Reliquary (31 page)

Trumbull shrank back in terror, falling to the floor and then scrambling to his knees, momentarily disoriented. He glanced back desperately at the car from which they’d run. In the darkness, he could see two figures crouched over the prone body of the waitress, working busily around her head ...

Trumbull felt an indescribable desperation suddenly pierce his gut. He turned and leapt out of the emergency door, stumbling onto the tracks, running past the figures hovering over Kolb, racing for the dim far light of the station. Dinner and beer came up together in a rush, decorating his legs as he ran. He heard sounds of pursuit starting up behind him, crunching and thudding footfalls. A sob escaped his lips.

Then two more figures stepped out ahead of him on the tracks, cloaked and hooded, silhouetted against the distant light of the station. Trumbull stopped short as they began to move, loping toward him with a terrible speed. Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew closer. A strange lethargy was turning his limbs to stone, and he felt his reason begin to give way. In a few seconds he’d be caught, just like Kolb ...

And then, in the brief flash of a signal light, he caught a glimpse of one of the faces.

A single thought, clear and quite unmistakable, came to him through the haze of a night which had suddenly turned to nightmare. He realized what he had to do. Quickly, he scanned the tracks beneath him, located the yellow warning stapes and the bright clean rail, and thrust his foot beneath the shoe guard as the world dissolved in a flash of miraculous brilliance.

= 37 =

D’Agosta tried to think of Yankee Stadium: the white orb of cowhide soaring through the blue July sky, the smell of grass newly ripped by a slide, the outfielder slamming into the wall, glove upraised. It was his form of transcendental meditation, a way to shut off the outside world and collect his thoughts. Especially useful when everything had gone totally to shit.

He kept his eyes shut a moment longer, trying to forget the sounds of the telephones, the slamming doors, the frantic secretaries. Somewhere, he knew, Waxie was rushing around like a turkey in heat. Thank God he wasn’t within squawking distance.
Guess he isn’t so sure about old Jeffrey anymore,
he thought. It brought no consolation.

With a sigh, D’Agosta forced his thoughts back to the strange figure of Alberta Muñoz, sole survivor of the subway massacre.

He had arrived just as she was being brought up an emergency exit at 66th Street on a stretcher: hands folded in her lap, pleasant vacant expression on her face, plump and motherly, her smooth brown skin in stark contrast to the sheets around her. God only knew how she’d managed to hide: she had not uttered a sound. The train itself had been turned into a temporary morgue: seven civilians and two TA workers dead, five with smashed skulls and throats cut to the backbone, three others with their heads completely missing, one electrocuted by the third rail. D’Agosta could almost smell the lawyers circling.

Mrs. Muñoz was now up at St. Luke’s in psychiatric seclusion. Waxie had hollered and pounded and threatened, but the admitting doctor was unyielding: no interviews until at least six that morning.

Three heads missing. The trails of blood were picked up immediately, but the hemoluminesence team was having a tough time in the labyrinth of wet tunnels. D’Agosta went over the setup once more in his head. Someone had cut a signal wire just beyond the 59th Street station, causing an immediate halting of all East Side express trains between 14th and 125th, leaving the one train trapped in the long approach to 86th Street. There they had waited, in ambush.

The whole setup took intelligence and planning, and perhaps an inside knowledge of the system. So far, no clear footprints had been found, but D’Agosta estimated there had been at least six of them. Six, but no more than ten. A well-planned, well-coordinated attack.

But why?

The SOC team had determined that the electrocuted man probably stepped on the third rail deliberately. D’Agosta wondered just what a man would have to see in order to do something like that. Whatever it was, Alberta Muñoz might have seen it, too. He
had
to talk to her before Waxie got there and ruined everything.

“D’Agosta!” a familiar voice bellowed, as if on cue. “What, are you frigging
asleep
?”

He slowly opened his eyes, silently regarding the quivering, red face.

“Forgive me for interrupting your beauty rest,” Waxie continued, “but we’ve got a tiny little crisis on our hands here--”

D’Agosta sat up. He looked around the office, spotted his jacket on the back of a chair, grabbed it and began sliding one hand into an armhole.

“You hearing me, D’Agosta?” Waxie shouted.

