The Manhattan Hunt Club (27 page)

Eve Harris nodded an acknowledgment of his greeting, but her eyes were searching the darkness for whatever had attracted their attention. Then she saw it—there was someone standing just off the tracks, close to the wall. A moment later she could make out a face peering out of the darkness.

A face that was young—but not as young as the man who had raped and killed Rachelle.

A face that fueled the hatred inside her.

A face that she recognized as soon as she saw it.

The face was pale with fear and exhaustion, but as Eve emerged from behind the group of men who surrounded her to look at him more closely, she saw a bright flash of hope light his eyes, and he took a lurching step closer.

Eve felt the men around her tense.

“Please,” Jeff Converse said, lifting his hand as if to reach out toward her. “Help me—Call the police. . . .” His eyes darted among the hard faces around Eve. “They won’t let me out. They—”

But Eve Harris had already turned away, stepping back through the gap from which she had just emerged. The men closed the gap the moment she passed through, and though she could hear Jeff Converse’s cries as she started once more toward the stairs, she knew she would no longer have been able to see him if she had turned around again.

At the stairs, she paused, scanning the sparse crowd on the subway platform. There were perhaps thirty people waiting for trains, most alone, some in groups of two or three. Some were talking on cellular phones as they waited, some were reading, a few chatting with their friends. All of them must have heard Jeff Converse’s pleading voice as he called out after her, but not one of them gave any sign of it.

Just as no one had heard Rachelle the night she cried out against the man who had raped and killed her.

Satisfied that at least some things in the city never changed, Eve continued on her way.

M
inutes later she walked through the front door of the 100 Club. Thatcher, who seemed not to have moved from his post since the first time Eve’s husband had brought her here ten years earlier, nodded respectfully.

“Downstairs,” he murmured.

Eve descended the same two flights that Perry Randall had taken earlier that day.

She rapped twice, and Malcolm Baldridge immediately opened the door to The Manhattan Hunt Club. As she stepped through, the first thing she noticed was that the new trophy had been put on display. She recognized the man at once, for it hadn’t been long since he’d made the mistake of trying to snatch the wallet from her purse as she waited for a subway train. It had taken her no time at all to find his name—or at least the name he went by in the tunnels—and the word had gone out.

It hadn’t been much of a hunt, but it set an example.

Eve Harris was certain that when the next crime statistics came out, the incidence of purse-snatching and pickpocketing—like the incidence of every other crime she and the others would no longer tolerate—would show a significant drop.

“Excellent job, Mr. Baldridge,” she commented as she gazed into the extraordinarily lifelike face.

“The members did an excellent job,” Malcolm Baldridge respectfully replied. “There was very little damage.”

Eve continued to the next room, where Perry Randall and the rest of the Hunt Club were waiting for her. She listened quietly as Randall told her about the message left on his answering machine that morning. When he was finished, his cold eyes fixed on Eve. “I warned you that something like this could happen, and you assured me that your people could see to it that none of them would ever get their hands on a cell phone. If he was able to call Heather, he undoubtedly called someone else. And if he called someone else, we have a problem.”

Eve regarded Perry Randall with no more warmth than he was offering her. “There is no problem, Perry,” she said. Her eyes drilled into each man in the room one by one: the Assistant District Attorney, the Deputy Police Commissioner, the Monsignor of the Church, the Judge of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, and the Chief of Police. “I just saw Jeff Converse trying to escape into the station at Fifty-third and Lexington, but my people were there, doing their jobs. Now,” she finished, her voice as cold as her eyes, “I suggest that it is time for you to do yours.”

CHAPTER 32

W
hen the woman first appeared, Jeff thought he must be hallucinating. He wasn’t sure where he was, except in relation to the spot where he’d left Jagger.

Part of him had wanted to abandon Jagger, to disappear into the tunnels and never come back. Even now he felt a shiver go through him as he remembered the way Jagger sometimes looked at him. There was something about the man’s gaze—

No! He was only imagining things.

