The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) (18 page)

Joe was glad that Gruber would let him into the room and he wouldn’t have to climb back down the pipe. Gruber unlocked the door and pushed it open. Joe preceded him into the room and clicked on the light. He’d seen the location of the switch before he climbed up the pipes.

He hoped that Edison would not come running. That would be too much to explain.

“I’ll stay down here with the steam pipes,” Joe said.

Luckily, the yellow dog seemed to know what Joe wanted, and he stayed put.

“I’ll go see about that drain,” Gruber said. “So you don’t need to bother coming about it tomorrow.”

“OK,” Joe said. Things were working out for Dr. Stavros.

He was inside with the door closed behind him before he let out a sigh of relief.

“Edison,” he called. “Here.”

The dog walked over, wagging his tail, and stuck his nose in Joe’s palm.

“I think we got what we needed,” Joe said. “Let’s get home.”

Where was home, these days?

He put his hand on the warm door handle, ready to go into the steam tunnels. Wherever home was, it wasn’t here.

Edison crowded close to him, aware of his mixed-up state.

“Good boy.” Joe gave him one of the last treats in his pocket. He’d need to find food for the dog again soon, and himself, but he didn’t dare show his face at Grand Central. The killer must be staking it out.

He opened the door, and the clanking from the pipes pushed into the room. He had a fleeting wish that he could go outside and catch a cab instead of having to leave through the dark and loud tunnel.

No self-pity.

Chapter 29

November 29, 7:07 p.m.

Steam tunnel to 520 First Street

Ozan leaned back against the white wall next to an intersection of pipes that shielded him from view. He slid down to a sitting position, legs crossed tailor-style.

The pipes provided the only cover in the tunnel, but it was hotter near them. Maybe the heat would cure his fever. He thought they did that for fevers in the old days. Or maybe they packed people in ice. Ice would feel good right about now. An ice cube glowed blue in his mind, bright as fire. The fever again. Strength sapped from his body with each drop of sweat.

He took off his shirt and used it to mop his forehead. His head felt too heavy on his neck, like it had been turned to steel. He hung it forward until his chin touched his chest. Pain pulsed in his brain to the slow beat of an old ballad.

Get up, Ozan, said a voice that sounded like his mother’s. Go home and rest.

He could almost feel her cool hand on his brow. The money is in your accounts, she reminded him. It’s enough to keep Erol safe in that beautiful home for another year. You are a good brother. Now, go home and rest.

He struggled to his feet and stood, swaying. But he moved too close to a steam pipe and pain seared along his side. His head cleared. He couldn’t go home. Not yet.

He’d heard from a contact at the CIA that the New York Police Department had orders to turn Tesla over to the CIA before interrogating him. That meant one of two things—either they intended to kill the millionaire themselves or they wanted to keep whatever he might say under their control.

Either way, whatever Tesla found out about 523 would not be made public. Ozan might never know. If his illness was connected to his contact with 523’s blood, he would never know.

He remembered the one hundred dead men he’d found in the hold of the boat. Maybe they’d all died from this disease. Maybe Dr. Dubois had hired him to cover that up. The doctor would let him die before telling him anything.

Ozan slid down to the floor again and watched his strength leach out in drops on the stone floor, drifting in and out of sleep. A sound woke him with a jerk. It took him a long time to remember where he was. Then his head rolled to the side and he could see around the pipes and back up the tunnel. A man and a dog shimmered through the heat, their figures small with distance.

Ozan stumbled to his feet. His legs had gone to sleep. They tingled painfully and felt fat and cut off from his body.

“Stop!” he shouted.

The man broke into a run. The dog jogged along at his side.

Ozan sighted his gun at the man’s back, remembering just in time that he needed to take the man alive. He lowered his gun and took aim at the man’s legs. He fired, but it went wide.

Steam boiled from a pipe behind the running man. Ozan’s bullet had opened a hole. He’d have to crawl under it.

“I need to talk to you,” he shouted.

The man and dog sprinted on, half-obscured by steam. The man ran as if he knew that it was for his life, long panicked strides.

Ozan hobbled after as fast as he could, which was pitifully slow. “It’s about 523.”

That didn’t provoke a response, either, so he fired again. The shot went high and broke a light bulb, raining glass onto the ground.

Ozan’s hands shook, and his eyes blurred. He could not let them get away. He abandoned aiming, just fired his Glock empty. The tunnel rang with the sounds of the shots. Steam shot from hole after hole, creating a hot, white wall he could not see through.

