The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) (11 page)

He reached into his pocket, fingers closing over a ring of metal keys. That was something. On impulse, he grabbed the polar fleece blanket from the bedroom floor, the one that Edison usually slept on.

The doorbell told him that they’d reached his front door. Angry voices said they’d be breaking through any second if Torres didn’t let them in.

Edison growled.

Joe put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Hush.”

He struggled with the heavy bookcase as boots thudded through his house—they were in the kitchen and the parlor. Two separate groups.

If they caught him, they’d arrest him and drag him outside. He couldn’t let that happen.

He pointed at the secret passageway, and Edison leaped in.

Joe backed in after him, snaked a hand around the end of the bookcase to pull the rug flat, and closed the door.

The bookcase was barely in place when the bedroom door crashed against the plaster wall.

The heavy steps of several men entered his room.

He didn’t dare turn on the flashlight. Light might show around the edges of the bookcase. He should have checked that out on the first day—dropped the flashlight in there, closed the door, and seen if the light leaked through. But he hadn’t.

Edison’s warm shoulder leaned into his.

Joe scrunched past him and crawled through the darkness as quickly as he could. He had to hope that the dog would follow him and stay quiet. One bark or growl and all would be lost.

He tucked his head low between his shoulder blades so that he wouldn’t crack it against the low roof. The tunnel dropped down fast. He forced himself to slow so that he wouldn’t lose his balance and face-plant into the rocks.

He hurried toward the end. Was the tunnel on the original blueprints of the house? Was someone waiting for him at the other end?

Chapter 14

November 28, 7:12 p.m.

Bean’s Diner, New York

Oza
n checked his watch, again, and ordered a refill on his coffee. He’d been here for half an hour already. His contact, a man he knew only as Johnny Tops, was late. The diner was doing a brisk business this early—the waitress bringing eggs and meat to table after table. Ozan was having coffee and toast.

He held the back of his wrist to his brow. His skin felt hot and damp—feverish. If Erol’s forehead felt like that, Ozan would make him stay in bed all day and watch cartoons. No cartoons for Ozan.

Stifling a curse, he shook two aspirin into his hand, chewed them, and swallowed the sharp crumbs. The bitter taste made him grimace, but he’d heard that the painkiller worked faster if you chewed it, and the headache and fever had to go away right now.

A man took the seat across from him, baseball hat pulled low across a square, doughy face. The body connected to that head was wiry and tough.

“Morning, Tops.” Ozan gestured to the waitress for an additional menu.

“I’m not staying,” said Tops with a strong Brooklyn accent. “But I got something for you.”

Ozan slid an envelope with four hundred-dollar bills across the greasy table, payment for whatever Tops was delivering. Tops slapped a manila envelope into his hand as he stood to walk out.

The middle-aged waitress arrived with a menu and the coffeepot, filling Ozan’s cup before bustling off.

The envelope contained reports. Ozan skimmed the pages, learning that the police had named a person of interest in the murder of Subject 523—a millionaire named Joe Tesla. Ozan chuckled. So the tall, awkward man was a millionaire out for a stroll around the tunnels of New York City in the middle of the night. He read further. Apparently, the man had a house down there, but he’d missed a social call from both NYPD officers and agents of the CIA.

Ozan took a slow sip of lukewarm coffee. The CIA? Dr. Dubois must have called in reinforcements, worried that Tesla knew something. Whatever it was, the reclusive millionaire wouldn’t last long once he was caught.

He’d have taken him out if that damn train hadn’t arrived, and the man jumped across the tracks. He hadn’t expected him to act so rashly. After the train had passed, Ozan had followed him up onto the platform, but the crowds had been too thick to do anything to him. Knowing where the man lived, that would eliminate that problem.

Time to pay the man a visit at home.

An hour later, Ozan leaned against the side of the tunnel to catch his breath. He should leave the tunnels, leave Tesla to others. Catching Tesla wasn’t technically part of his mission, and he didn’t think that Tesla had received papers from 523.

Ozan didn’t want to quit. A force he couldn’t explain drove him on. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe Tesla was a gift to him. According to the report, the man was unable to go outside because of a mental condition. Which meant that he hid out in the tunnels, the perfect target for a game of cat and mouse. Ozan loved to play, although he rarely let himself indulge in those kind of games. This time, the temptation was irresistible.

