Chapter 88

CHAPTER 88

IT FELT LIKE threading a series of needles at 190 knots per hour.

Poe had been skirting bridges and treetops the whole way from Delaware, monitoring the chatter on the police frequencies the entire time. He knew they couldn’t stay undetected much longer—not at this speed, and definitely not in New York airspace.

He eased back to 130 knots as he flew up the center of the Hudson River, barely twenty feet above the choppy surface. He checked the fuel gauge. It was moving toward empty. Only a few minutes left.

“Hold on!” Poe called out through the intercom. He rose and banked hard over the rooftops of the Upper West Side.

“Land this thing, dammit!” shouted Holmes, tilted sideways in the cramped bubble of the cockpit.

“Working on it,” said Poe. He wasn’t about to crash land after all this effort. Not in uptown Manhattan. There! He spotted the green spread of Central Park below and headed for the North Meadow, touching down in a grassy corner about two blocks south of Harlem. Joggers and families paused to gawk as the skids hit the ground. A few people whipped out their cell phones.

“So much for stealth mode,” said Marple, unclipping her harness. Holmes was already on the ground and racing toward the street. Poe and Marple reached the curb just as he flagged a boxy yellow cab to a stop.

“Marcus Garvey Park!” shouted Holmes, sliding into the back seat. Poe squeezed in with Marple and pulled the door shut.

Four minutes later, they were standing at the entrance of Oliver Paul’s town house.

“We should call Duff,” said Marple, “get some backup.”

“No!” said Holmes. “Cops would spook him. We need to see this through.”

“Brendan’s right,” said Poe. “This is on us now. Our collar. I didn’t steal a two-million-dollar helicopter for nothing.”

Holmes tested the door handle. It turned easily. Unlocked. Same with the inside door. The staircase was dark, but there was light coming from a sconce on the landing above. Poe drew his gun. So did Holmes. Marple crouched between them as they moved slowly up the stairs. One flight. A turn. Then another few steps to Paul’s apartment. Holmes opened the unlocked door.

The living room was dark, but Holmes reached for a wall switch and clicked it on. A ceiling fixture lit up. The room was empty.

There was a glow coming from a room at the end of the hallway, right past the kitchen.

“Sherlock! Is that you?” The watchmaker’s rasp.

Poe pressed against one wall, with Marple right behind him. Holmes took the opposite side. They inched toward the doorway, pistols raised.

“Don’t be afraid. The hallway’s clean,” Paul called out. “No wildlife, I promise.”

Five feet. Then three. Then two…

Poe looked at Holmes. Holmes nodded. They burst through the doorway together, pistols up—and froze.

Poe’s breath stuck in his throat.

Oliver Paul was standing in the center of the room, with a gun to Helene Grey’s head.