Lou got to his knees and scrambled under the trailer toward
Frawley’s body. He reached across him, for his carbine. Immediately, the
searchlight beam. He scrambled back to safety behind the tire as bullets
screeched around him, careening off the concrete in a shower of sparks,
miraculously failing to ignite the gasoline. By the weight of it, he judged the
magazine of the carbine to be almost full.Back toward the center of the bridge, the police cars were
creeping forward. Lou crouched behind the front tire of Mack West,
gathering his strength for a sprint. He got to his feet and plunged out into
the darkness adjacent to the bridge railing. He pumped his legs with all of
his strength. He saw the dark form of his drenched jacket in the roadway
ahead.
The headlights of the approaching squad cars created angular
shafts of light through the wheels, undercarriage, and stanchions of Mack
East and the three-quarter ton full of napalm drums. He dove for his jacket,
grasping the machine beneath it in both hands. He whirled the handle once;
nothing. Then again, harder. Again. On the third twist, the center of the bridge
seemed to heave up in a ball of yellow and crimson flame. A thunderous roar
enveloped the bridge and sent shocks through the girders and the concrete
surface, throwing Lou to his back.
Globs of thickened aviation gasoline arched through the night—
clearing the overhead cables—and then plunged to the inky river below. The
massive ball of flame slowly rose off the surface of the roadway and engulfed
the cables and lights above.
Lou got to his feet and turned back toward the western end of the
bridge, racing back toward Mack West. For nearly a full minute, the center
of the bridge was aglow with intense seething light; yet no one fired at him.
He went right to the truck, hugging the side of the roadway and the railing.
The air in his lungs seemed to swell in his chest until he couldn’t catch his
breath. And still no one fired.
Back in the shelter of Mack West, Lou sank to his knees behind
the front tire. The entire bridge and the mountains on either side of the Hudson
were lit by flaming napalm that now stuck to the overhead cables and slowly
dripped in globs of orange flame to the roadway. He’d stopped them.
He became aware of the pulsing, rug-beating throb of helicopter
blades. He looked out to the north of the bridge and saw a military HU-1B
hovering at the level of the roadway, its landing lights gleaming. Red lights
flashed on the tail boom. He was receiving no fire. The cops must have been
holding off to keep from accidently hitting the chopper or firing into their
comrades closing in from the east side.
Slowly the craft moved forward, dipping its nose and gaining
altitude. It ascended above the bridge, swinging back to the eastern side.
Thirty seconds later, Lou heard throbbing directly overhead. The chopper
hovered out in front of him, by the traffic circle, and descended to the ground.
There was no firing. It was the perfect time to go.
He reached the end of the railing. Instinctively, he veered to the right,
across the narrow strip of grass. He dove headlong into the underbrush, still
holding the carbine. He crawled on all fours over roots and rocks and under
bushes and low hanging branches that grabbed at his weapon and held him back.
He reached the cut.
It was steeper than he thought. He started down the embankment on
his rump, warding off boulders and stumps on his way down with his feet, but
soon he began tumbling and sliding in a cascade of rocks and water. The pool
at the bottom was not deep and it was no colder than the rain.
At first, it was absolutely black in the cut. Gradually his eyes adjusted,
but there was no moon and no reflective surfaces to magnify what little light existed.
He was shielded from the open ground a hundred and forty feet above him at the
level of the bridge. He heard no sound except the splashing of water at his feet and
his own deep breathing. The rain still came down steadily, unrelenting. For that he
was thankful. It would mask all of his movements.
There wasn’t much time. He didn’t know if they’d seen him dart off
under the cover and confusion of the helicopter landing. The only thing to do was
to strike out west, shielded from view until he was far from this place.
“Hello…” he heard from the other side of the stream. It was a half
whisper. “Is it you?”
“Come over here,” he said softly. “Over here. I’m holding out my hand.”
He heard her stumble into the water and stifle a screech. Then his hand
was holding hers; pulling her across. She rushed to him, clutched at his shirt, and
wrapped her arms around him.
“You don’t look dead,” she said.
Copyright: Crane, Larry (2011-05-17). A Bridge To Treachery (Kindle Locations
3023-3064). Brighton Publishing LLC. Kindle Edition.