Except that Jagger admitted he’d already killed two people—

Again Jeff turned away from the thought forming in his mind. Jagger had saved his life at least once, and no matter what he thought, he couldn’t just take off by himself, leaving Jagger behind like a wounded animal.

Knowing he wouldn’t, couldn’t, just abandon Jagger, he’d kept careful track of every move he’d made, counting his paces, remembering every turn, every ladder. He’d done his best to avoid people, shrinking back into any alcove in the concrete tunnel walls, making himself invisible. After leaving Jagger, he’d gone deeper, clambering down the rusty rungs embedded in the walls of a shaft so narrow he’d barely been able to fit through. There were fewer people on the lower level, but one of the groups he glimpsed made his gut churn with a fear he’d never felt before. There were four of them, appearing out of the gloom like a pack of wolves, utterly silent. Something predatory about them told Jeff they were hunting; they moved with an animalistic furtiveness that momentarily paralyzed him, like a mouse freezes in terror before the flicking tongue of a coiled snake. As they came closer, he quelled his rising panic, backed away, and climbed the same ladder he’d descended only moments earlier. Peering downward into the near blackness below, he waited, his heart pounding. The four men slunk past the bottom of the shaft, none of them looking up.

A few minutes later he came to a subway tunnel and saw the brilliant white light of a station glowing from his right. He stayed where he was, listening, and heard the rumble of a train in the distance. The rumble grew louder, and he saw the headlight of an approaching train pierce the darkness and felt the track vibrate. Stepping back into the narrow passage from which he’d just emerged, he waited for the slowing train to pass, then edged closer to the station, concealed not only by the train, but by its shadow as well. Only when the train pulled out could he see the station’s identification set in a mosaic inlaid in the wall: 53RD STREET.

Which station on Fifty-third? But what did it matter, really? If he could just get out, get help . . .

Help from whom? The police? As soon as he told them who he was, he’d be arrested. But if he lied, if he made up a name . . .

He raked the platform with his eyes, searching for any sign of the kind of men who had turned him away from every possible avenue of escape he’d stumbled upon before. Sure enough, there they were. Three of them, sprawled out at the end of the platform. He watched them for a few seconds, and when none of them were looking his way, he edged closer.

Then one of the men moved, his heading swiveling, and Jeff froze—too late. The surge of hope the mere presence of the station had instilled in him faded away as quickly as it had come as the three men rose to their feet and closed ranks, their eyes fixed on him. None of them spoke; none of them needed to.

The threat that hung before him was suddenly palpable.

That’s when the unbelievable happened. A woman—a well-dressed woman—appeared between two of the men. She seemed to know them—Jeff was certain he saw two of them exchange a greeting with her.

She wasn’t tall, but exuded an aura of authority, and she appeared utterly unafraid of the dangerous-looking men around her. Something about her looked familiar—he was sure he’d seen her before. And when she looked at him, he saw a flicker of recognition in her face.

Hope once more surged within him and he stepped toward her, raising his hand. “Please . . . help me—call the police. . . . They won’t let me out. They—”

The woman’s eyes locked on his. He knew she could hear him; he could see the comprehension written clearly on her face.

But she said nothing—made not even the slightest gesture toward him.

Instead, she turned away.

She wasn’t going to help!

But that wasn’t possible—the woman wasn’t like the men around her. She wasn’t one of them—couldn’t possibly be!

He opened his mouth to speak—to cry out—to beg her to help him, but it was already too late. She was gone, as quickly as she’d appeared.

The men who had flanked her closed ranks.

He stood as if rooted to the ground, staring at the three men who blocked the way to the platform. They made no move toward him, nor any threatening gestures. Yet their message was clear: he would not be allowed to pass.

The low rumbling of an approaching train broke the moment, and when he saw his own shadow cast ahead of him by the fast-approaching beam of the train’s headlight, he turned away, stumbling back toward the dark refuge of the passage from which he’d emerged. As the train rushed by, he slumped against the wall.

