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.