Ridgeway continued pulling until his hands grasped the dock cleat to which the rope was made fast. He remained there for a moment, looking about. The awkward flying bridges and superstructure of a powerboat blocked his view of the near dock.

Ridgeway leveraged himself against the mooring fine with one leg and threw the other over the edge of the dock. For one long moment, his body seemed frozen in space, spread-eagled and perfectly taut, and then the next instant he was supine on the dock with the rain pounding at his face. He turned his head and gulped at the sharp wet air, coughing softly.

Slowly he levered himself up on his elbows and struggled into a sitting position. To his left, on the other side of the basin, one of the men continued his march away from him. Seth rose cautiously to his feet and waited for the numbness to fade. Then he moved slowly toward the main part of the pier. Reflexively, his right hand fumbled in the pocket of his robe for his revolver, but all his fingers closed around was a thick wad of thousand-dollar bills. He put the thought of the money and the gun out of his mind and continued ahead.

When he had first climbed onto the dock, a large powerboat had hidden him from view. But now as he made his way up to the bow of the boat and reached the main dock, he could clearly see the fence at the top of the seawall and the buildings beyond it. And just as clearly as he could see, others could see him.

Move! He urged himself on. Then, breaking into a run, he made his way rapidly up the dock toward the steep ramp that led to the land. He looked for the other man. What had happened to him? Where was he hiding? As he neared the ramp, he paused by the bowsprit of a large ketch and scanned the top of the seawall. No sign of anyone in a yellow rain slicker.

Had the man seen him? Was he up there, just out of sight, waiting for him to walk up the ramp? Ridgeway knew only that he had to move; he had to go up that ramp no matter what was waiting for him. To stay on the dock was to die. He took a long, shuddering breath, then started up the ramp’s steep incline.

He was almost at the top of the ramp when he caught a glimpse of yellow out of the corner of his left eye. He fell quickly to the ramp and lay on his stomach. Options. What were his options? To go up the ramp was to face the man with the gun, to go back down was to face certain death by exposure. He began to crawl upward.

Just short of the top Ridgeway summoned the last reserves of his strength, pushed up, and raced toward the cars. He passed the killers’ black sedan, then the public rest rooms. He felt his bare feet slapping against the asphalt, and for one instant thought that it was a good sign that feeling had returned to them,