He’d failed.

He’d found no water to slake his thirst or ease the pain of Jagger’s burns, let alone a means of escape from the vast prison in which they were held.

Unconsciously obeying the demands of his stomach, his hand went to the pocket of his jacket and his fingers closed around one of the hot dogs he’d rescued from the slime beneath the grating. He didn’t look at the wiener—tried not to think what might have been in the muck from which he’d plucked it. Wiping it as clean as he could, he held his breath, put it in his mouth, and bit a piece off.

A foul taste filled his mouth, and his stomach contracted violently. He struggled against his erupting gorge, and when his mouth filled with bile and acid, he refused to spit it out. Instead he made himself chew up the single bite of food and force it down his throat. Then he tried to eat a second bite, but this time his stomach won and he dropped the rest of the hot dog back into his pocket.

He wasn’t dead yet, and he wasn’t beaten. If it truly was a game he’d been thrown into, then there had to be a way to win. And if there was a way, he’d find it. Turning his back on the false hope the station had offered, he started back to where he’d left Jagger, all the turns he’d taken—and the number of steps between each turn—firmly etched in his mind.

He was about halfway to the alcove, moving through a utility tunnel, when he saw it. He’d barely even been aware that his eyes were scanning the floor of the tunnel, and if the object hadn’t been white, it might not have caught his eye at all.

A discarded coffee cup, the paper kind that was so thin you burned your fingers if you picked it up when it was freshly filled.

He paused.

Why was it standing upright?

Next to it was a crumpled piece of paper—the kind in which a sandwich might once have been wrapped.

If a workman had been eating his lunch here and just walked away . . .

Squatting, his fingers trembling, Jeff reached for the cup, silently praying that this hope, too, would not instantly be ground to dust. His fingers closed on the cup and he lifted it up.

Not empty!

He stared into it, gazing at the quarter cup of dark liquid as if it were pure gold, then raised the cup to his lips and let a little of the cold, bitter fluid flow through his lips.

His mouth welcomed it as if it were a perfect wine, aged to perfection.

He was about to drink again, but didn’t.

Jagger was every bit as thirsty as he.

His own thirst cried out to him, begged him to drain the cup. What if he couldn’t find the alcove again?

What if Jagger was gone?

Almost of its own volition, his hand raised the cup to his lips again, but just as the paper touched his lips, he recalled a train hurtling toward him, and Jagger throwing them both out of its path only an instant before he would have been crushed.

He lowered the cup.

Straightening, he saw a flicker of movement a few yards down the passage, back toward the subway tunnel from which he’d just retreated. He froze, his eyes scanning the tunnel. He knew his eyes had not deceived him—something, or
someone
—was there, concealed among the pipes, or hidden behind one of the pilasters that supported the low ceiling of the tunnel.

One of the men from the subway platform?

Or one of the skulking predators from the lower depths?

He listened, but heard only the sound of a faraway train, its roar muted to a faint whisper. He held perfectly still, holding his breath as he searched the darkness and listened to the silence.

Two choices: he could either attempt to slip away in the darkness, and risk being followed, or confront whatever lay hidden behind him, and directly face whatever danger awaited. But there was really no choice, for he knew he could never elude whatever was following him, that it would only keep its distance, stalking him until the moment it chose to attack.

“I know you’re there,” he said, his voice echoing loudly in the darkness as he started toward the place from which the brief movement had caught his eye. “You might as well show yourself.”

For a moment nothing happened, but just as Jeff was about to move closer, a small figure stepped out from behind one of the pilasters.

“It’s okay,” a girl’s voice said. “It’s just me.” The figure stepped forward, and enough light from one of the dim bulbs overhead fell on her face for Jeff to recognize her as the girl at Tillie’s. “I’ve been looking for you,” Jinx said. “I—” She faltered, then went on. “I know you didn’t do anything to Cindy Allen.”

The words hung in the air. What could Jinx possibly know about that? Jeff wondered. How did she even know Cindy Allen’s name?

