Trains speeding past me on the railroad tracks that ran alongside the river from Penn Station to the north made it impossible to hear almost anything else except the roar of their engines. I checked the depth finder and had plenty of water beneath me for the draw of my boat.
As soon as the detail on the giant gray towers of the George Washington Bridge came clearly into sight, I cut back on the throttle and slowed the boat’s speed, gradually, to below ten knots. I cut off the running lights and let my eyes adjust to the blackness all around me, from the starless city sky to the swirling current beneath me.
If it was going to be possible to surprise Emmet Renner, then it would have to be by a stealth-like approach from the Hudson.
I knew there were giant rocks that surrounded Jeffrey’s Hook. They were the reason for the existence of the lighthouse, although much of the shoreline had been dynamited to clear the passage for vessels when the GW was built. I needed to be on high alert so that I didn’t drive the boat aground before finalizing a plan.
The red paint of the lighthouse reflected the brilliant lights, strung like a necklace, that covered the beams on the great bridge from east tower to west. The sturdy little building was only forty feet high, dwarfed by the six-hundred-foot rise of the steel beams above her.
I caught a break. The lower half of the Hudson River-as far upstate as Troy-was a tidal estuary. The tide was shifting and carrying me northward, taking me closer and closer to the bridge, with only the slightest amount of engine thrust.
I picked up my phone and speed-dialed Mercer.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“On a Harbor Unit boat. About to catch up to you.”
I turned around, keeping both hands on the wheel, and spotted the blue-and-white NYPD vessel about a hundred yards off my stern.
“You’ve got to stay back, Mercer. That’s all I’m asking. Stay back till I signal,” I said. “How about the lieutenant?”
“He was already on his way to Queens when I called, but he’s rushing a team into place.
“There’ll be two men in the girders of the bridge and a crew surrounding the park,” Mercer said. “And you ought to know that Peterson told Scully everything, including the fact you have your own hostage.”
“Damn it.”
“Since the commissioner knows, there’ll be a real plan in play within the hour. Can you hold off one more hour, Mike?”
I didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t in me to wait.
“Mike?”
“Can you stay back and douse the lights?” I asked.
I looked around again and the NYPD launch had gone black.
“Thanks for that. Now, as soon as I go past the lighthouse,” I said, “I’ll be out of sight. Your crew can show you on the charts that it’s best for me to stay east after passing the main point of Jeffrey’s Hook.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a stretch of huge rocks there that stand out of the water. Some of them get covered up when the tide comes all the way in, but that’s why you won’t see me. I’ll pull in against those boulders,” I said. “If you guys are willing to stay back, then I’ll wait.”
“You got it, Mike,” Mercer said.
I not only had the current and tides with me. I also had an idea.
I moved the boat as quickly and quietly as she would go, navigating a path around the giant rocks.
Jeffrey’s Hook was the narrowest point between the New York and New Jersey shorelines in this stretch of the Hudson River. That’s why it had been chosen as the spot on which to anchor the enormous bridge.
It was for the very same reason that General George Washington selected Jeffrey’s Hook as the place to sink his chevaux-de-frise during the Revolutionary War, to try to create a blockade to prevent the British and Hessian soldiers from advancing upriver.
The boulders mined from above Fort Washington were sunk on the wooden chevaux, from riverbank to riverbank, by American soldiers, and the ships that had carried them across the water had later been moored in place above them. It was the only way to secure the position of those vessels and the heavy cargo they had lowered into the Hudson River to stop the enemy.
The massive iron hooks that once held the line of sunken boats in place looked like weapons of war themselves.
I had seen them often, as a kid. They had been buried deep in the boulders by soldiers who would soon after be captured.
They had always fascinated me-hooks the size of the cleats on this boat, forged and fired and bent into shape, looking like the long, arthritic fingers of a witch.
The Intrepid banged up against a couple of the rocks. It didn’t sound any worse than a wave crashing against them, buffered by the sound of another passing train.
I didn’t want to use the flashlight. Fortunately, the GW Bridge lights offered enough of an outline of the shore.
I knew exactly what I was looking for. There were three boulders, each separated from the next by about ten feet, which were on a spit of land called Ceder Point.
It was on that spit-a huge slab of rock-where the hooks were embedded deep into the schist.
I scanned the area as I tried to idle the boat in place. At the top of a crest there used to be a statue, I remembered. It was a distinctive shape, sort of resembling a snowman, with a round head and a stout belly and bottom. The Daughters of the American Revolution had commissioned it a century ago, with words marking the site: AMERICAN REDOUBT 1776.
I finally saw the stone snowman at the top of the rocky hill.
I held on to the bow rope and crawled off the boat, angled onto one of the boulders. I kicked off my shoes so that I didn’t slide back into the water.
It was only a matter of minutes until I found a pair of the Revolutionary-era rusted hooks.
My feet scraped against the rock as I climbed toward them. I was happy to feel patches of moss that made sticking to the surface easier.
When I got one hand on the first hook, I wound the rope around it. Then I reached it to the second hook and made the knot tighter and tighter. I tugged on the line and my little Intrepid seemed to be securely in place.
It was the first step in building my devil’s bridge.
FORTY-SEVEN
I sat down on the boulder and moved crab-like back to the boat. I stepped over the side of it and grabbed the metal frame that edged the canvas T-top to lower myself down.
I lifted the cover of the bench and looked down into the head.
Cormac Lonigan-my hostage-was exactly where I had left him.
I pulled him to his feet and told him to walk up the three small steps to the deck. The sock in his mouth would keep him quiet. There wasn’t much I had to worry about, but I made him get to his knees.
He was shivering with just his jockey shorts and long-sleeved shirt on.
I bent down in the storage space beyond the toilet. There were a few sets of waders and other boating clothes.
I climbed up next to Lonigan. “These will be too big for you, but they’ll be warmer,” I said.
I helped him pull on the one-piece black rubber overalls. He didn’t fight me. I didn’t dare remove his handcuffs, so I fastened the clasps over his shirt but decided against letting his hands free for long enough to put on an all-weather jacket.
I had no intention to kill the kid. I just wanted him to be my bait.
I walked to the stern to get the extra length of rope that was stowed there. I rolled up the legs of my chinos, almost to my knees. When I turned back to Lonigan, I could see him taking in the landscape. He must have recognized the bridge overhead but might have made no sense of the location.
I got back onto the boulder where we were anchored and told Lonigan to follow me.
He hesitated. He had no ability to speak, but his eyes were asking me Why?
“Gotta test the water,” I said. “In case we have to go for a swim.”