by John Saul
His knives, all honed razor sharp, were kept in a velvet-lined drawer that slid out from beneath the worktable’s granite surface.
He placed several large cardboard cartons—manufactured for the ice cream trade, but perfect for Baldridge’s use—in a specially constructed trough running completely around the edges of the table’s surface.
Using a digital camera, Baldridge photographed the carcass from every angle, then took careful note of all the pertinent measurements: not merely the girth of the breast, waist, and hips, though these were noted to within a quarter of an inch, but also the upper arms, lower arms, thighs, and calves.
Finally satisfied, he turned the carcass over so it lay facedown, and carefully made an incision from just behind the crown of the head all the way down to the base of the spine. Then, using a variety of knives—most of which were of his own design—he began working the hide away from the carcass, his fingers wielding the knives quickly but expertly, never penetrating the hide but leaving nearly nothing of either the fatty tissue or the muscle that separated the hide from the bones and soft tissues.
The back was relatively easy—flat planes, a broad expanse of hide, and plenty of room to work. Peeling the hide away from the back of the skull was just as easy, though it had taken Baldridge several months to master the ears, the trick being to cut deeply enough so that no incision would show in the final product. After that it was relatively simple to peel everything away except the lips and nostrils. The eyelids simply lifted off once the membranes around the eye sockets themselves were cut away. The nostrils and lips were merely a repeat of the ears—cut deeply enough inside those orifices so the loose edges would disappear completely when the remounting process was finished.
Once the hide was completely removed from the skull and face, it was nothing more than a careful stripping process, no more difficult than removing opera-length gloves from the arms or panty hose from the legs. A little care around the anus—more around the genitals—but that was really more for Baldridge’s own sense of pride in his work than out of necessity, since those areas would not be visible in the end product.
When the hide, still in a single, nearly unblemished piece, was finally separated from the carcass, Baldridge inspected it once more, noting with a certain degree of satisfaction that the only repair that would be necessary was the small hole in the forehead where the bullet had entered. His own work had left not even the tiniest of cuts or nicks. He then transferred the hide to the first of the vats in the row of tanning tanks that lined the opposite wall, and turned his attention to the remainder of the carcass.
Baldridge worked even more quickly now, for most of what still lay on the worktable was nothing more than garbage. Within twenty minutes all the muscles, organs, ligaments, and other soft tissue had been stripped away from the skeleton and deposited in the large ice cream cartons. Finally, he pulled the head away from the spine, carefully using one of his favorite knives to separate vertebrae from brain.
Abandoning the skeleton for a moment, he opened the glass top of a large box—seven feet long and two feet wide—that appeared to rest directly on the floor against the back wall. The box’s bottom was covered with a coarse screen, and it was upon this screen that Baldridge laid the skeleton. Closing the top of the box, he peered down through the glass until he saw the first of the ants scurry up through the mesh, confirm what they’d found, and hurry back down to communicate their discovery to the rest of the huge colony that lived beneath the floor of the laboratory. Satisfied that the formicans had busily begun their work and that by morning they would have eaten the cartilage away while leaving the bones intact, he turned his full attention to the skull.
Though he knew it was perfectly permissible to cut the skull open with a surgical saw, once again his sense of aesthetics stopped him. Though no trace of this surgery would show in the end, he himself would know the imperfection was there, and it would bother him. Thus, even though it would take him at least a full extra hour, he set to work, cutting the brain away through the foramen magnum, using a variety of knives, spoons, and scrapers to clean as much of the tissue away from the bone as possible.
The tongue and eyeballs joined the brain matter in one of the handy ice cream cartons.
After Baldridge had examined the bullet hole in the forehead and determined that the damage to the bone itself was minimal, the skull was placed in its own ant box. It, too, would be ready by morning.
The hide, however, would require several days of preparation.
Only then, when both skeleton and hide were perfectly preserved, would Baldridge begin his true work. When he was done, the man who had died in the tunnels that night would undoubtedly look better than he’d ever looked before.
By the time Baldridge left the workroom an hour later, nothing remained of the waste materials: the full ice cream cartons had been placed in the incinerator, and even the small bit of residue left when the fires had burned out had been washed down the drain.
The granite tabletop was spotless, as was the drainage trough.