A trick. That was it—it had to be some kind of a trick.

“How do you know?” he asked, his voice cold.

“Because I was there that night,” Jinx replied. Then, as Jeff listened mutely, she recounted to him everything that had happened that night in the 110th Street station.

Recounted it exactly as he remembered it himself.

When she finished, there was a long silence, which Jeff finally broke. “How did you find me?” he asked.

“The herders in the Fifty-third Street station. They told me which way you went.”

“Herders?” Jeff echoed.

Jinx nodded. “They work for the hunters. It’s their job to keep you in the tunnels until the hunters can track you down.”

Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s your job?”

“Sort of a messenger. Sometimes I pick up the money the herders get paid with, and sometimes I pass it out. Sometimes I just spread the word that a hunt is on.”

She made no move either to come closer or to run away, and Jeff could sense that she wasn’t afraid of him, but was waiting to see what he would do. “Who are the hunters?” he finally asked.

“Men from outside,” Jinx replied. “They’re only supposed to hunt for criminals. But you didn’t do anything.”

“So you’re not going to tell them you found me?”

Jinx shook her head. “I’m going to help you get out.”

H
eather flattened herself against the hard concrete, turned her head away, and instinctively clamped her eyes shut. But she could still hear the train thundering past no more than twelve inches from her face, feel the rush of filthy air. That was the first thing she’d noticed after she followed Keith Converse off the platform and into the subway tunnel itself—not the darkness that stretched ahead of her, but the fetid odor that seemed to seep directly into her pores. Though they’d been in the tunnels for only half an hour, she already felt saturated with grime. Her skin itched, her eyes stung, and though her sense of smell had finally become somewhat accustomed to the foul odors that permeated the tunnel, her stomach had not. It wasn’t just the air that was making her nauseous, but the terror that tightened its grip on her as she proceeded in the tunnel.

The first time they had seen a train coming, she was certain she would die. There was only a single track, with concrete walls rising on both sides. As the beam of the train struck her, she froze like a deer caught in an automobile’s headlights. If it hadn’t been for Keith, she knew that in fact she would have died, right there, the hurtling subway train mangling her body in an instant. But she’d felt him tugging at her, and heard him yelling.

“There’s a catwalk!” A moment later he picked her up, swung her onto the catwalk, and rolled onto it himself. As that first train rushed by, she lay quivering, and when it was over—so quickly it almost seemed it couldn’t have happened at all—she lay there trembling, her breath coming in gasps. “You okay?” Keith asked as he gently drew her to her feet. She nodded, unwilling to admit how terrified she’d been until Keith grinned and said, “Then you’re a better man than me—I thought I was going to mess my pants.”

“Actually, I thought I was going to die,” Heather admitted as they gingerly climbed off the catwalk and back onto the track.

Now, as the fourth train thundered by, Heather knew she wasn’t going to die, at least not by being crushed by a subway car. Silently cursing her own cowardice, she forced herself to open her eyes and turn her head so she was looking directly at the speeding train. A wave of dizziness struck her, but she steeled herself against it, pressing even harder against the concrete. After the last car raced by, she jumped back down to the tracks and gazed after it, reading the identifying letter on the back of the last car: D.

Before the train had come thundering up behind them, they’d seen that the tunnel ahead spread wider, and more tracks were becoming visible. Now, as she watched the speeding train, it banked around to the left, and she knew exactly where they were.

Fifty-third Street.

A few paces farther and the two of them were in the far wider section of tunnel that provided the space for the trains to turn, and they began to see the glow of the station far ahead. But before they were close enough that the light spilling from the station would allow them to be seen emerging from the darkness, Keith stopped. Wordlessly, Heather followed his lead, and they stood silently for a moment. In the distance they could hear the faint sound of a train moving away from them, but that sound faded away and a silence fell over the tunnel. But still Keith neither moved nor spoke, and when Heather finally turned to him, he raised his arm and pointed. Then she saw them: two men at the near end of the platform, staring into the tunnel.