Rune asked, “Did you hear anybody come down from the roof?”

“Yeah, I did. Fifteen minutes ago. Then you go up, then you come down. Grand Central Station today.”

“Did you see him?”

“We were a little busy...”

Rune said, “Please? It's important.”

“We thought he was cruising but we weren't sure. You have to be kind of careful.”

Sure. No telling what kind of degenerate you'll meet while having sex in deserted piers.

“So we kept mum.”

“What did he look like?”

“Medium build. But otherwise I have no idea.” Turning to his companion: “Do you?... No, we don't have any idea.”

Rune said, “Did you see what he was wearing? A jacket?”

“A red windbreaker. Hat, an old-fashioned one. Dark slacks, I think,” one voice said.

“Tight.” From the other.

“You would notice that.”

Rune said, “Well, thanks.”

As she left she heard them whispering. Something about not exactly being in the mood anymore. “Well, you can try.”

She started the descent to the first floor.

Feeling her thudding heartbeats slow.

Rune laughed. This room is reserved. Why didn't they pick a more romantic —

He got her from behind.

At the foot of the stairs, as she was stepping carefully around the hole, the hand grabbed her pony tail and jerked her backward. She saw a gloved hand, holding a razor box cutter, start for her neck. She grabbed his wrist and dug in hard with her short nails. It deflected the knife and for a moment they grappled for it. She knew if she let go of the banister she'd fall but there was no other way to get the tear gas with her other hand; it was deep in her pocket.

Rune released her grip and as she tumbled into her attacker she grabbed the canister and, without aiming, pushed the button. A cloud sprayed out between them, blinding them both. She cried out in pain as the attacker spun away, hands over his face.

But he didn't let go and Rune felt herself being pulled backward. Eyes shut, she reached out but grabbed only air and fell in panic and confusion. Her breath exploded from her lungs as she hit the floor hard on her back. She twisted onto her stomach, then was up on one knee, scrabbling away from him. The man bent down quickly and gripped her around the neck. He wasn't strong. But he had surprise on his side — and desperation. He kicked her in the chest, again knocking her windless. She curled into a ball, gasping. Vaguely she saw his blurry form groping for the razor knife. She smelled old wood and salt water and motor oil and rot, and she tasted salt — maybe her tears, maybe blood.

Christ, her eyes stung. Like alcohol.

She too began looking for her weapon, slapping her hand on the floor, trying to find the canister of tear gas.