A train must have been due, because the station was full of people waiting to go downtown. Nikki vaulted the turnstile and followed the commotion. People were getting shoved aside along the platform to her left, and that’s where she went. She wove her way through the commuters, many of whom were swearing or asking one another, “What’s with that guy?”
But when Nikki reached the end of the platform, he wasn’t there. Then she heard someone behind her say, “He’s going to get killed,” and she looked on the track. The Texan was down there in the darkness, climbing across to the northbound side. His right shoulder was tilted lower on the side where she had broken his clavicle, and a line of rusty red traced down the arm of his tan sport coat from the same shoulder, where it looked like he was also carrying her 9mm slug. His free hand clutched her manila envelope, which was now finger-painted with his blood. She braced against the wall, hoping for a shot, but bright light filled the platform, a horn blasted, and a 1 train screeched into the station, blocking her.
Heat raced back to the exit, to beat the passengers getting off the train, and ran up the stairs and across Varick to the northbound station, almost getting creamed by a taxi. The blood drops at the head of the stairs told her she was too late. She went down into the station just to make sure he hadn’t doubled back on her as a feint, but the Texan was long gone.
Detective Heat had one consolation prize for her efforts. As she turned to come back up the stairs, something caught her eye on the dirty tiles at the foot of the bottom step. A single typewriter ribbon cartridge.
The couple she had encountered must have made that 911 call, because the street was filled with blue-and-whites and plain wraps when Nikki got back to Rook’s block. Detective Heat pressed her way through the onlookers, found a sergeant, and identified herself.
“You were in pursuit?” he asked.
“Yes. But I lost him.” Heat gave a description of the Texan and his last-seen to put out on the air, and while one of the sergeant’s men did that, she started for the front door, telling him that Rook might be up there. The notion released a strong primal wave of worry coursing through her gut and her vision fluttered.
“You OK? Do you want a medic?” asked the sergeant. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
“No,” she said, pulling herself back together.
Moving through the front door of Rook’s loft with a half dozen cops behind her, Nikki pointed out the spray of the cowboy’s blood on the jamb as she passed. She led them through the kitchen and past the toppled chair where she had fought her captor and strode to the back of the apartment, retracing the steps the Texan had made before he left the first time. She clung to the hope that his reason for that trip to the back of the apartment was to check on Rook, which could mean he was all right.
When she reached the hall leading to his office, Heat immediately saw the shambles through the open door at the end of it. The cops behind her had their weapons drawn, just in case. Not Nikki. She forgot all about hers and just rushed ahead, calling out, “Rook?” When she got to the door of his office, her breath caught.
Rook was facedown under the chair he was duct-taped to. He had a black pillowcase over his head, just like the one she had been wearing. There was a small puddle of blood collected on the floor under his face.
She got on one knee beside him. “Rook, it’s Heat. Can you hear me?”
And then he moaned. It was muffled, as if he had been gagged, too.
“Let’s get him up,” said one of the cops.
A pair of EMTs came into the room. “Easy,” said one of them, “in case his neck’s broken.” And Nikki felt another twinge in her gut.