“I—I don’t know,” he said finally, his vast experience as a liar standing him in good stead. “But I’m going to find out.”

And then there was no more island left—they were at Battery Park, the southern tip of Manhattan. Jack sped along the east side of the park and screeched to the right around a curve at its end. Without slowing, he plowed through a cyclone gate and hurtled across the sand toward the water.

“My truck!” Abe yelled.

“Sorry! I’ll get it fixed for you.”

Gia let out a yelp as Jack swerved to a stop in the sand. He leaped out and ran to the bulkhead.

Upper New York Bay spread out before him. A gentle breeze fanned his face. Due south, directly ahead, lay the trees and buildings of Governor’s Island. To the left, across the mouth of the East River, sat Brooklyn. And far off to the right, toward New Jersey, on her own island, stood Lady Liberty with her blazing torch held high. The bay was deserted —no pleasure boats, no Staten Island Ferries, no Circle Line cruisers. Nothing but a dark wasteland of water. Jack fumbled the binoculars out of the case slung around his neck and scanned the bay.

He’s out there—he’s got to be!

Yet the surface of the bay was lifeless—no movement, no sound but the lapping of the water against the bulkhead. His hands began to tremble as he raked the glasses back and forth over the water.

He’s here! He can’t get away!

And then he found a ship—directly between him and Governor’s Island. On previous passes he had confused its running lights with the lights on the buildings behind it. But this time he caught the glint of the setting moon off its aft superstructure. An adjustment of the glasses brought the long deck into focus. When he saw the single kingpost and its four cranes amidships, he was sure he had her.

“That’s it!” he shouted and handed the glasses to Gia. She took them from him with a bewildered look on her face.

He ran to the back of the truck and dragged out the raft. Abe helped him unbox it and activate the CO 2 cartridges. As the flat oval of yellow rubber began to inflate and take shape, Jack slipped into the harness of the flamethrower. His back bothered him hardly at all. He carried the box of incendiary bombs to the bulkhead and checked to make sure he had his variable frequency beeper. He noticed Gia watching him intently.

“Are you okay, Jack?”

In her eyes he thought he detected a hint of the warm feelings she once had for him, but there was doubt there, too.

Here it comes. She means, ’Are you all right in the head?’

“No, I’m not okay. I won’t be okay until I’m through with what I’ve got to do out there on that ship.”

“Are you sure about this? Is Vicky really out there?”

Yes. She’s out there. But she’s dead. Eaten by— Jack fought the urge to burst our crying.