Continuing to resolutely suppress any thoughts about the small moving shapes darting around disconcertingly close to my ankles, I dragged over a convenient trash can. It was rubber, not aluminum, and the lid dented and sank a bit when I climbed onto it, but it provided the additional reach I needed. I groped around and managed to unfasten both locks and twist the knob open from the inside. That done, I returned the trash can to its original location and dashed through the door before anything could crawl up my pants legs.

I was in a dark hallway, but a glimmer of light indicated where it met up with the front of the building. I exchanged the penlight for my Olsen twin hat, pulling it down so that it covered all of my hair. Turning back, I stole a glance through the now glassless window. I could see people in Emma’s bedroom across the way, but they didn’t seem to be examining her windows or fire escape. Somewhat reassured, I proceeded down the hallway, which opened on to a blissfully empty foyer.

A few minutes later, I was walking up Greenwich Street, wondering when the creepy-crawly sensation of rats and roaches nipping at my ankles would go away.

I tried to take inspiration from The Pelican Brief, in which the female heroine, Darby Shaw, found herself on the run, trying to prove a case while being hunted by assassins. Julia Roberts played Darby, but she looked fetching in all of her various disguises. She also had Denzel Washington, not to mention the good fortune to be on the run at a time when hotels didn’t insist on credit cards for payment.

There probably were hotels in the city where I could pay cash, but I doubted that checking into that sort of hotel would do much to relieve the lingering creepy-crawly feeling. In fact, I feared that nothing short of bathing in acid was going to rid me of that.

I continued walking north, trying to figure out what to do next. This part of our contingency plan had been elegant in its simplicity, but it really only covered getting me out of Emma’s loft. If the authorities had managed to track me to Emma’s, it most certainly wasn’t safe to call Peter, and my friends were probably being interrogated by the police at this very moment.

There was only one other person I could think to turn to. And while he was no Denzel, I couldn’t begin to describe my relief when he answered my call from the first working pay phone I could find.

Jake was wonderful, calm and eager to help. “I’m at the office now, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come here or to my place,” he said. “The police are clearly extending their net to all of your friends, so they might think to go to my apartment, too. But let’s meet somewhere and I can help you figure things out.”

“Be careful,” I warned Jake. I’d been thinking about the dark-haired stranger as I searched for a phone, cursing myself for not realizing what could happen sooner. I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten to the Starbucks in the first place-whether he’d picked up my trail or had been following Jake-much less why he was following either of us, but once there I’d pretty much drawn him a map to my hideout. He must have tipped off the police to my whereabouts after eavesdropping on Jake and me.

It was dark enough that I risked taking a cab up the West Side Highway. It turned out that I had no need to worry; the taxi driver spent the entire ride chattering on his cell phone in a language I’d never heard before. Jake had suggested the West 79th Street Boat Basin. “The café’s closed this time of year, but the outside part is open and it should be deserted. I’m leaving now, so I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so.” Amazingly, he was still plowing forward on the Thunderbolt deal, even after everything that had happened and even though it had him and Mark slaving away at the office well after the technical close of business hours. At least being on the lam gave me a temporary reprieve from work

The driver pulled up to the designated taxi drop-off spot. He didn’t look up when I pushed the fare through the slot in the divider but sped away, still talking on his phone, as soon as I’d slammed the door shut behind me.

I made my way through the pedestrian underpass below the highway and then around the shuttered restaurant and out to the rotunda overlooking the Hudson. As expected, it was deserted, and I crossed to the balustrade, pulling up my collar against the wind coming off the water. It was a crisp, clear night, and I would probably have even been able to see stars if they hadn’t been obscured by the lights of the city behind me. A bright moon traced the outlines of the buildings on the opposite shore, and the George Washington Bridge stretched across the river farther to the north.

I paced the flagstones, partially out of nerves and partially to keep warm. The temperature had dropped considerably during the day. As I waited, the initial quiet gave way to the sounds of traffic from the highway and water lapping against pilings. In the distance I could hear sirens, but they quickly faded away. If it was more police, coming after me again, they were heading in the wrong direction.

I squinted at my watch, trying to make out the time. It was nearly nine, a full forty-five minutes since I’d spoken to Jake. He may have been detained by something at the office, or perhaps he had trouble finding a cab. I hoped the delay didn’t have anything to do with the mystery man in the suede jacket. I paced some more and tried to think warm thoughts, but neither imaginary Caribbean beaches nor imaginary hot chocolate could compete with the very real wind chill.

Suddenly, I felt a rush of air whooshing past me and heard a strange, high-pitched whine. Before me, a piece of the stone balustrade dislodged itself and flew into the water. Then I felt another rush of air and heard the whining noise again. A few feet away, a flagstone dissolved into fragments.

Startled, I turned, holding up an arm to shield my face against the wind, only to feel yet another rush of air and hear another whining noise.

It was then that I noticed the smoke coming from my sleeve. I lowered my arm to get a better look. A neat hole had been drilled through it, fractions of an inch from the arm inside. I could smell burnt wool, and the edges of the hole were still smoking.

Somebody was shooting at me.

I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I was too scared.

And then another flagstone dissolved at my feet.

I was wrong. It didn’t take an acid bath to get rid of the creepy-crawly feeling of vermin and beetles nipping at my ankles. Pieces of rock actually nipping at my ankles did the trick nicely.

My feet moved without conscious bidding. I ran to the far side of the rotunda and scrambled over the waist-high wall, landing on a narrow strip of dirt on the other side.

Panting, I took stock of the situation. The narrow strip of dirt was the only thing between me and the river’s edge. Even if I were dressed for a swim, and even if I had any confidence that a swim in the Hudson would be healthier than getting shot, I doubted that I’d be able to last more than a minute in the frigid waters. But perhaps my would-be assassin thought that I’d taken the plunge. I didn’t hear any additional flagstones exploding.

Very quietly and very slowly, I raised my head to scope out what might be happening on the other side of the wall. I was rewarded with another bullet, this one tracing a course through the very top of my Olsen hat. It was a very good thing I hadn’t gone with a knit skullcap or a simple headscarf. And it was too bad that I hadn’t thought to buy a bulletproof helmet instead of an Olsen hat. The smell of burned hair wasn’t pleasant, but it was probably better than the smell of burned scalp or brains.