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New Jersey docks took over most of that business. Now, they were mostly just relics. A barge half the size of a football field had appeared one day, moored next to Rune’s houseboat, while she’d been at the studio. But that was the only commercial shipping traffic in the neighborhood.
    Rune had been to this particular pier a couple of times since she’d docked the boat along this stretch of river. She’d stroll around, imagining what the luxurious liners of the nineteenth century must’ve been like. She also wondered if some of the ships had dropped off contraband (gold bullion was a front-runner) that had never been found. Pirates, she knew, had sailed the Hudson River, not far from here. She wasn’t surprised that she found no chests of gold. The only salvage was empty cardboard boxes, lumber and big pieces of rusty machinery.
    After she’d decided there was no plunder Rune would come occasionally to picnic with friends on the roof and watch the giants in the clouds play above the city until they disappeared over Brooklyn and Queens. Sometimes she’d come just to be by herself and feed the gulls.
    In the portion of the pier farthest into the water there were warrens of rooms. These had been offices and the off-loading docks and were boarded up now. Whatever light snuck in did so through the grace of the carpenters’ sloppy nailing. This portion of the pier contained the rickety staircase that led up to the roof.
    And this portion of the pier was what she now slipped into. Rune eased through the back of the pier and started toward the stairs slowly. At the foot of the stairwell the floor of the pier had given way; a ragged hole three feet across led down into darkness. Water lapped. The smell was sharp and foul. Rune stared through the gloom at the hole and edged slowly past it.
    She listened carefully on her way up but there was no sound other than distant traffic and the water on the pilings and the wind that meant the storm would hit pretty soon. Rune paused at the top landing. She pulled the white tear gas canister from her pocket and pushed the door open.
    The roof was empty.
    She stepped outside, then walked carefully along the rotting tar paper and gravel, testing each square in front of her. At the edge, she walked back toward the front of the building to the spot where she thought she’d seen the guy.
    Rune stopped and looked down at her feet.
    Okay, so it’s
not
my imagination. She was looking at footprints in the tar. They were large—a man’s shoe size. And were smooth, like conservative business shoes, not sneakers or running shoes. But aside from that, nothing. No cigarette ash, no discarded bottles. No cryptic messages.
    As she stood there a sprinkling of rain began and she hurried back to the stairs. She started down slowly, reaching out with her foot to find the flooring in the dimness.
    A noise.
    She paused on the second-floor landing. Stepped through an open doorway into the dark, abandoned office. Her hand gripped the tear gas canister firmly. Her pupils, contracted from the brightness, couldn’t take in enough light to see anything.
    But she could hear. Rune froze.
    He’s here!
    Someone was in the room.
    Nothing specific told her—no popping boards, no whispers, no shuffles of feet. The message was transmitted maybe by a smell or maybe by some sixth-sense radar.
    The wave came back with a message: Whoa, honey, he’s big and he’s pretty damn close.
    Rune didn’t move. The other figure didn’t either though twice she heard the air of his breath across his teeth. Her eyes became accustomed to the dark and she looked for a target and slowly lifted the tear gas.
    Her hands began to quiver.
    No, not one but two of them.
    And they were ghosts.
    Two pale forms. Humanlike, vague, undefined. They both stared at her. One held a thick, white billy club.
    She aimed the canister at them. “I’ve got a gun.”
    “Shit,” a man’s voice said.
    The other voice, also male, said, “Take the