Bell aimed for Harry Frost’s legs, intending to slow the man, climb out of the water, and get him. But he was numb with cold. His head was reeling from the punch. It took an act of will to steady the barrel, another to force his finger to curl smoothly around the trigger so he wouldn’t miss.

The gun felt heavy.

“You don’t have the guts to pull the trigger,” Frost flung over his shoulder.

Strangely heavy. Was he losing consciousness? No. It was too heavy. Why did Frost throw it instead of simply shooting him? Why was he daring him to shoot? Bell let go the trigger, engaged the safety, turned the weapon around, and looked at the muzzle. It was cram-packed with mud.

Frost had jammed it into the river mud when he picked it up, deliberately tamping it into the barrel so it would blow up in Bell’s hand. Characteristic Harry Frost. Like the bent horseshoes thrown through victims’ windows to terrorize them, the chief investigator’s maimed hand would warn every Van Dorn detective: Don’t mess with Harry Frost.

Bell dunked the gun in the water and slammed it back and forth, sluicing out the mud. With any luck, it would fire a shot or two. But when he looked for his target, Harry Frost had melted into the shadows. Bell called, “Frost!” All he heard in response was laughter echoing under a distant pier.

“WHERE IS JOSEPHINE?” Isaac Bell shouted into the stockyard office telephone.

“Are you O.K., Isaac?” asked Joseph Van Dorn.

“Where is Josephine?”

“Camped out on Bedloe’s Island, fixing her flying machine. Where are you?”

“Who’s watching her?”

“Six of my best detectives and twenty-seven newspaper reporters. Not to mention Mr. Preston Whiteway, circling on a steam yacht, beaming searchlights for your fiancée to shoot moving pictures by. Are you O.K.?”

“Tip-top, soon as I get a propeller, a new wing stay, and a Remington autoload.”

“I’ll send word to Marion you’re O.K. Where are you, Isaac?”

“Weehawken stockyards. Frost got away.”

“Seems to be making a habit of that,” the boss observed coolly. “Did you wing him at least?”

“I took off one of his ears.”

“That’s a start.”

“But it didn’t stop him.”

“Where’s he headed?”

“I don’t know,” Bell admitted. His head ached, and his jaw felt like he’d been chewing thornbushes.

“Do you think he’ll try again?”

“He assured me he will not stop trying until he kills her.”

“You spoke?” The tone of Van Dorn’s voice suggested that if Bell could somehow see through telephone wire, he would be facing sharply raised eyebrows.

“Briefly.”

“What’s his state of mind?”

Isaac Bell had thought of little else since he swam ashore.