “Red fire wagon in sight.” And “Got it. Castle in the park.”

Heat didn’t wait. She sprinted to a blue-and-white idling at the curb, yanked open

the passenger door, and said, “Hit it.”

Glen Windsor’s gunshot wound slowed him down getting both legs up and into the

driver’s box. He kept his eyes on Rook the whole way and even gained some time as

the writer hesitated when he looked inside the tent. Sprawled on the ground there,

the bodies of two jihadist volunteers bled out from neck slashes. They were martyrs,

all right, thought Rook. Just for a different cause—a cause that was not their own.

He turned away from the pair of dead men and ran toward the fire wagon. Windsor

dismissed him until he saw Rook make the smart move, angling for the horse, not him,

so he quickly snatched up the reins, gave them a snap, and the big animal started

off.