Delaney took a deep breath, started again.
“To Communications. Second repeat urgent ambulance. One homicide victim, four serious injuries, one hysteria victim. Need two ambulances and doctors soonest.”
“To Assault-Homicide. Second repeat urgent assistance. Anything on those cars Communications sent to block the George Washington Bridge?”
“Cars in position, sir. No sign of Danny Boy.”
“Our men there with photos?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Anything from Bulldog Three?”
“Can’t raise them, sir.”
“Keep trying.”
Blankenship came over to the Captain, looking down at a wooden board with a spring clamp at the top. He had been making notes. Delaney noted the man’s hands were trembling slightly but his voice was steady.
“Want a recap, sir?” he asked softly.
“A tally?” Delaney said thankfully. “I could use that. What have we got left?”
“One car, unmarked, and four men. But the recalls should be here soon, and Lieutenant Dorfman next door sent over two men in uniform to stand by. He also says he’s holding a squad car outside the precinct house in case we need it. The three cars from Special Operations are on the way.”
“No sign of Danny Boy at the Bridge, sir. Traffic beginning to back up.”
“What?” the other radio operator said sharply. “Louder. Louder! I’m not making you.”
Then they heard the hoarse, agonized whisper:
“Barbara…Bulldog Three…cracked up…lost him…”
“Where?” Delaney roared into the mike. “God damn you, stay on your feet? Where are you? Where did you lose him?”
“…north…Broadway…Broadway…Ninety-fifth…hurt…”
“You and you,” Delaney said, pointing. “Take the car outside. Over to Broadway and Ninety-fifth. Report in as soon as possible. You, get on to Communications. Nearest cars and ambulance. Officers injured in accident. Son of a bitch!”
“Barbara from Searcher One.”
“Got you, Searcher One.”
“MacDonald. One ambulance here. Fernandez is all right. Lost a lot of blood but he’s going to make it. The doc gave him a shot. Thanks for the towels. Another ambulance pulling up. Cars from Assault-Homicide. Mobile lab…”
“Hold it a minute, sergeant.” Delaney turned to the other radio operator. “Did you check the cars on the Bridge?”
“Yes, sir. The photos got there, but no sign of Danny Boy.” Delaney turned back to the first radio. “Go on, sergeant.”
“Things are getting sorted out. Fernandez and Tiger One (what the hell is his name?) on their way to the hospital. The way I make it, Danny Boy came running out of the Castle and caught Fernandez just as he was straightening up, beginning his draw. Swung his ax at the lieutenant’s skull. Fernandez moved and turned to take it on his left shoulder, back, high up, curving in near the neck. Danny Boy pulled the ax free, jumped into his car. Tiger One rushed the car from across the street, firing as he ran. He got off there. Two hits on the car, he says, with one through the front left window. But Danny Boy apparently unhurt. He got started fast, pulled away, side-swiped Tiger One, knocked him down and out. The whole goddamned thing happened so fast. The men in Bulldog Two and Three were left with their mouths open.”
“I know,” Delaney sighed. “Remain on station. Assist Assault-Homicide. Guards on the kid and Valenter until we can get statements.”
“Understood. Searcher One out.”
“Any word from the Bridge?” Delaney asked the radio operator.
“No, sir. Traffic backing up.”
“Captain Delaney, the three cars from Special Operations are outside.”
“Good, Hold them. Blankenship, come into the study with me.
They went in; Delaney closed all the doors. He searched a moment, pulled from the bookshelves a folded road map of New York City and one of New York State. He spread the city map out on his desk, snapped on the table lamp. The two men bent over the desk. Delaney jabbed his finger at East End Avenue.
“He started here,” he said. “Went north and made a left onto Eighty-sixth Street. That’s what I figure. Went right past Bulldog Three who still had their thumbs up their asses. Oh hell, maybe I’m being too hard on them.”
“We heard a second series of shots and shouts when we alerted Bulldog Three,” Blankenship reminded him.
“Yes. Maybe they got some off. Anyway, Danny Boy headed west.”
“To the George Washington Bridge?”
“Yes,” the Captain said, and paused. If Blankenship wanted to ask any questions about why Delaney had sent blocking cars to the Bridge, now would be the time to ask them. But the detective had too much sense for that, and was silent.
“So now he’s at Central Park,” Delaney went on, his blunt finger tracing the path on the map. “I figure he turned south for Traverse Three and crossed to the west side at Eighty-sixth, went over to Broadway, and turned north. Bulldog Three said he was heading north. He probably turned left onto Ninety-sixth to get on the West Side Drive.”
“He could have continued north and got on the Drive farther up. Or taken Broadway or Riverside Drive all the way to the Bridge.”
“Oh shit,” Captain Delaney said disgustedly, “he could have done a million things.”
Like all cops, he was dogged by the unpredictable. Chance hung like a black cloud that soured his waking hours and defiled his dreams. Every cop lived with it: the meek, humble prisoner who suddenly pulls a knife, a shotgun blast that answers a knock on a door during a routine search, a rifle shot from a rooftop. The unexpected. The only way to beat it was to live by percentages, trust in luck, and-if you needed it-pray.
“We have a basic choice,” Delaney said dully, and Blankenship was intelligent to note the Captain had said, “We have…” not “I have…” He was getting sucked in. This man, the detective reflected, didn’t miss a trick. “We can send out a five-state alarm, then sit here on our keisters and wait for someone else to take him, or we can go get him and clean up our own shit.”
“Where do you think he’s heading, Captain?”
“Chilton,” Delaney said promptly. “It’s a little town in Orange County. Not ten miles from the river. Let me show you.”
He opened the map of New York State, spread it over the back of the club chair, tilted the lampshade to spread more light.
“There it is,” he pointed out, “just south of Mountainville, west of the Military Academy. See that little patch of green? It’s Chilton State Park. Blank goes up there to climb. He’s a mountain climber.” He closed his eyes a moment, trying to remember details of that marked map he had found in Danny Boy’s car a million years ago. Once again Blankenship was silent and asked no questions. Delaney opened his eyes, stared at the detective. “Across the George Washington Bridge,” he recited, delighted with his memory. “Into New Jersey. Onto Four. Then onto Seventeen. Over into New York near Mahwah and Suffern. Then onto the Thruway, and turn off on Thirty-two to Mountainville. Then south to Chilton. The Park’s a few miles out of town.”
“New Jersey?” Blankenship cried. “Jesus Christ, Captain, maybe we better alert them.”
Delaney shook his head. “No use. The Bridge was blocked before he got there. He couldn’t possibly have beat that block. No way, city traffic being what it is. No, he by-passed the Bridge. If he hadn’t he’d have been spotted by now. But he’s still heading for Chilton. I’ve got to believe that. How can he get across the river north of the George Washington Bridge?” They bent over the state map again. Blankenship’s unexpectedly elegant forefinger traced a course.
“He gets on the Henry Hudson Parkway, say at Ninety-sixth. Okay, Captain?”
“Sure.”
“He gets up to the George Washington Bridge, but maybe he sees the block.”
“Or the traffic backing up because of the search.”