The Wolfen

signal as long as I don’t move too far back in the apartment and you stay near the edge of the roof. You got the signals straight?”

“One dot every five minutes. Two if I want to go to voice. Three if I need help.” Instead of talking they planned to signal as much as possible by pressing the mike button. It would keep the noise down.

“Right. But give us a vocal as soon as you get up there and another just before you’re ready to come down.” He glanced over her shoulder. Dick was adjusting the camera, Ferguson was facing the TV set “Come closer,” Wilson said in an undertone. She stood face to face with him and he kissed her a long moment on the mouth. “I love the hell out of you,” he said. She smiled at him, put her finger to her lips, then turned and went into the dining room. She was glad—he seemed to be recovering some of his customary strength.

“Camera’s good,” Dick said. “Just for God’s sake don’t drop it over the ledge. They’ll have my head six ways from Sunday if I don’t bring this thing back intact.”

She took it from him, carrying it in both hands. Her thermos of hot coffee was under her arm.

“Wait a minute, kid,” he said. “Isn’t something missing?”

“If you mean the Ingram, I’m not taking it.”

“You damn well are.” He went into the living room and lifted it out of the box Wilson had brought it in. “It’ll fit right up under your pea jacket, very nice and snug. Take it.”

“I’ve got my thirty-eight. I don’t want the Ingram.”

“Take the fucking thing, Becky!” She took it from him. His mouth trembled as he gave it to her. They said nothing; there was nothing more to be said.

The three men accompanied her to the elevator. It seemed unlikely that anybody would be encountered on the way up, but if they were, the presence of four people in the car would draw attention away from Becky’s strange outfit and equipment.

The elevator rose smoothly to the thirtieth floor. All four of them got out. They went into the stairwell through the gray-painted exit door. The wind could be heard above, booming against the door that led to the roof. Becky ascended the single flight of stairs, followed by Wilson and Dick. Ferguson remained below.

“OK, kid,” Wilson said, opening the door. It faced north, and as soon as he opened it a brutal gust of ice-cold wind poured in on them. Becky barely felt it under her layers of clothing. She tromped out onto the roof—and nearly fell flat. The snow had melted up here and now the melt was a layer of ice. She stood bracing herself against the jamb of the open door, staring down at the two men huddled on the steps behind her. “Icy as hell,” she shouted over the wind.

“Can you make it?” Wilson hollered back.

“On all fours.”

“What’s that?”

“On all fours.” And she pushed the door closed. At once she was plunged into a dark and alien world. The wind boomed and every move caused her to lose purchase on the ice. The roof was flat, its expanse broken only by this door and by a shed about ten feet away that housed the elevator motors. The building was large and the roof area was wide, perhaps a hundred feet on a side. This area, roughly square, was covered in gravel which made the layer of ice bumpy and even more difficult to walk across. If she stood still the wind moved her of its own accord, causing her to lean into it and stumble until she was down on all fours. Her eyes were tearing and the tears were freezing on her cheeks. Lights whirled past. She huddled against the door, her back to the wind. She pulled out the pocket warmer and cradled its fitful heat near her face. The Ingram’s butt jutted into her left breast, the coffee thermos threatened to roll out from under her arm, the walkie-talkie and camera further impeded her movements. She looked around. Lights glowed up from three sides of the building. Those were the street sides. The fourth side, which disappeared into a maw of blackness, overlooked the alley.

Putting the pocket warmer away, she braced herself and crawled toward the dark edge of the roof. For safety she finally went down on her stomach and slithered as best she could with all the equipment. The edge loomed closer, the wind rocked her prone body. Cold ripped into her, cutting under the pea jacket, so bitter that it felt like fire against her skin. She kept telling herself that she was crazy, she had to turn back, there was no way to endure this for more than a few minutes.

But she went on, dragging herself closer and closer to the edge of the roof. At least the alley was on the south side of the building and her back would be to the wind.

She reached the edge, touched the concrete lip of the roof with her gloved fingers and paused. The lip was about three inches high, a bare handhold. Methodically she inventoried: thermos, radio, camera, weapon. OK, now pull into position. She dragged herself closer to the edge, pulling with her cold-stiffened fingers until her face was just at the lip of the roof. Before her was an empty expanse that plunged into dark. South of the building was a sea of brownstones and older, lower apartments. Beyond them she could see all of midtown Manhattan, the lights glimmering in the wind, the moon now risen high above the city. In the sky the anti-collision strobes of passing planes stuttered. Far to the west a fitful carmine glow marked the very end of day. But here the night was total, and the alleyway below was unlit except by the faint glow from the windows of apartments low down in the building.

Clumsily she maneuvered the camera before her face, felt for the button, and turned it on. Immediately the readout jumped into the viewfinder and she pressed the focusing lever. The alleyway swam into view, uncannily bright and detailed. She could see trashcans, see the frozen snow covering their tops. The brownstone houses across the alley all had gardens, and she could look into their shadows and see the frozen remains of summer flowers, the hard limbs of naked trees. The windows of the brownstones were almost too bright to look at, but when her eye adjusted she could see people inside, most of them sitting like statues before television sets. One young family was eating dinner at a table behind a glass door. There were four of them, two adults and two children. She could make out the faces clearly.

Now she pulled the camera back, cradling it against her chest, and drew the walkie-talkie around to her face. It had been hanging from its strap along her back. Clumsily she turned it on, held it to her ear so that the mouthpiece fit under her lips. This would be the only voice transmission and she didn’t want it to last any longer than it had to. For all she knew they were out there somewhere right now watching and waiting. “You there?” she asked quietly.

At once there was a reply, Wilson: “Hear you.” She reported briefly. “I’m in position, camera operating, cold as hell.”

“Hell’s hot.”