The Vaults (25 page)

Five stories above, Red Henry was enjoying himself.

“Is that something you can guarantee?” he repeated, looking past Enrique’s dangling body to the street below. It was a hell of a drop.

Enrique gasped something unintelligible. Henry jerked his hands a little and Enrique screamed, “Yes. Yes. I guarantee. Yes.”

Henry looked over his shoulder and winked at Rinus, who was smiling with one side of his mouth. Henry stepped back and pulled Enrique roughly back into the room. He was weeping and shaking, and when he got to his feet, a large wet stain showed he had lost control of his bladder.

“You may leave now,” Henry said. “Thank you for your assistance in this matter.”

Enrique staggered toward the door. The two ASU officers took his arms, showing no sympathy for the man’s state. The door was ajar and Enrique was halfway through when Henry called out to him, “I know your sister who works at the bakery on Vasco da Gama Street. If I need to find you again, I will go to her first.”

The guards released Enrique’s arms. He couldn’t find the energy even to give Henry a hostile look. He just turned and walked out.

“Well, translate,” Henry roared, feeling good.

The translator spoke quickly in Polish as Peja closed the office door. Most of the Poles laughed and the others smiled. A couple even clapped.

Henry smiled, too, not with them, but because his assessment of the Poles and what they would respond to had been so accurate. His intuition was one tool—and physical intimidation was the other—that he knew he could count on.

Rinus came over to him, his hand outstretched. “That dotted line that you talk about. We are ready to sign on it.”

Henry, a man who did not like surprises, actually laughed. He looked over at the translator, who shrugged in ignorance. Those goddamn Poles were cagey, Henry thought, shaking Rinus’s hand.

Poole knew that Red Henry—no one else had arms like that—was not going to drop Enrique in front of all these witnesses. He also knew that telling Carla that would not alleviate her anxiety in the least. After a few excruciating moments, the arms pulled Enrique back into the building. Poole realized he was breathing hard. Carla was fighting back tears.

“It’s okay. It’s over.” Poole brushed her hair with his hand in an attempt at comfort he knew was wholly inadequate.

She turned around into him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. He stroked her hair gently.

She pulled away. “We stay here until he comes out.”

Poole nodded. He was in no hurry to begin searching the Hollows for Casper Prosnicki. He expected a long wait and was surprised when, only a few minutes later, he saw Enrique walking unsteadily down the front steps. Carla started to move toward Enrique, but Poole saw the urine stain on Enrique’s trousers and grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to pull free.

“Let him go home on his own. Call him in a half hour. Don’t tell him you saw him here.”

She looked up at Poole, puzzled. She hadn’t noticed Enrique’s pants.

“Just trust me on this. It’s for his sake.”

Carla nodded. Poole knew that when he made an unequivocal stand, she would trust his judgment. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he straightened up so that her feet dangled and her body pressed against his.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

“No.”

He could tell by the feel of her body that this was the truth. He grabbed her around the waist and eased her back to the ground. Then, with regret, he turned east toward the Hollows.

Nora awoke in a haze, as though coming out of the deepest phase of sleep. Without opening her eyes she knew that something was not right. It was the smell of the place—potpourri in the air, but not the type she used. The mattress was too soft. She opened her eyes and her disorientation took on a visual dimension. She was in her room. But at second glance, she was not. She was in a room very much like her own. The walls were the same pink with white molding. The bed was the same four-poster. The bookcases were like hers, filled with books. But the room was roughly half the size of hers. And there were no windows.

She sat up. She was wearing the nightgown she had fallen asleep in. A pink robe hung from a hook on the only door in the room. She eased out of bed and put on the robe. It wasn’t hers, but it fit. She tried the door handle—locked. She sat back down on the bed and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. She wasn’t scared, just bewildered.

Fear came five minutes later with the sound of footsteps beyond the door. Until then she had clung to the illusion that this was some bizarre dream or some fault with her perception. Was she going mad? If so, it was not nearly as unpleasant as she would have guessed. But the footsteps forced her to acknowledge that this was real. Someone had taken her from her apartment and brought her to this room, which had been made to look as exactly like her bedroom as this space would permit.

She brought her knees up under her chin and laced fingers over her shins, like an armadillo rolling into a protective ball. She had come to terms long ago that her being a sex symbol meant she was the object of lust for hundreds or even thousands of men. Among these men, inevitably, were the sadists and the unbalanced and the deranged. For them, she knew, she was the object of rape fantasies or perhaps even worse. The similarity of this room to her own had initially been comforting, but now, facing the reality that someone had obviously spent time making this likeness and
had therefore seen—or perhaps even been in—her bedroom, it was terrifying.

She sat like that, listening to footsteps, her mind wildly running through worst-case and best-case scenarios of what was happening. She heard the footsteps approaching, finally reaching the door. The bolt pulled back and the door opened. She tried to push farther back on the bed. A small, lean man with dark skin—like an Indian, Nora thought—entered carrying a tray with breakfast on it. He wore tweed pants and a sleeveless undershirt. He placed the tray on a table next to the door.

“Who’re you?” she asked, recognizing him as the man who had watched her at the club. She surprised herself with the composure of her voice.

He gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and carried an accent that she couldn’t place.

“Why am I here?”

He smiled again. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you. I will keep you as comfortable as possible. This is not about you.”

“I don’t guess you would tell me what it is about?”

“Sadly, no, other than to assure you that it does not involve harming you. We merely need you here for a short while. Please enjoy your food. Knock on the door if you desire anything.”