He’d return to the murder scene to see if he could pick up Tesla’s tracks from there and follow them through the tunnels to find his house. Like everyone, Tesla was a creature of habit. His habits would betray him.

Ozan should have approached him right off, dragged him deeper into the tunnels, but the dog had made things unpredictable. Plus, Erol loved dogs. How could Ozan look Erol in the face if he killed a dog?

But this, this would be fun. Tesla was smart; he was clever. The way he’d jumped in front of the oncoming train and used it for rolling cover to escape was ballsy. And, since the guy couldn’t leave the tunnels, Ozan could take his time. He only needed to bag him before law enforcement did, and he intended to use them as hunters used beaters—tools to flush out his quarry and drive it straight toward him.

Ozan slowed and studied the murder scene, his crime scene, from a distance. Floodlights turned night into day. Police and crime scene people walked ponderously back and forth as if their very deliberateness would solve the crime. But he’d been careful, and clever. They’d never catch him.

Hot and cold poured over Ozan in waves, and his head pounded with pain. So much for the chewed-aspirin theory. He ignored the pain and soldiered on like the soldier he had once been, staying as far from the crime scene as he could while he searched for the dog’s prints. Tesla’s dog was probably the only dog in these tunnels. His ears strained to hear the rumble of an approaching train. He didn’t want to end up smeared across the tracks.

Dizziness swept over him. He slumped against the stone wall until it passed. Then he pushed himself upright again and tripped over a broken train tie leaning against the side of the tunnel. Anger took over. He swore and savagely kicked the tie.

“Hey!” called a voice behind him.

Ozan whirled to face the speaker. No one had gotten that close to him without him noticing in a long time. He must be sicker than he thought.

“Police,” said the shadow between him and crime scene. “You’re not allowed down here.”

He should run. Even sick, he was a fast runner. He could get a quick lead. But the officer, too near already, kept coming. Ozan shouldn’t tempt fate by confronting him. He shouldn’t even be here at all. He should run.

But his head hurt, his muscles felt weak. It’d be easier to deal with this guy right here. If the guy wanted to cause trouble, he’d show him trouble. Why should he be the one who ran away? An alarm bell clanging in his fevered brain told him that this line of thinking was very wrong.

He ignored it.

Instead, he lifted a piece of broken train tie. Solid and heavy, its weight felt right in his hands. The tarry smell of creosote drifted up from the wood.

“I’m sick,” Ozan called to the man who had disturbed him.

He lowered the tie so that it was hidden by his leg. Just in time, because the policeman shone a flashlight at him, right in the eyes. Damn bastard. Ozan held his arm over his aching eyes to shield them from the bright light. He managed a weak smile and held up his other hand to show that he had no weapons. Just an innocent guy.

The train tie leaned against the back of his calf. He couldn’t use it yet. Where was the second cop? Usually they ran in pairs.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” The cop was young, Ozan saw that now. He had almond-shaped brown eyes, so like Erol’s, and short black hair. Chinese? “We’re going to need you to step this way.”

He’d said “we.” Where was the other one?

“Of course, Officer,” Ozan called. The meeker he was, the closer he’d be able to get.

The flashlight stayed pointed at his eyes, and Ozan kept one arm up as the policeman moved closer. A telltale vibration under his feet told him what to do next.

“You do look a little under the weather,” said the cop. “Would you like us to help you get to medical care?”

Careful not to telegraph the movement with his eyes, Ozan swung the broken piece of wood like a bat, catching the unprepared man on the temple. The man collapsed backward onto the tracks. The thunder of an oncoming train covered the sound of his fall.

Ozan kept a tight hold on the piece of train tie and ran, ducking left into another tunnel, heading for the darkest parts, even though he didn’t have a light.

From behind him came the shrill screech of brakes. Simple physics told him that the train wouldn’t stop in time to avoid the man on the tracks. The young cop was dead. If the blow hadn’t killed him, the oncoming train had. His partner would stop to check, though, and Ozan’s lead would grow.

He settled into a quick trot. He could get out of the underground system through a broken access door about a half-mile away, where he’d entered. After a quarter of a mile, he dropped the train tie. No one would ever search this far afield, even if they thought the cop had been murdered. The cop’s death would likely be blamed on impact with the train. Ozan was probably in the clear. So close to the scene of 523’s murders, though, he couldn’t take that for granted. And he had to come back for Tesla.

