Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [102]
Jack gunned the engine and ran a yellow light. "How far away?"
"Maybe twenty minutes. Less if traffic is light," Jamey replied.
Jack cursed. "Too far."
"Jack, Caitlin is moving again. Across the park. She's following the span of the bridge, moving under it."
Jack frowned, increased speed. "Caitlin isn't under the bridge, Jamie. I'm betting she's on it."
* * *
7:59:26 P.M. EDT
Hell Gate Bridge
Caitlin thought the climb up the ladder was difficult until she reached the top of the span. High above the park, the gentle breeze became a gusting wind that tangled her long red-gold hair and tore at her ripped and dirty skirt. Caitlin saw four sets of railroad tracks, silver trails that led over the water and across Randalls Island. A narrow steel mesh catwalk ran along the edge of the span, paralleling the tracks.
"That way," Omar Bayat said, pointing toward the catwalk.
Behind the gag, Caitlin whimpered and hesitated. She wasn't overly afraid of heights, but the steel mesh in front of her looked like nothing more than a gossamer web, too fragile to hold her weight. Bayat pushed her and she stumbled onto the steel grating, yelping behind the gag. She grabbed the handrail, steadying herself.
Far below, she could see children playing in the green grass of Astoria Park. They looked so tiny to her, like scurrying mice...and then it struck her. That's all they are to this man, she realized. That's all I am. Closing her eyes, Caitlin swallowed, then squared her shoulders and continued on.
Movement became easier with time, as she became accustomed to the height, and the uneven feel of the catwalk's grating. Under other circumstances, Caitlin would have enjoyed the view. The setting sun dropped lower over the horizon, illuminating the city with a golden glow.
Still over the park, they passed through a beige stone tower with a high stone roof. Over her head, parapets overlooked the East River and Manhattan beyond. When she emerged from the tower a few minutes later, Caitlin was struck once again by the view.
A quarter mile or so south, the arch of the Triboro Bridge also spanned the river, its roadway clogged with traffic. Beyond the long highway bridge, the skyline of the Upper East Side peeked over the tip of Roosevelt Island. Caitlin could see the Empire State Building, the spire of the Chrysler Building, the slanted roof of the Citicorp Center, and in the distance, the gleaming twin towers of Lower Manhattan's World Trade Center.
By now, Caitlin had passed over the entire length of the park. Far beneath her, a narrow road paralleled the Queens bank of the East River. Rap and hip-hop music wafted up from hot rods. An ice cream truck's jingle and the snarl of a passing motorcycle lifted on the breeze to Caitlin's ears. It seemed strange to her how normal, everyday life was simply continuing... how people could be so oblivious to the terrible thing about to happen just over their heads.
Suddenly, the faded red steel began to vibrate under her feet. Omar Bayat pushed her into a recessed area, then stood between her and the tracks. A moment later, an Amtrak train roared past them, shaking the bridge so hard, Caitlin thought she would be shaken off, plunging to her death far below.
Finally the train passed and they resumed their hike, leaving the boulder-strewn shore behind them. Now, beneath her feet, Caitlin could see only the gray-green waters of the East River, swirling and roiling with dangerous riptides and whirlpools. Here, nearly three hundred feet above the water, the wind increased until it whistled through the high-tension electrical wires strung over the bridge, its powerful gusts threatening to sweep her slender form over the edge.
Ahead, in the glare of the setting sun, Caitlin spied activity. She counted three men in green overalls, circling a strange device mounted on a tripod. The object looked like a telescope with two optical cylinders instead of one.
Omar Bayat put a boot to her rump, pushing her forward. As Caitlin approached the men,