The gurney had been scrubbed down and disinfected, the latex gloves consumed by the fire that destroyed the waste tissues.
Taking the bag containing the worn-out fluorescent light with him, Baldridge inspected his workroom one last time.
All was as it should be.
In a few more days, tonight’s trophy would be ready for display.
And tomorrow, another hunt would begin.
CHAPTER 21
It wasn’t pleasure—it was the absence of pain that Jeff noticed most when he awoke.
He wasn’t cold.
He wasn’t in pitch-darkness.
He wasn’t aching in every part of his body.
At first he thought the softness of the mattress beneath him and the warmth of the blanket that covered him couldn’t possibly be real. For one brief moment he dared to imagine that when he opened his eyes, he’d be back in his apartment on West 109th Street. Heather would be scrambling eggs on the stove in his tiny kitchenette, and the morning sun would just be brightening his bedroom. In a few minutes he’d be out running in Riverside Park.
Then he opened his eyes.
He lay still, staring up at the bulb that hung from the ceiling. No, its glare was nothing at all like the delicate colors of dawn outside his bedroom window. Finally, he raised his hand to shield his eyes from it.
Next he became aware of a low rumble—a rumble that grew steadily until the whole room was vibrating around him. After it faded away and silence once again fell over the room, he sat up, the sheet and blanket falling away from his body. Only then did he notice Jagger sitting on the bed opposite him, watching him. As the big man’s eyes moved over his torso, Jeff reached for the sheet and started to pull it back up again.
“What you think—I’m some kinda fairy?” Jagger growled.
Jeff shook his head. “You just surprised me.” He looked around, spotting his clothes—obviously washed and neatly folded—in a pile on the floor next to the bed. He glanced back up at Jagger. “You do that?”
“I’m not a maid, either,” Jagger said.
“Then who—”
“Who cares?” Jagger asked. “All I know is I’m hungry, and I smell food. You gonna get dressed, or wander around naked?” Heaving himself to his feet, Jagger moved through the makeshift bathroom into the living area beyond.
Left alone, Jeff flopped back down on the soft mattress. He lay there a short while before realizing that the part of his fantasy concerning scrambled eggs was more than just a dream, for he could actually smell them. And he could smell bacon frying, too. Throwing off the covers, he pulled on his clothes, then followed Jagger, pausing only long enough to throw some water on his face and to use one of the large cans to relieve himself. Then he went through the door leading into the main room.
There were half a dozen people in the room. Tillie was standing at the stove, a large spatula in her hand. A young woman, no more than eighteen years old, was si
tting on the sagging sofa, nursing a baby. Around the table were three men, somewhere between thirty and fifty. One of them, who was sitting, looked drunk, and the other two had the glazed look of habitual drug users and were on their feet, each holding a knife as they eyed Jagger, who was clutching the railroad spike in his right hand.
Cowering near the door that led to the tunnel outside the room was a frightened girl who appeared to Jeff to be about fifteen, maybe even younger.
“Maybe it ain’t him,” Jeff heard the drunk man say, his words slurring. “Maybe Jinx is wrong.”
“I’m not wrong,” the girl near the door said. She was clutching a sheet of paper in her hand. “Why don’t you look yourself?” Her eyes shifted to Jeff. “Shit! They’re both here!”
As Jeff watched, Jagger took a step toward one of the men with the knives, but they both tensed, and Jagger restrained himself, his eyes darting from one to the other.
Jinx’s eyes widened. “He’ll kill you!”
“Jag?” Jeff asked. “What’s going on?”
Jagger’s eyes didn’t leave the two knife-wielding men as he spoke. “She says she got some kind of paper with my picture on it, and these guys are sayin’ we gotta leave.”
Jeff’s gaze shifted from Jagger to Jinx.
“A picture? What kind of picture?” He started toward her, but stopped as Jinx shrank back against the wall, and one of the junkies spoke.
“You touch her and your guts’ll be on the floor before you even know what happened.”
Jeff held his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Hey, let’s just take it easy, okay? Nobody’s going to hurt anybody. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on, that’s all.”
“You gotta get ’em out of here, Tillie,” Jinx said. “You know—”
“I know this is my place, and I decide what’s gonna happen here,” Tillie cut in. Her eyes bored into Jinx as if daring the girl to challenge her. “And you keep in mind that I can kick you out, too, young lady.”