He cursed himself for his inattention and recklessness. He counted off his mistakes in his head. First, the policeman should never have gotten so close to him without being noticed. There was no excuse for leaving himself vulnerable. Second, he should have had an escape route planned for every second that he spent down here. That was standard procedure, and he’d violated it. Third, he should have run instead of provoking a confrontation, or he could have played off the man’s offer of medical help. He most likely would have gotten away without having to kill a man. The train had been a lucky coincidence, and he couldn’t depend on coincidence. At least he had done everything necessary to get home safe to Erol. Erol needed him.

Still, Ozan had made a long list of mistakes, and he never made mistakes.

What was wrong with him?

Chapter 15

November 28, 8:44 p.m.

Underground maintenance room

Subway system

Joe leaned his back against the rusted metal door. He flicked on the flashlight and swept the room with its beam. The musty space was about the size of his first dorm room, big enough to lie down in, but barely. It contained an old mop and bucket, a pile of rags, a three-legged wooden stool, and a stack of yellowed comic books. He pictured a long-ago maintenance man hiding here, reading during his breaks.

He checked the walls and found a light switch. Crossing his fingers, he flicked it on.

Buzzing fluorescent lights washed the room in pale blue. Before he’d moved down here, he had expected the tunnels and rooms to exist in a state of perpetual darkness, but had instead found lights affixed to many tunnel ceilings and working lights in long-deserted rooms.

He sat on the stool, and Edison put his warm muzzle in his lap.

“We’re in a bit of a bind, Edison.” Joe leaned his head against the wall. A bit of a bind? That was an understatement.

Joe was screwed, but maybe he could find a good home for the dog. Edison, after all, was innocent of everything, and he had good job skills to boot.

Edison whined.

The logical move was to call Daniel, meet him someplace, and go in for questioning. He’d done nothing wrong—everything would be fine. Except that he couldn’t do it. It meant that he would have to go outside.

He hated his agoraphobia. No matter what the psychiatrists said, he viewed it as cowardice. He should be able to man up, take a deep breath, and go outside. Logically, he knew that going outside wouldn’t kill him. Staying down here and playing hide-and-seek with the police and a killer might.

But he couldn’t go outside.

After he’d left his house, he’d run through the tunnels for over a mile and switched from the commuter train tracks that ran through Grand Central to the subway lines at Times Square. They were more heavily patrolled, he imagined, but at least they were patrolled by cops who weren’t specifically looking for him.

At the 68th Street/Hunter College station, he’d climbed onto a platform, hoodie pulled low over his face to keep the surveillance cameras from recognizing him, although a man coming out of the tunnels with a golden Lab was already distinctive enough that they didn’t need facial-recognition software to identify him. He stared at the friendly blue station sign with its green border and took a few deep breaths before joining a mass of people heading toward the stairs leading outside.

Each step seemed harder, and the crowd shifted him against the right-hand wall, the side reserved for the injured or weak. He fell in behind an elderly woman with a nimbus of thin white hair that shivered like dandelion seeds in the wind coming off the subway. She struggled with each step, but hauled herself upward. When she reached the step bathed in gray sunlight, she neither stopped nor slowed, but moved up to the next step, and the next. Behind her, Joe stopped.

His heart raced. Sweat drenched his T-shirt and ran down his back. His breath puffed out in front of him in rapid clouds. When he grabbed the cold railing to keep from falling, he realized that his hands were numb. A feeling of dread consumed him.

He would die here on the steps.

Edison tugged at his leash, but Joe didn’t have the strength to move. The dog took the leg of his jeans in his mouth and pulled him down a step. Joe watched Edison. The dog stood one step below him with a mouthful of wet jeans. He set his front legs far apart and dragged Joe down another step. His implacable strength comforted Joe. He released his hold on the railing and let the dog guide him through the stream of people back into the tiled tunnel and the dark safety of the platform.

He couldn’t go out there.

After that, he’d led the dog back down the tunnels to the abandoned janitor’s closet where they now sat. A dark, wet circle on his knee showed where Edison had taken hold of him. The dog deserved better than a master who was stuck down here until the cops caught him or he got hit by a train. “You’re a great dog, you know that?”

Edison cocked his head. Clearly, he didn’t think that this was news.

“OK, Yellow Dog,” he said. “Why would the CIA come to talk to me about a murder in the New York subway?”

Edison yawned.

