I took matches from my pocket and lit the ignition charges. I moved back behind the cover of the base of the bridge.
I waited patiently as the flame worked down to the top pyrotechnic star and the fire spread within each of the candles, which were bound to have a greater impact going off together than each alone.
Boats motored by on the river, but these weren’t pointed their way.
Finally, the lift charges were ignited and the candles exploded into the black space of the sky directly south of the lighthouse.
The bright yellow and purple stars burst out of the seam in the rock and kept coming: five, six, seven, eight of them-sixteen in all. The noise of the blast made the train whistle of a northbound express seem like a distant rumble.
I stepped back behind the cement foundation to wait and to watch.
It took less than one minute. The door to the lighthouse opened slowly. A man appeared in the doorway, and backlit as he was, I could see it wasn’t Emmet Renner.
He stood there for a few seconds, as though waiting for something else to happen. Then he started to walk down the slope toward the river, toward the source of the fireworks launch.
I could tell that he was younger than Renner. Probably in his twenties, like Cormac Lonigan. I could also see that when he put his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, in his right one he was clutching something heavy, like a gun.
FORTY-NINE
The young man who was approaching the far side of the base of the tower didn’t seem terribly concerned. The purple and yellow shooting stars and their loud soundtrack had been meant to grab the attention of anyone around, but the fireworks would not have been confused with incoming artillery.
He was dressed for the cool of an early-fall evening, and his sneakers gripped the boulder more readily than my bare feet.
He came down to the water’s edge, crouched to pick up some pebbles, and looked around to see if he had any company.
I watched as he tried to skip the stones on the river, still crouching. But the surface was way too busy for skipping them.
Both his hands were engaged in culling stones and tossing them. For at least this moment I had the upper hand.
I stepped from behind the tower’s base and onto the top of the slanted boulder. Before the young man heard me, I raced down on my bare feet and pushed him forward so that his face and chest pounded against the rock. His head was almost in the water.
I straddled his back, covering his mouth with my left hand as I grabbed his gun-an old-fashioned revolver-from his pocket.
I held the barrel of the gun against his ear.
“I’m Chingachgook,” I said, “last of the Mohicans.”
James Fenimore Cooper had stoked my childhood fantasies of Hudson River Valley Indians when I played on these rocks decades ago.
“Say one word and if your gun is loaded, you’ll be a dead man. If it’s not loaded, I’ve got my own.”
There was neither sound nor movement from the watchman.
“I’m going to stand up, and you’re coming with me.”
He followed orders and got to his feet.
I retraced my route toward the Intrepid, one step behind my new prisoner and the gun tight against his head.
We passed Cormac Lonigan, but I didn’t stop to eyeball him, and my companion didn’t think of doing anything except looking straight ahead.
When we reached the side of the boat, I had to nudge the guy in his backside to get him to step on board. Once again, I had an occupant for the lone seat on the boat’s toilet.
He climbed down the three narrow steps and followed my orders to sit down.
“Take off your shoes and socks and pass them to me,” I said.
I was fresh out of handcuffs, but the good thing about boats was that there was always some kind of line around that would come in handy. I kicked the pile of life preservers aside and there was a blue-and-white nylon rope beneath it.
Once I had tied the man’s hands together and shoved one of his own socks deep into his mouth so that he couldn’t dislodge it, I speed-dialed Mercer again.
“I got one man out of the lighthouse,” I said.
“What does he say?” Mercer asked. “Who’s in there?”
“Cut me a break, dude. Tell me I did good for a change, will you? I had to get him back to the boat before I could talk to him. But he did have a gun and I took it away,” I said. “I’m going to put the phone down, on speaker, so you can hear what he has to say.”
“You have an extra set of cuffs, Mike?”
“Nope.”
“A second guy on the boat with you?” Mercer asked. “Where’s Lonigan?”
“Chillin’. Situation under control.”
I rested the phone on the edge of the seat behind me.
“I’m patting him down first,” I said, running my hand over the man’s clothes and into his pockets. “Nothing here. Not even ID.”
I picked up his handgun and checked. Six bullets, locked and loaded.
I held it against his cheek with my right hand as I removed the sock with my left.
“Very softly now, you tell me your name.”
“Paddy,” he said.
“I should have guessed. Paddy what?”
“Paddy Duffy.”
“The luck of the Irish is with me,” I said. “It’s a slight bit of brogue I hear, am I right?”
I thought of what the cop, Officer Stern, had told us that morning, about the redheaded man in the backseat of the SUV with a sleeping woman. That the man had a brogue.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“Where’s Emmet Renner?” I asked.
Paddy flinched. Which was all the answer I needed.
“He’s in the lighthouse, I’d say. And counting on you to be looking out for him.”
Paddy Duffy nodded.
“There’s a woman there, too, isn’t there?”
It seemed like an hour between the time I asked the question and his answer.
“Yes. He’s got a girl in there.”
“She’s alive?”
My breathing was more rapid than his. He knew what to be afraid of, but at this point I wasn’t quite sure what I was facing.
“Yeah. She’s alive.”
I holstered the gun in my waistband and covered my face with my hands. I didn’t speak again until I could compose myself.
FIFTY
“Mike? Mike?” Mercer said. “Are you still there?”
“Hanging by a thread.”
“That’s great news, Mike. Now, turn it over to us.”
I resumed my conversation with Paddy Duffy.
“Hold off,” I said to Mercer. And then to my prisoner, “How many people are in the lighthouse with Emmet Renner?”
“Two. Was just me and another guy, and then the girl.”
“Is she hurt?”
“Not so’s I can tell. Emmet’s waiting for the cops to show up,” Duffy said. “He’s got a beef to settle. I wouldn’t give a nickel for her chances after that.”
“About the same as yours,” I said. “Guns?”
“You got mine.”
“The other guy?”
“There’s a few guns inside.”
“The woman,” I said, “did you have her on Liberty Island?”
Duffy cocked his head and looked at me. “Not saying.”
“You don’t have to. Cormac Lonigan already gave you up.”
“Cormac had nothing to do with this,” Duffy said.
“You’re all singing the same song,” I said. “I guess Ms. Cooper just kidnapped herself.”
“You’re wasting your energy on me.”
“Do you know Cormac?”
“Yeah. You could say that,” Duffy said.
“Come all the way from the other side to hook up with a Renner, did you?” I said. “Westies redux.”
“I just work with him. Simple as that.” Duffy picked up his head to look at me.
“Don’t even think about spitting,” I said. “It’s already been done.”
I put the sock in Duffy’s mouth, stepped up, and slammed the lid of the bench.