A jet of steam hit his wrist. The pain steadied him, made him realize what he had risked. He might have hit Tesla. He might have killed him. He cursed his own stupidity.

Ducking under the scalding steam, he stumbled forward.

He needed Tesla alive.

Chapter 30

November 29, 8:10 p.m.

Steam tunnel from 520 First Street

Joe’s pack bounced against his back as he fled down the tunnel, the laptop battering bruises into his shoulders. Joe didn’t care. A killer had just shot at them.

A second shot came, then more. He tackled Edison and huddled against the wall, knowing that he was completely helpless. Shot after shot boomed through the tunnel. Joe couldn’t even think. Stay down, stay small, a voice inside him said. Don’t be a giant target. He buried his face in Edison’s fur and waited.

The shooting stopped. Joe waited for one heartbeat, then another.

A shout echoed down the tunnel.

Whoever had fired the gun was coming toward them, probably reloading. It must be Saddiq. He couldn’t see the man through the curtain of hot steam, which meant that the man couldn’t see him, either. The steam was probably what had saved his life.

He let go of Edison and ran again.

“Heel, boy!”

It seemed an eternity before they reached the door that led out to the subway tunnels. He had forgotten to lock it when he came through, but he didn’t forget to lock it now. His hands shook so much that he dropped the keys twice, once onto Edison’s back, but he finally slotted the key in. It was a stout metal door in a solid frame. That would buy him time.

The cooler air of the tunnel dried the sweat on his skin, but he didn’t feel cold. He was running too fast for that. He had no idea how long he ran, wanting to do nothing but put distance between himself and the killer.

Eventually, he slowed down, out of breath. In a few feet they’d be at the first tunnel intersection. Not far after that the tunnels split again. Each turn would make it harder for Saddiq to guess where they’d gone. Once he got to the train track, they wouldn’t leave footprints. They could get away.

When he reached the first intersection, he swung left.

“We’re OK,” he said, looking down to where Edison always ran next to him.

He wasn’t there.

Joe stopped dead and looked around. The tunnel was dimly lit, but light enough that he would have seen Edison if he were anywhere close, but he wasn’t. Joe was alone.

“Edison,” he called, heedless that the sound would draw Saddiq to him.

Silence.

He hurried back the way he had come, calling the dog’s name.

Pounding echoed down the tunnel. Saddiq was beating against the inside of the door to the steam tunnel. Joe shut up. If he could hear the killer, the killer could hear him.

He was out of breath, but pushed himself to run faster back to that door. That was where he had last seen Edison. Saddiq might break through at any moment and start shooting. Joe kept running. He had to find Edison, no matter what the cost.

Breathing hard, Joe got to the door. A yellow mound lay stretched in front of it.

Heart in his mouth, he ran to it and turned it over.

Edison.

“Boy?” Joe’s voice cracked.

The dog whimpered, and Joe’s heart rose. He was still alive. Joe had to keep it that way.

“It’ll be OK,” he whispered.

“When I get out of here, you are in a world of pain,” shouted a voice from behind the door.

Joe flinched. The killer was a few feet away. If he got through, they were both dead.

Working fast, he slid his hands over Edison, searching for a wound. His right hand came back wet with blood. Joe clicked on the flashlight and held it in his mouth.

Edison had been shot.

The bullet had grazed his right shoulder. Dark, wet blood spilled across his golden fur.

Joe pressed his palm against it. Direct pressure. The first rule of first aid.

The killer kicked the door savagely, and it bowed outward. He would get through it soon, and then he would kill them, probably in a painful way. Joe would fight back as best he could, but he was no match for a military-trained assassin with a gun. That only worked in movies.

Think, Joe told himself. Think.

Years ago, he’d held another wounded dog in his arms. She, too, had trembled with pain and fear. Roxy—a trained poodle and the centerpiece of his act. They had been miles from circus grounds, out on a hike with Farnsworth, the old man who took care of the animals.

Farnsworth drank too much to hold down a real job, but managed to fit into the nomadic life of the troupe. He cleaned out cages and set up tents. He was quiet and smart, and Joe liked spending time with him.

Farnsworth had had the answer then.

Joe dug in his backpack with his free hand, pulling out his dirty T-shirt. It was the cleanest article of clothing he had with him. He folded it into a rectangle and pressed it against the dog’s wound. Edison whimpered.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he whispered. “I know it hurts.”

Another volley of kicks bent the door outward about an inch. It couldn’t hold much longer.

