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The old man forgot his placid goodbyes and kicked like hell to the surface, sucking sour air through his nose and ripping the tape from his mouth. Gasping, spitting the foul water. His head banged solidly into the underside of the oak pier and he laughed out loud. "Oh, God, God, God . . ."
Then another face appeared . . . Also hooded, with another blindingly bright lamp attached, and Everett could just make out the NYPD emblem on the man's wetsuit. They weren't knives the men held but metal cutters. One of them thrust a bitter rubber mouthpiece between Everett's lips and he inhaled a dazzling breath of oxygen.
The diver slipped his arm around him and together they swam to the lip of the pier.
"Take a deep breath, we'll be out in a minute."
He filled his narrow lungs to bursting and, eyes closed, sailed with the diver deep into the water, lit eerily by the man's yellow light. It was a short but harrowing trip, straight down then up again through cloudy, flecked water. Once he slipped out of the diver's hands and they separated momentarily. But William Everett took the glitch in stride. After this evening, a solo swim in the choppy Hudson River was a piece of cake.
She hadn't planned on taking a cab. The airport bus would've been fine.
But Pammy was wired from too little sleep--they'd both been up since five that morning--and she was getting restless. The little girl needed to be in bed soon, tucked away with her blanket and her bottle of Hawaiian Punch. Besides, Carole herself couldn't wait to get to Manhattan--she was just a skinny Midwest gal who'd never been farther east than Ohio in all her forty-one years, and she was dying for her first look at the Big Apple.
Carole collected her luggage and they started toward the exit. She checked to make sure she had everything they'd left Kate and Eddie's house with that afternoon.
Pammy, Pooh, purse, blanket, suitcase, yellow knapsack.
Everything accounted for.
Her friends had warned her about the city. "They'll hustle you," Eddie'd said. "Purse snatchers, pickpockets."
"And don't play those card games on the street," maternal Kate had added.
"I don't play cards in my living room," Carole reminded her, laughing. "Why'm I going to start playing on the streets of Manhattan?"
But she appreciated their concern. After all, here she was, a widow with a three-year-old, heading to the toughest city on earth for the UN conference--more foreigners, hell, more people than she'd ever seen at one time.
Carole found a pay phone and called the residence hotel to check on their reservations. The night manager said the room was ready and waiting for them. He'd see them in forty-five minutes or so.
They walked through automatic doors and were socked breathless by the scalding summer air. Carole paused, looking around. Gripping Pammy firmly with one hand, the handle of the battered suitcase with the other. The heavy yellow knapsack was snug on her shoulder.
They joined the line of passengers waiting at the taxi starter's booth.
Carole glanced at a huge billboard across the highway. Welcome U.N. Delegates! it announced. The artwork was terrible, but she stared at it for a long moment; one of the men on the billboard looked like Ronnie.
For a time, after he died, two years ago, virtually everything reminded her of her handsome, crew-cut husband. She'd drive past McDonald's and remember that he liked Big Macs. Actors in movies who didn't look a thing like him might cock their heads the way he used to. She'd see a flyer for a lawn-mower sale and remember how much he loved to cut their tiny square of grass in Arlington Heights.
Then the tears would come. And she'd go back on Prozac or imipramine. She'd spend a week in bed. Reluctantly acquiesce in Kate's offer that she stay with her and Eddie for a night. Or a week. Or a month.
But no tears anymore. She was here to jump-start her life. The sorrow was behind her now.
Tossing her mass of dark-blond hair off her sweaty shoulders, Carole ushered Pammy forward and kicked the luggage ahead of them as the taxi queue moved up several places. She looked all around, trying to catch a glimpse of Manhattan. But she could see nothing except traffic and the tails of airplanes and a sea of people and cabs and cars. Steam rose like frantic ghosts from manholes and the night sky was black and yellow and hazy.
Well, she'd see the city soon enough, she guessed. She hoped that Pammy was old enough to keep her first memory of the sight.
"How do you like our adventure so far, honey?"
"Adventure. I like adventures. I want some 'Waiin Punch. Can I please have some?"
Please . . . That was new. The three-year-old was learning all the keys and buttons. Carole laughed. "We'll get you some soon."
Finally they got their cab. The trunk popped open and Carole dumped the luggage inside, slammed the lid. They climbed into the back seat and closed the door.
Pammy, Pooh, purse . . .
The driver asked, "Where to?" And Carole gave him the address of the Midtown Residence Hotel, shouting through the Plexiglas divider.
The driver pulled into traffic. Carole sat back and settled Pammy on her lap.
