No one else, I mean.'
So Graham Hoyt and Peter Robelon both thought Paige Vallis had the means to legitimize the little gold coin that they both coveted. A legal form, signed by the secretary of the treasury more than half a century ago, that would monetize the Double Eagle. One sheet of paper, smuggled out of Egypt by Paige's father, perhaps, after King Farouk was deposed. The document that together with Queenie's coin would make their possessor a multimillionaire.
Why couldn't there have been two Eagles validated for the great Farouk? An identically matched pair, one of them undiscovered until now? No one had ever been sure of the exact count of the handful of coins smuggled out of the Mint, then or now.
'I meant your plan for me,' I said.
Graham Hoyt had studied the lives of the great collectors, the greedy Farouk among them. There were newspaper accounts at the time of the king's lover, the exotic dancer from Harlem. He had schoolmates like Tripping and Robelon, who also knew the legends and the myths of the accumulated treasures. They'd all heard the story of the tutor who didn't want gold or jewels, but who busied himself with Farouk's documents. Then, too, Hoyt must have followed the great auction, the amazing story of a twenty-dollar piece of gold that fetched millions because of the paper that made it legal.
He was slowing the speed as we neared Shooter's Island. There was no sign of any human life ahead. No people around, no one to call out to. It looked like a wildlife preserve.
'Terrible place for an accident,' he said, steering with his left hand and picking up the wrench in his right.
'The cops won't buy it. You told your captain I wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, not some goddamn bird sanctuary.' I was fidgeting wildly now, trying in vain to make him worry about people doubting why we were here. I glanced at the desolate scrap of land, nestled off the northern coast of Staten Island, New Jersey's border in the distance, and nothing but the Kills behind me.
'Funny thing about that. My captain will probably remember-once I remind him-that when you were on board yesterday I mentioned this little island to you. How curious you were about its spectacular heyday a century ago, when Teddy Roosevelt came here to launch the
'So now you have a problem with the steering, you crash-land on the shore, and I go overboard, which accounts for the terrible crack in my head,' I said, pointing at the wrench. 'An accidental drowning.'
'Save a friend, Alex. Just tell me what Paige gave you, one last time?'
He was maneuvering the boat into place, looking around behind him to make sure that no one was anywhere near us on the wide side of the Kill, far from landfall in Jersey. On my right, the only living things were egrets and herons, surrounded by tall stands of salt-marsh cordgrass.
Hoyt was making his last reconnoiter before, I assured myself, he got ready to use the wrench to torment me into some kind of cooperation.
With my left arm balanced on the side rail, I pulled on the plastic line of the fishing rod that I had found when I cracked my head against it, stowed in its place along the length of the boat. I yanked it until I could grasp the cold metal hook in my right hand. Sitting back on my haunches, I lunged at Hoyt's left hand, ripping the skin with the long, sharp claw of the silver hook.
He screamed, and the wrench dropped to the floor as he reflexively grabbed at his bloody left hand with his right. I stabbed again, catching on a bone in his right wrist this time, doubling him over and bringing him to his knees as he shrieked in pain. A cacophony of birds began mocking him from the island, screeching in reply to his ungodly sounds.
I reached behind me and pulled my feet out of the noose he had made. I looked up and there was blood everywhere. Hoyt had buried his face in his hands and was trying to bite out the hook that was embedded in his wrist.
I didn't know how to stop the boat, which was moving slowly past the tip of Shooter's Island, headed south into the next kill that separated Staten Island from New Jersey. I crawled across the floor and picked up the wrench, striking Hoyt on the back of the head. He collapsed onto the floor and continued to writhe and moan.
Once on my feet, I checked our distance from the small island preserve, which was blessedly close. I sat on the side of the boat, swung both legs over, and, careful to avoid the engine, kicked away and threw myself into the water. I swam the ten feet to shore, startling all the wildlife, and pulled myself up onto land to catch my breath.
I looked back and the boat was still moving, farther away, with no sign of Hoyt at the wheel.
As fast as I could travel in my bare feet, I ran in the opposite direction from which we had come. The brush and rocks were rough on my soles as I tried to pick my way through the under-growth. Bird droppings were everywhere, and my feathered companions squawked and flew off as I invaded their habitat. Gulls circled overhead in protest, and I plugged along as best I could, until I finally caught sight of a tanker coming toward the entrance to Arthur Kill.
My frenetic gesticulations did nothing to stop the larger vessels that passed through the channel, but someone must have radioed to the authorities the sight of a human trespasser on Shooter's Island. Fifteen minutes later, an NYPD harbor launch was steaming at me, and I waded out into the chilly water to greet it.
41
I only had to say my name and the cops on harbor patrol knew what to do with me. Mercer had called headquarters when Hoyt cut off my cell phone, which started a search of the waterfront. Then he'd spoken with the
When we docked at the small pier on the southwest side of the statue, Mercer was waiting for me. He lifted me down from the rear of the boat, embraced me, and held me close against him. I couldn't control my shivering as I rested my head against his chest.
'Let's get her inside,' he said, passing through a group of other cops and security agents who wanted to be helpful. 'You,' he said, pointing at a National Parks Service officer, 'get into the gift shop and-'
'It's closed for the day, sir.'
'Get in it. Bring me a sweatshirt and anything else that's dry and clean. I don't care if you have to break in.'
One of the cops had covered me with his own windbreaker. It hardly mattered. Cold, wet, and numb were feelings I was getting accustomed to this week.
We walked into the entrance of Fort Wood, the War of 1812 garrison that formed the statue's base, and Mercer guided me to an office door down a long corridor.
'What happened?' Mike asked, hanging up the phone and flashing me one of his priceless grins. 'Hairdresser couldn't take you today? Look like that, it's no wonder you can't hold on to a man.'
There were six other cops in the room, working phones and computers, now calling off the search and alerting the patrol boats that I was safe.
'Tried my best to hook a guy just half an hour ago,' I said, knowing that if I didn't keep up the banter, I was likely to dissolve into tears. 'Did he get away, too?'
'Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor entirely, blondie. Nope. Mr. Hoyt is in an ambulance on his way to the hospital. Mild concussion and a couple of holes in his hands. The Port Authority cops picked him up on the Jersey side.'
'C'mon next door,' Mercer said. 'There's an empty office.'
'Figures,' Mike said. 'Coop's the only little girl I ever knew who preferred Captain Hook to TinkerBell.'
The parks service guard returned with a large fleece shirt, a huge logo of Liberty's torch on the front. I went inside first and changed into the dry top before opening the door for Mercer and Mike. They wanted to know what had gone on this afternoon with Graham Hoyt and how I had handled it. I gave them a clinical version. The prospect of what could have happened on the river was overwhelming.