With his free hand, he fumbled the roll of duct tape out of his backpack. He scrabbled to find the end of the tape, lifted it up a bit, and held it with his teeth. He wished for three hands as he unrolled it.

He spat out the end of tape, careful to hold it away from the floor, and tore off the strip with his teeth. Carefully, he fitted the tape atop the makeshift T-shirt bandage as he’d seen the drunken vet do years before. Back then, the bandage had held until they’d gotten Roxy back to the trailers. He hoped that this one would hold up as well.

Edison watched him with no hint of reproach in his eyes. He trusted Joe to make him well. Joe hated himself for what had happened to the dog. He should never have been down here playing detective. He should have been able to go to the police and let his lawyer sort it out. Only possible if he could outside.

A thud came from the door. Steam leaked out under it.

Moving fast, Joe shrugged on his backpack, wrapped Edison in the blanket and held him against his chest. He jogged away from deafening bangs from the killer’s gun. He was shooting his way out.

Joe redoubled his pace. Edison’s seventy-five pounds weighed heavy in his arms. Joe tightened his grip and kept going. He would carry this dog until he dropped.

His original plan had been to lose the bad guy in the tunnels and circle back to Platform 36 to find out all he could about toxoplasmosis and Ronald Raines. But he couldn’t do that now. He had to get Edison to help, and fast.

He slowed. Edison grew heavier with every step. Joe’s legs and back ached with every step. He staggered to a stop.

He had nowhere to go.

Chapter 31

November 29, 8:21 p.m.

Central Park

Vivian jogged across the dimly lit park to the bank of phone booths. Phone booths were getting rare in the city, and she had a call to make that she didn’t dare make from her cell. Thanks, again, to Tesla.

Frozen leaves crackled underfoot, and the sky glowed dark golden from the streetlights. It was a beautiful night. She swung her gloved hands as she ran, keeping loose and ready in case anyone thought that a woman alone in the dark was easy prey. That anyone would have serious regrets.

The temperature had dropped since the sun had gone down, and she pulled her black knit cap down over her eyebrows. Tesla had told her that most facial-recognition software used the eyes to make identifications—the distance between them, the depth of the eye socket, the color. The old surveillance cameras trained on the phone booths were black and white, low resolution, so maybe they’d be easier to fool.

As she got closer to the camera, she pulled up her black scarf so that it covered her nose. Being bundled up didn’t look out of place here, with the cold frost nipping at everyone’s nose this time of year.

The phone booths were empty. She aimed for the one on the end and wished that it had a door so she’d have privacy. Once inside the tiny room, she changed her mind. The smells of stainless steel and urine and cold assailed her—the bouquet of the city. Better to have one side open to the fresh air than keep all this penned up behind a door.

The walls were pocked with dents where people had kicked them or punched them, either because they hadn’t liked whatever they’d heard on the other end of the line or to let the metal know who was boss. Any way you looked at it, the phone booth had seen hard use.

Like almost everyone else, she never used phone booths. She had a cell phone to make and receive calls, but she’d turned it off before she left the house. Right now, she was under the radar, like everyone else who used these phones.

A glance into the deformed metal wall told her that her face was still concealed. She dialed the number and faced the opening of the booth again. She had no intention of turning her back on the dark park.

A slender Hispanic man in a denim jacket walked toward the phones, and she tensed. His hands were empty, and his stride was tired. Probably a guy who’d finished work and wanted to make a call. He took the booth next to hers and dialed a long number, somewhere overseas, and dropped quarter after quarter into the coin slot.

The burr of a ringing phone droned on from the plastic handset held an inch from her face. Eventually, her connection went through, and she left a message with the police tip line, the one that she’d called the day before. She relayed the information that Tesla had sent her—the identity of the murderer who had killed the young man in front of Grand Central Terminal and how to find the surveillance footage to prove it.

If Tesla was telling the truth, then the police could verify it. If he was lying, they’d know that, too. Vivian had to tell them just in case. Duty done, she hung up.

The man next to her spoke Spanish in a practically unending stream. It didn’t sound like the people on the other end got much chance to get a word in edgewise. Maybe he was leaving a message as she had done. Maybe he was even calling in to a criminal tip line. She smiled. Stranger coincidences had happened.

She checked her reflection again to make sure that her hat was down and her scarf was across her nose before re-entering the cold nighttime park. Once she’d moved out of the pool of light, she let the scarf fall.

Tesla’s agenda was opaque to her. He had to know that he couldn’t hide out from the police forever without going outside. So, what the hell was he doing?

