Field looked down. It was a long, straight drop to the alley through which he and Chen had entered the building. Three armed police officers crouched down by the service entrance, next to the refuse bin. Another two were flattened against the wall behind them.
Field turned before they had a chance to look up. The telegraph wires left him with only five or six feet of roof. It wasn’t enough to make the jump.
He heard more shots below and then a volley of machine-gun fire.
Field focused on the roof opposite. He moved back as far as he could go, until the telegraph wires were stretched taut against the back of his legs. He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy.
There was more shouting below. Field took his revolver from his belt, opened his eyes, and ran, his feet thumping against the gravel, the leap, the glimpse of the alley beneath him, frozen in his mind before his feet smacked down on the roof opposite and he tumbled onto his good shoulder, trying to protect the gun and stop himself from screaming with the pain.
He stood, unsteady, bits of gravel stuck to his shirt. There was more gunfire from inside the building behind him, followed by the steady thump of machine-gun bullets.
A rusty iron ladder led up to a raised platform on the far side of this roof. Field climbed onto it, the tower above the race club still visible to his right.
He clambered over another line of telegraph wires and walked to the edge.
The next building was taller, beyond his reach, except for one small section directly ahead of him around a pair of chimney stacks. There was a ledge on this side where he would need to launch himself, making it impossible to get a running start, and only a foot or two of space where he could land, but he had no choice.
Field stared at the gap between the chimneys opposite him and the edge of the roof. There was a small rim along the edge, not more than the height of a single layer of bricks, but enough to grip hold of.
Field stood on the ledge, bent his knees, and then hesitated. His stomach lurched in the way it did when he was about to launch himself from a high diving board.
It was too far.
He looked around him. A window was open in the top-floor apartment of the building opposite, its lace curtain fluttering gently in the breeze. The alley beneath him was blocked at one end by a wall, so that there was no entry from Foochow Road. Lines of brightly colored washing were strung across it.
He could no longer hear gunfire.
Field closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, bent his knees and jumped, hurtling toward the ledge.
He hit it with the top half of his body, his hands scrabbling in the gravel and slipping, before catching the parapet. His legs dangled in space; one arm and shoulder fought to stay on the roof while the rest of him hung down the side of the building.
Field gradually pulled himself up, but then slipped farther, his shoulder on fire.
He tried not to look down but couldn’t help himself. He saw only his feet and then the long drop to the alley below.
He managed to raise himself again, tearing his fingernails on the gravel, scrabbling for some kind of purchase with his feet, managing finally to get the inside edge of the sole of his right shoe into a small crack in the mortar. He put some weight on it, but a piece of the brick gave way and he fell farther, so that he was now hanging down vertically.
Field closed his eyes and pulled, willing the strength into his arms.
It was slow, and infinitely painful. He grunted, pushing his feet against the wall to relieve some of the pressure on his arms and shoulder, trying not to lose his grip on the ledge.
He got his good arm onto the roof and searched again for somewhere to put his feet. He found another tiny hole with the tip of his shoe and this time put less weight on it, pulling himself up slowly until both elbows, then shoulders, and finally his entire upper body were over the ledge.
He swung his legs around and then rolled over onto his back, staring up at the sky.
Field got to his feet. He waited until he had regained his balance, then climbed onto the chimney stack and rolled over onto the roof.
There was a hatch directly ahead of him, but before touching it, Field walked to each side of the building to get his bearings. The front of this building was directly opposite the racecourse, and he could see the truck and cars still parked in the street below.
A small group of uniformed officers stood behind a wall beyond the entrance to the Happy Times block, but Field couldn’t see any sign of them on the other side or at the back.
He returned to the hatch, lifted the edge with his foot, and then tipped it off. He ducked down.
He could hear a baby crying but couldn’t see anyone. He waited for a few moments, then climbed down a metal ladder bolted to the wall. The baby’s wails echoed around the circular stairwell.
Field stepped onto the stone landing and waited again, breathing deeply. A mother or nanny was trying to soothe the child, but it cried still louder.
He put his back against the wall and began to walk down the stairs, the revolver in his good hand, his eyes straining in the gloom. He saw a Chinese woman sitting with the baby, soothing it, caressing its forehead, rocking it from side to side. Field kept his revolver up, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone steps as he came down toward her.
The child’s crying lessened. The woman caught sight of him but did not move or recoil, her eyes steadily on his. Field saw something in her look, compassion perhaps, then realized it was a warning.
“Stay where you are, Field. Lower your gun.”