He pushed past the Captain and walked into the hallway. Hayward was standing by the situation desk, checking an incoming fax. D’Agosta caught her eye and motioned her toward the elevator.

“Where the hell are you going now?” Waxie said, following them to the elevator. “You deaf or something? I said, we got a crisis--”

“It’s your crisis,” D’Agosta snapped. “You deal with it. I’ve got things to do.”

As the elevator doors closed, D’Agosta placed a cigar in his mouth and turned to face Hayward.

“St. Luke’s?” she asked. He nodded in response.

A minute later, the elevator doors chimed open on the wide tiled lobby. D’Agosta began to step out, then stopped. Beyond the glass doors, he could see a crowd of people, fists thrust in the air. It had tripled in size since he’d arrived at One Police Plaza at 2:00
A.M.
That rich woman, Wisher, was standing on the hood of a squad car, speaking animatedly into a bullhorn. The media was there in force: he could see the pop of flash guns, the assembled machinery of television crews.

Hayward put a hand on his forearm. “Sure you don’t want to take a black-and-white from the basement motor pool?” she asked.

D’Agosta looked at her. “Good idea,” he said, stepping back into the elevator.

The admitting doctor kept them waiting on plastic chairs in the staff cafeteria for forty-five minutes. He was young, grim, and dead tired.

“I told that Captain no interviews until six,” he said in a thin, angry voice.

D’Agosta stood up and took the doctor’s hand. “I’m Lieutenant D’Agosta, and this is Sergeant Hayward. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Wasserman.”

The doctor grunted and withdrew his hand.

“Doctor, I just want to say up front that we don’t want to do anything that will cause harm to Mrs. Muñoz.”

The doctor “nodded.

“And you’re to be the only judge of that,” D’Agosta added.

The doctor said nothing.

“I also realize that a certain Captain Waxie was up here causing trouble. Perhaps he even threatened you.”

Wasserman suddenly exploded. “In all my years working this emergency room, I’ve never been treated quite like that bastard treated me.”

Hayward snickered. “Join the club,” she said.

The doctor shot her a surprised look, then relaxed slightly.

“Doctor, there were at least six, and probably ten, men involved in this massacre,” D’Agosta said. “I believe they’re the same individuals who killed Pamela Wisher, Nicholas Bitterman, and many others. I also believe they may be roaming the subway tunnels as we speak. It may be that the only living person who can identify them is Mrs. Muñoz. If you really feel that my questioning Mrs. Muñoz now will be harmful, I’ll accept that. I just hope you’ll consider that other lives might hang in the balance.”

The doctor stared at him for a long time. At last, he managed a wan smile. “Very well, Lieutenant. On three conditions. I must be present. You must be gentle in your questioning. And you must end the interview as soon as I request it.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time. She’s suffering from shock and the early symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

“Good. From what we can tell, Mrs. Muñoz is from a small town in central Mexico. She works as a child-care domestic for an Upper East Side family. We know she speaks English. Beyond that, not much.”

Mrs. Muñoz lay in the hospital bed in exactly the same position she’d lain on the crime scene stretcher: arms folded, eyes staring vacantly into the far distance. The room smelled of glycerine soap and rubbing alcohol. Hayward took up a position outside in case Waxie showed up prematurely, while D’Agosta and the doctor took seats on either side of the bed. They sat for a moment, motionless. Then, wordlessly, Wasserman took her hand.

D’Agosta removed his wallet. Sliding out a picture, he held it in front of the woman’s face.

“This is my daughter, Isabella,” said D’Agosta. “Two years old. Isn’t she beautiful?”

He held the photo, patiently, until at last the woman’s eyes flickered toward it. The doctor frowned.

“Do you have any children?” D’Agosta asked, replacing the photo. Mrs. Muñoz looked at him. There was a long silence.

“Mrs. Muñoz,” D’Agosta said, “I know you’re in this country illegally.”

The woman quickly turned away. The doctor shot D’Agosta a warning look.

“I also know a lot of people have made you promises they haven’t kept. But I’m going to make you a promise that I swear on my daughter’s picture I will keep. If you help me, I’ll see to it that you get your green card.”

The woman did not respond. D’Agosta took out another picture and held it up. “Mrs. Muñoz?”

For a long moment, the woman remained motionless. Then her eyes strayed toward the picture. Something relaxed inside D’Agosta.