She pushed him out of her mind and focused on her surroundings—empty paths, drifts of snow against the sides of trees, and quiet. It was too early and too cold for troublemakers, but she kept her guard up until she’d hiked out of the park onto the brightness of Fifth Avenue and over to Madison Avenue.

She turned her phone back on. It had been off for only a few minutes, but it showed a missed call from one of her best clients: Daniel Rossi. She called back.

“Have you heard from Mr. Tesla?” he asked.

She hesitated, wanting for some obscure reason to protect Tesla before realizing that he was better off with Mr. Rossi on his side, whether he knew it or not. “I believe that he sent me an email, sir. It came from my mother’s account, but contained information about the knifing that happened this morning in front of Grand Central.”

“Details?”

She filled him in on that email and the previous one where Tesla had identified the murder victim in the tunnels. He was proving to be a clever criminal investigator, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep him out of trouble. Mr. Rossi listened patiently.

The sidewalks were crowded with New Yorkers in long coats and hats, rushing to catch their trains. She fetched up inside a doorway to avoid the worst of it while she talked with Mr. Rossi.

“Do you know where he might be?” Mr. Rossi asked.

“No, sir.” Down there somewhere, unable to come out. In spite of her anger at him for messing with her mother’s account, she felt sorry for him. She didn’t see how he could get out of this.

“We need to bring him to a place of safety.”

“Sir?” She stamped her feet to get blood flowing back to them. Her toes weren’t happy that she’d stopped jogging.

“Could you carry him?”

“Fireman’s carry. Sure.” He wouldn’t like it, but it’d work. She bit back a smile. So much for protecting his dignity.

“I’d like you to find him and get his permission to render him unconscious, then bring him to my house.”

She didn’t ask where that was. Uptown. Expensive.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

“How should I render him unconscious?” A crack on the head? Choke hold?

“I will provide you with prescription drugs.”

Boring. “If he refuses to take the drugs?”

“He needs to be taken out of those tunnels, for his own protection.”

Vague answer. “Am I authorized to use force?”

“Try not to let it come to that. If it does, there will also be a syringe in the bag. Two—one for him and one for the dog, in case it acts up.”

So, she would be in trouble with Mr. Rossi if she left Tesla down there, and in trouble with Tesla if she injected him against his will and dragged him out. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Just like the old days in the military. “I see.”

“My understanding is that there is a high police presence in the tunnels, and that other government agencies may be involved as well. And who knows if the man who killed the young man in front of the station today is still down there. You should use caution, and avoid contact with these other parties at all cost.”

So, she’d have to figure out how to carry him out without being noticed. This just got better and better. “I understand, sir.”

What she understood was that this was likely to be a complicated extraction of an unwilling subject under the noses of trained law enforcement personnel and a cold-blooded slasher. A challenge. Vivian loved a challenge.

On the way to pick up the drugs from Mr. Rossi, she bought a simple burner phone and sent an email to her mother from her smartphone.

Hi Mom,

I got a new cell phone. It’s 212-555-0919. Call me when you get this to see if it works! Remember the number so that you can reach me if you get lost on the subway.

Talk soon,

Viv

She called her mother to explain but was too late, so she got a tongue-lashing for assuming that her street-savvy mother mi
ght lose her way on the subway.

After Vivian explained that it was a code, her mother was angry about that, too. She didn’t want her account to be used to pass coded messages any more than Vivian did, but she agreed to leave the message there, so if Joe logged in to that account and read it, he might call.

Vivian couldn’t count on him reading the email, or on him trying to cooperate. She needed to track him down.

It couldn’t be that hard. He couldn’t go outside, so he was limited to the tunnels. Of course, there were literally hundreds of miles of subway tunnels, steam tunnels, and even sewage tunnels that he could be using. She’d never be able to search them all.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to. Based on the information that he’d been sending her, he still had access to an Internet connection. That meant that he could be in only a few places.

Most of the shops in Grand Central Terminal didn’t provide Wi-Fi. They didn’t want their customers to linger. The Apple Store did, but only during business hours. She’d check there.

In the underground platforms, the only one with Wi-Fi that she knew of was Platform 36. She’d comb the platform itself and the area around it, although she might have trouble getting down into the tunnels there, because the place was overrun with cops. Maybe Dirk could help.

If Tesla wasn’t there, then maybe he’d gone back to his underground house (or close enough to get into his wireless router). If she made a circuit between those few stops, she’d catch him eventually.

She just hoped that no one else caught him first.