but the life seemed to have left Bernal. Frings turned and, without another word, headed back to the shore. He clenched the papers tightly against his chest and, the tension of the meeting now released, felt the true force of his fatigue. A figure brushed past him on the bridge. He stopped and turned, watching the man’s silhouette recede into the fog. Frings was indecisive, and before he’d figured out what to do, he heard someone—with the fog playing tricks with the sound he could not tell if it was Bernal or someone else—shout, “Who’s that?” A beat of silence was followed by a violent splash from below as something hit the river.
Frings turned and sprinted off the bridge, barely able to see where he was going. He stumbled twice, the panic getting him back on his feet and pushing the pain from his consciousness. He ran until he found himself in a residential neighborhood, unable to continue, his lungs burning for oxygen, his legs rubbery. He placed the papers on a stoop and sat on the steps with his head down, gasping for air.
He thought about what had taken place on the bridge. The man who brushed by him on the bridge now seemed familiar. A trick of hindsight? He wondered who it was and how this stranger had known about the meeting. He wondered if the stranger knew that he, Frings, had met with Bernal. Mostly, though, he wondered why Bernal hadn’t cried out as he jumped—or was pushed—from the bridge into the frigid waters of the river.
Unable to get this last thought from his mind, Frings stood unsteadily, put his hands on his knees, and retched until he had nothing more to give.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Nora lay on top of the sheets in white satin pajamas that she found in the bureau. Her wet hair dampened the pillow, coaxing the smell of soap from its fabric. She was, if not comfortable, at least beginning to have a better understanding of her situation, and she found this energizing and could not cross over into sleep.
Years of being the focus of attention of just about any man she encountered gave her a strong sense of a man’s intentions. Her captor was difficult to read. He was quiet and shy, often a good sign, though shyness was sometimes the product of intentions that a man knew were beyond societal bounds. That was why she had tested him with the bath.
She now believed that he would not harm her. He was smitten, but not in a way that would lead him to use force on her. He would not want her in any way that he did not feel was reciprocated honestly. This was her one advantage among all the disadvantages she faced; an advantage that she had already begun to use, but to what purpose she was still uncertain. She had sensed the tension as she brushed by him. The brief suggestion in his mind that she might actually fancy him as he fancied her. She could use this weapon against him. She needed to figure out how. Or maybe just having it would be enough.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Henry had to lift Siobhan off him to roll over to the phone. She began kneading his back, which was slick with sweat.
“What is it?” Henry’s annoyance was tempered by the knowledge that it had to be significant for anyone to ring him at this hour.
“Mr. Mayor,” said the doorman, “two men to see you, sir.”
“Names?”
“It’s your, uh . . .” There was a pause. “It’s your assistant and a man named Smith.”
“Send them up.” Henry felt the tension in his muscles against Siobhan’s strong fingers; the anticipation of bad news and the need for difficult and important decisions to be made.
He stood up and pulled the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around his waist. Siobhan, naked, lay back on the pillows and used both hands to brush the red hair from her face.
“A couple of boys are coming up,” Henry said to her. “Why don’t you curl up and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when they’re gone.” He took a blanket that had been discarded to the floor and threw it over her. It was a relief to him to have her body covered. Modesty was not her strong suit.
Henry walked out to the living room to wait, listening to the grinding of the elevator gears. He smelled, he realized, of her and of sweat. His massive chest was mottled with red