“Don’t yawn. That’s the most interesting piece,” he said. “Think about the jurisdiction, Edison. For a simple murder, the cops would have come on their own. For a complicated murder, like the work of a serial killer who killed in multiple states, they might have also brought along the FBI. But they brought the CIA. Why?”

The dog flopped onto the dusty floor, obviously not interested in analyzing the case.

“Some partner you are.” Joe pulled treats from his pocket and handed them to Edison. Soon, he would have to sneak out and get them both real food.

He pulled out his laptop, felt ridiculously thrilled to see an electrical outlet in the corner, and compiled what he knew about the case. Not much, really. One man beaten to death recently, two men and a child bricked in decades ago. In spite of everything, it felt good to be doing something meaningful again.

Rebar was the key. Joe needed to find out why he’d been killed, and why the CIA cared. How had he known that the car was there? Had he found the treasure that he’d expected to find inside?

Joe remembered the footprints in the dust and how the man had clearly searched the skeletons’ pockets. The car itself might hold the answer.

He struggled to understand why the CIA would care about an event that far in the past. It was more likely that Rebar had been wrong about the car, that he had been chased because he’d known something from the current day, maybe had had proof about an activity that the agency desperately needed to keep secret. The answer must be in the documents that the man who had chased him had asked about.

The shaky video he’d taken of the crime scene was still on his computer. Maybe the answer was in there. He hesitated before opening it. He didn’t want to see the blood-spattered scene again. He hadn’t watched much television as a child, or movies, and he still found such images unnerving in a way that he’d never been able to explain to his college peers who’d grown up immersed in a world of simulated bloodshed.

Still, he’d have to fight his squeamishness, because he wouldn’t allow himself to be intimidated. He took a deep breath and clicked the Play button. The video started with footprints in the dust and moved to take in the skeletons that had been dragged into the center of the room. The skulls had both fallen off and rolled to rest against the far brick wall. The person who’d moved them clearly hadn’t cared about the skulls. He must have been looking for something they’d carried in their clothes.

Joe scanned through the video but didn’t see any identifying indicators that would help him to figure out the men’s identities. Because of the way that the soldier’s body was positioned, he couldn’t see the front of his shirt, where his name might have been sewn on. These people must have been important (hence, the train car), and they must have been considered dangerous, maybe because of chemical contamination or biological infection.

As if he’d known his later self would want to know, the film focused on the tiny skeleton, the one that he’d assumed belonged to a child. Unlike the others, this one wore no clothes. And its legs looked wrong. He enhanced the image and zoomed in until the images got grainy. The spine didn’t look right. It had several extra vertebrae. A tail.

Joe’s heart lightened when he realized that the bones didn’t belong to a dead child, but rather a monkey. That explained why it was naked, but it didn’t explain why someone had bricked the poor creature up deep under New York City.

Maybe it was a pet. Maybe it was more sinister, like an escaped lab monkey. Had they used monkeys for testing that long ago? If so, then perhaps the men, and the monkey, had been infected with a disease. And, now, maybe Joe was, too. He shivered.

The goal was to identify Rebar, not to solve the crime, but he’d come back and watch the video later and search for more clues. In the meantime, he fast-forwarded past the rest of the room to the part where he’d filmed Rebar’s body.

Nausea rose in his throat at the rats cowering in the corners. Edison kicked in his sleep, as if he dreamed of running.

“Good instinct, boy,” Joe told him.

He forced himself to look at the battered face. The skull had been crushed. There wasn’t enough intact bone to support a face. He wouldn’t be able to identify him from that.

But he had more to work with. He could search through surveillance video of Grand Central and get a picture of the man before he’d gone into the tunnels. He could use that to identify him just as he had identified Vivian Torres.

For that, he had to get online. Not tonight.

Instead, he tried to put the pieces together. An hour later, he was no closer to an answer; he kept nodding off. He shut down his laptop and unfolded Edison’s blanket. When he’d grabbed it, he hadn’t thought about why. Now he knew—he’d need it to get through the night.

The comic books made a serviceable pillow. He bunched them on the floor in the corner and spread the blanket next to them. He turned off the light and pulled the blanket up like a sleeping bag. Edison lay down on the covers next to him. The dog’s warm form comforted him, and he had to live up to his no-self-pity rule. He’d gotten himself into this mess, he would get himself out. He just needed to figure things out, and he was good at figuring things out.

He’d better be.