He turned away from her and she saw how his undershirt bridged the depression between the muscles on either side of his spine. He turned back again.

“Miss Aspen. You are lovelier by far here, in person, than you are on the stage. Please do not worry about your safety. I would not allow anyone to harm you.”

He left. His words, uttered by someone else, might have been creepy or threatening. But something about this man made her feel safe and comfortable, and she ate her meal in serenity.

Puskis was two blocks from City Hall when an ASU officer intercepted him.

“Mr. Puskis?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad we’ve found you, sir.”

“Found me?”

The officer was young and earnest. “Yes, sir. When you didn’t show up for work, they sent us out searching.”

Odd, Puskis thought. Then again, he hadn’t been late for work in nearly two decades. They must be wondering why now. Why does he go missing as soon as we unveil the new Retrievorator? And, as Van Vossen had said, he was more important to them now than he had ever been.

He allowed the young officer to lead him back to City Hall, noticing how the other pedestrians gave them considerable room to pass. The officer seemed oblivious of this effect, though, as an ASU officer, he most likely took it for granted.

At City Hall, a contingent of ASU officers along with two men who Puskis recognized from the mayor’s staff met them.

“Mr. Puskis,” said one of the mayor’s men, “where have you been?” He was a huge man in a pin-striped suit that might have been cut for a bear.

Puskis hesitated. Had he been watched? Did they already know where he was or would they be able to find out later? What were the consequences of lying? He was not used to making quick decisions. Nothing was ever split-second in the Vaults. “I, uh, I went for a walk.” It was slow coming out and everyone knew it was a lie.

The big man looked at him menacingly. “A walk? You’ve never been late for work as far as anyone can remember. Why did you go for a walk today, Mr. Puskis?”

Today of all days
.

The big man’s words had given him time to think. “I received some news
yesterday that required contemplation. News that affects my work in the Vaults. On the way to work I decided to take a walk to, well, to clear my head. I assumed that my record of punctuality would allow me one transgression.”

The big man was not satisfied but apparently decided not to pursue it further. “You see, Mr. Puskis, we were particularly concerned because we believe that you may be under threat.”

“Under threat?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sure that you’ve heard about the bombings around the City recently.”

“Yes.”

“We have reason to believe that you may be a target of these madmen.”

Puskis was astonished. “Why would you think that?”

One of the ASU officers stepped forward. “We have reasons, sir, but they’re confidential at this time.”

Confidential? Puskis saw every file generated by the City’s justice system. Nothing was confidential from him. But this was not about an actual threat. This was an excuse. He shrugged. “I apologize for any . . . anxiety that I’ve caused.”

“You’re safe and sound now, Mr. Puskis. That’s what matters,” said the Bear. “Two guards are being assigned to you at all times for the foreseeable future. They’ll be with you down in the Vaults and will stay outside your door when you are at home. Six officers rotating in eight-hour shifts.”

“Is this necessary? Even in the Vaults?”

“The order came directly from the mayor himself, sir.”

That’s that, Puskis thought. No way around it.

“There are two officers already stationed in the Vaults. Pretend they’re not there, go about your business as usual. I imagine there’s quite a bit of work for you, what with the bombings and whatnot.”

Puskis nodded and went to the elevators. Dawlish wasn’t there. Instead, a much younger man was at the one elevator that descended to the Vaults.

“Good morning, sir,” he said pleasantly.

“Mmmh, yes. Where’s . . . where’s Mr. Dawlish?”

“Mr. Dawlish, sir?”

“Ummm.” Puskis then seemed to break out of a trance. “Oh, yes. Mr. Dawlish. The man who normally works this elevator.”

“Sorry. I don’t know anything about the previous chap. Just told me to
take my post at this elevator. This is going to be my elevator, they told me. I’m new, see?”

Yes. Puskis did see. Puskis saw that he was now under house arrest and that his inquiries into the Navajo Project had come to an end.

Nora decided that her glimpse of her captor’s forearms had put her at ease. A strange thought, but there it was. His forearms were thin, but looked as though they were made from intertwined cables, reminding her of the arms of a former lover, Tino Juarez, a boxer whom the Americans called the Magician and the Mexicans called el Matador. He had been small, like this man, and hard. He had been a sophisticate. Nora had been out at the Palms with him when he was approached by a fan who said that he thought Tino was a great fighter.

“I am not a fighter, I am a boxer,” Tino had replied. “Fighters are barbaric, unskilled, sadistic. I am a scientist, an artist, a philosopher.”

And to an extent, she thought, he was. He earned his nickname because he was nearly impossible to corner or hit to any effect. He rarely knocked an opponent down but so thoroughly confused and eluded him that the judging was a foregone conclusion. Tino’s skill worked against everyone but the champion, a brawler named Phil Lawson, who was as quick as Tino and more brutal. Tino had twice fought for the title and twice been knocked out by Lawson.

The trauma of the second fight (she had not known him at the time of the first) ended their brief relationship. She remembered him, though, as a gentleman and as her kindest lover. It was irrational to draw a parallel with her captor based merely on the similarity of their forearms. But once this connection was made, she noticed other similarities. The way he carried himself. The way he looked at her. Something in his eyes was the same as in Tino’s, and it made her think of kindness, though the expression on his face betrayed nothing. What had Tino’s eyes revealed? Kindness? Or had they been the window on the part of his soul that caused pain to other men? Because, his style and philosophizing notwithstanding, his career as a boxer was rooted in his past as a storied street brawler.