“This is Pamela Wisher when she was two years old. The same age as my daughter.”

Mrs. Muñoz took the picture. “An angel,” she whispered.

“She was killed by the same people who attacked your subway train.” He spoke gently but rapidly. “Mrs. Muñoz, please help me to find these terrible people. I don’t want them to kill anyone else.”

A tear trickled down Mrs. Muñoz’s face. Her lips twitched.

“Ojos ...”

“I’m sorry?” D’Agosta said.

“Eyes ...”

There was another pause while Mrs. Muñoz’s lips worked silently. “They came, silently ... lizard’s eyes, devil’s eyes.” A sob escaped her.

D’Agosta opened his mouth to speak, but a look from Wasserman restrained him.

“Eyes ...
cuchillos de pedernal
... faces like the devil ...”

“How so?”

“Old faces,
viejos
...”

She covered her face with her hands and let out a great groaning cry.

Wasserman stood up, gesturing at D’Agosta. “That’s enough,” he said. “Out.”

“But what did she--?”

“Out
now
,”
the doctor said.

In the corridor, D’Agosta reached for his notebook, quickly spelling out the Spanish phrases as best he could.

“What’s that?” Hayward asked, peering curiously around his shoulder.

“Spanish,” said D’Agosta.

Hayward frowned. “That isn’t like any Spanish I ever saw.”

D’Agosta looked at her sharply. “Don’t tell me you
habla Español
on top of everything else.”

Hayward looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “You can’t always roust in English. And just what is that crack supposed to mean?”

D’Agosta shoved the notebook into her hand. “Just figure out what it says.”

Hayward began examining it intently, moving her lips. After a few moments, she moved to the nurse’s station and picked up a phone.

Wasserman came out, closing the door quietly behind him. “Lieutenant, that was ... well, unorthodox, to say the least. But in the end I think it may prove beneficial. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” D’Agosta replied. “Just get her on her feet again. There are a lot more questions I’ll need to ask her down the road.”

Hayward had hung up the phone and was walking back toward them. “This is the best that Jorge and I could do,” she said, handing the notebook back.

D’Agosta looked at the jottings, frowning. “Knives of flint?”

Hayward shrugged. “Can’t even be sure it’s what she said. But it’s our best guess.”

“Thanks,” D’Agosta said, thrusting the notebook into his pocket and walking away quickly. A moment later he stopped, as if recollecting something. “Doctor,” he said, “Captain Waxie will probably be here in the next hour or so.”

A black look crossed Wasserman’s features.

“But I assume Mrs. Muñoz is too exhausted to see anybody. Am I right? If the Captain gives you any trouble, refer him to me.”

For the first time, Wasserman broke into a smile.

= 38 =

When Margo arrived at the Anthropology conference room around ten that morning, it was obvious that the meeting had already been underway for some time. The small conference table in the center of the lab was uttered with coffee cups, napkins, half-eaten croissants, and breakfast wrappings. In addition to Frock, Waxie, and D’Agosta, Margo was surprised to see Chief Horlocker, the heavy braid on his collar and hat looking out of place among all the equipment Resentment hung in the air like a heavy pall.

“You expect us to believe that the killers are
living
in those Astor Tunnels of yours?” Waxie was saying to D’Agosta. At the sound of her entrance, he turned with a frown. “Glad you could make it,” he grumbled.

Hearing this, Frock looked up, then rolled back to make room for her at the table, a relieved look on his face. “Margo! At last. Perhaps you can clear things up. Lieutenant D’Agosta here has been making some unusual claims about your discovery at Greg’s lab. He tells me you’ve been doing some, ah, additional research in my absence. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, my dear, I’d think that--”

“Excuse me!” D’Agosta said loudly. In the abrupt silence, he looked around at Horlocker, Waxie, and Frock in turn.

“I’d like Dr. Green to review her findings,” he said in a quieter tone.

Margo took a seat at the table, surprised when Horlocker made no response. Something had happened, and, though she couldn’t be sure, it seemed obvious that it had to do with the subway massacre the night before. She considered apologizing for her lateness and explaining that she’d remained at her lab until three that morning, but decided against it. For all she knew, Jen, her lab assistant, was still at work down the hall.