He screamed, and the wrench dropped to the floor as he reflexively grabbed at his bloody left hand with his right. I stabbed again, catching on a bone in his right wrist this time, doubling him over and bringing him to his knees as he shrieked in pain. A cacophony of birds began mocking him from the island, screeching in reply to his ungodly sounds.

I reached behind me and pulled my feet out of the noose he had made. I looked up and there was blood everywhere. Hoyt had buried his face in his hands and was trying to bite out the hook that was embedded in his wrist.

I didn't know how to stop the boat, which was moving slowly past the tip of Shooter's Island, headed south into the next kill that separated Staten Island from New Jersey. I crawled across the floor and picked up the wrench, striking Hoyt on the back of the head. He collapsed onto the floor and continued to writhe and moan.

Once on my feet, I checked our distance from the small island preserve, which was blessedly close. I sat on the side of the boat, swung both legs over, and, careful to avoid the engine, kicked away and threw myself into the water. I swam the ten feet to shore, startling all the wildlife, and pulled myself up onto land to catch my breath.

I looked back and the boat was still moving, farther away, with no sign of Hoyt at the wheel.

As fast as I could travel in my bare feet, I ran in the opposite direction from which we had come. The brush and rocks were rough on my soles as I tried to pick my way through the under-growth. Bird droppings were everywhere, and my feathered companions squawked and flew off as I invaded their habitat. Gulls circled overhead in protest, and I plugged along as best I could, until I finally caught sight of a tanker coming toward the entrance to Arthur Kill.

My frenetic gesticulations did nothing to stop the larger vessels that passed through the channel, but someone must have radioed to the authorities the sight of a human trespasser on Shooter's Island. Fifteen minutes later, an NYPD harbor launch was steaming at me, and I waded out into the chilly water to greet it.

41

I only had to say my name and the cops on harbor patrol knew what to do with me. Mercer had called headquarters when Hoyt cut off my cell phone, which started a search of the waterfront. Then he'd spoken with the Pirate 's captain, who mentioned the Statue of Liberty as a possible destination. Mercer and Mike had met up at the East Thirty-fourth Street heliport and been choppered to Liberty Island to set up a command post there.

When we docked at the small pier on the southwest side of the statue, Mercer was waiting for me. He lifted me down from the rear of the boat, embraced me, and held me close against him. I couldn't control my shivering as I rested my head against his chest.

"Let's get her inside," he said, passing through a group of other cops and security agents who wanted to be helpful. "You," he said, pointing at a National Parks Service officer, "get into the gift shop and-"

"It's closed for the day, sir."

"Get in it. Bring me a sweatshirt and anything else that's dry and clean. I don't care if you have to break in."

One of the cops had covered me with his own windbreaker. It hardly mattered. Cold, wet, and numb were feelings I was getting accustomed to this week.

We walked into the entrance of Fort Wood, the War of 1812 garrison that formed the statue's base, and Mercer guided me to an office door down a long corridor.

"What happened?" Mike asked, hanging up the phone and flashing me one of his priceless grins. "Hairdresser couldn't take you today? Look like that, it's no wonder you can't hold on to a man."

There were six other cops in the room, working phones and computers, now calling off the search and alerting the patrol boats that I was safe.

"Tried my best to hook a guy just half an hour ago," I said, knowing that if I didn't keep up the banter, I was likely to dissolve into tears. "Did he get away, too?"

"Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor entirely, blondie. Nope. Mr. Hoyt is in an ambulance on his way to the hospital. Mild concussion and a couple of holes in his hands. The Port Authority cops picked him up on the Jersey side."

"C'mon next door," Mercer said. "There's an empty office."

"Figures," Mike said. "Coop's the only little girl I ever knew who preferred Captain Hook to TinkerBell."

The parks service guard returned with a large fleece shirt, a huge logo of Liberty's torch on the front. I went inside first and changed into the dry top before opening the door for Mercer and Mike. They wanted to know what had gone on this afternoon with Graham Hoyt and how I had handled it. I gave them a clinical version. The prospect of what could have happened on the river was overwhelming.

"You've got to call security at Hogan Place," I said. "The DA's squad has a skeleton crew on Saturday. Get some of the guys to go down to my office. The key to the file cabinet is in Laura's desk. Tell them to examine the Yankees jacket that's behind the Tripping file in the first cabinet, second drawer-check the pockets or, more likely, cut the seams open and look inside the lining."

"Why?"

"Because I'll bet that's where Paige Vallis hid the piece of paper that her father had been holding on to for fifty years, thinking it might someday be his passport to a fortune, if he could ever match it up with the gold coin it would legitimize. The paper Victor Vallis took from King Farouk's palace."

Mercer got on the phone while I settled in and warmed up.

"But you'd told Graham Hoyt about the kid's baseball jacket, hadn't you? I remember you telling him that you were going to give it back to Dulles. Why didn't he figure it out?"

I shook my head. "No, I told him the kid left the jacket at the hospital. It was logical for him to think it was vouchered there that same day as police property, as something that came out of the crime scene, maybe had the kid's blood on it. I never mentioned that it was Paige who took it home from Bellevue with her and held on to it for all those months."

"And Paige put the document in your hands because she knew that her life might be in danger."

"Probably so."

Mercer flipped his phone closed. "They're on their way down to your office. They'll call me back as soon as they've checked the jacket."

Another ranger knocked on the door and came in with a tray of hot coffee and sandwiches left over in the cafeteria at the end of the tourist day.

Mike stood behind me, massaging my shoulders and neck, trying to calm me while we talked. "You got this all figured out? You sitting in that rowboat with Hoyt and all of a sudden get one of those 'Holy shit!' moments?"

"I think I've got a good idea of what was going on, don't you?"

"I guess it all got into high gear in the summer of 2002. Sotheby's holds the auction of the only valid Double Eagle known to exist and sells it for seven million dollars."

"And that," I said, "probably revived old rumors that had swirled around expatriate types after World War Two about the most famous coin in history. The myth of a second Double Eagle. The possibility that Farouk's delegation had gotten two of the fabled birds out of the U.S. at the same time."

"You mean, that had been gossiped about in 1944?" Mercer asked.

"The feds can tell us that. It was such a great embarrassment to the government that a group of the gold pieces had survived the presidential order to have them destroyed, no one could put an exact count on how many there actually were."

"So who was aware of the second Double Eagle?" he asked again.

Mike answered him. "Graham Hoyt must have known. He made a practice of examining the lives of the world's greatest collectors, so he certainly knew all about Farouk."