For a moment Jinx looked as if she might try to argue with Tillie, but then deflated like a leaking balloon. “All’s I want you to do is just look,” she said, her voice taking on a wheedling note.
Tillie pursed her lips and she seemed about to refuse, but then put the spatula down and took the paper from Jinx’s hand. Unrolling it, she studied it for a moment, her eyes flicking between the paper and both Jagger and Jeff.
“You boys want to tell me why you were in jail?” she asked.
Jagger’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t do nothin’.”
Tillie’s eyes shifted to Jeff, and he could see that she hadn’t believed Jagger.
“I was convicted of attempted murder,” he said.
Tillie’s eyes narrowed. “Did you do it, or not?”
Jeff shrugged. “It doesn’t make any difference. I was charged with it, I was convicted of it, and I was in jail for it.”
“How long they give you?”
“A year.”
Tillie’s brows lifted in apparent disbelief, but her gaze shifted back to Jagger. “How ’bout you?”
“Life,” Jagger said.
“For?” Tillie’s eyes never left Jagger as the question hung in the air.
Jagger seemed to ponder the statement for a long time, then he frowned. “They said I killed a couple people. And they said I killed a guy in jail, too. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember killin’ nobody.”
Tillie looked back at the paper she’d taken from Jinx, then passed it to Jeff. Though it was badly creased and smeared with dirt, he could see it clearly enough.
There were two photographs, one of Jagger, the other of himself. Beneath them there was a brief description of the charges that each of them had been convicted of. Below that were printed four words:
THE HUNT IS ON
“You can have some breakfast,” Tillie said. “After that, you’re gonna have to leave.”
“How can they call themselves ‘New York’s finest’?” Heather Randall asked, spitting the last three words out as if they’d left a nasty taste in her mouth. “If they’re too afraid of the people who live in the tunnels even to go in, how can they call themselves police, let alone anyone’s ‘finest’?”
Eve Harris leaned back in her chair, took off the half glasses she used for reading, and pressed her fingers against her temples in a vain attempt to stave off the headache that was starting to creep up out of her sinuses. She almost wished she’d refused to see the two people who were now sitting angrily in the chairs on the other side of her desk. Heather Randall was perched on the edge of her seat, while Keith Converse was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, chin resting on folded hands as his eyes bored into hers. She knew he was silently challenging her to do something about the story he’d started telling her yesterday, and which had taken an even stranger turn this morning. She’d intended simply to have her assistant give Keith Converse the message that she’d been unable to find out anything about a man called Scratch, and be done with it. But when he’d shown up at her office instead of merely calling—and brought Heather Randall with him—she changed her mind. Even Eve Harris did not readily turn away the daughter of the Assistant District Attorney, given that there might well be a time when she would want a favor from him.
Sighing, she stopped massaging her temples and looked first at Heather, then at Keith. “I can understand your frustration. In fact, I can empathize with it. Lord knows, the police haven’t always been my best friends over the years. But on the other hand, I’m not sure you understand fully what they’re up against.”
“A bunch of homeless people,” Keith told her, “who they seem to think are all drunks, junkies, or nutcases.” He smiled grimly. “And that’s a quote from someone at the Fifth Precinct, a guy named—”
“I don’t even want to know,” the councilwoman cut in. “It doesn’t make any difference, since most of them would agree.”
“Which means they wouldn’t have bothered to talk to any of them when they were investigating what happened to Cynthia Allen, right?”
Eve Harris’s expression became guarded. “I thought you were looking for your son, Mr. Converse. If you’re really after a retrial—”
“We’re just trying to find out what’s happening,” Heather broke in, seeing that they were on the verge of losing Eve Harris entirely. “I know we heard something in the subway station last night. I can’t swear it was Jeff—I suppose it might have been anybody. But Keith is sure the body they showed us wasn’t Jeff’s, and no matter what Cindy Allen says, I’ll never believe that Jeff was trying to do anything but help her that night.” She shook her head. “Maybe we’re wrong—we probably are—but we have to try to find out. And all we know is what Al Kelly told Keith.”
Eve’s brows lifted and she looked at Keith. “You remembered his name.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he countered.
“Most people don’t,” Eve replied. “To most people, the homeless don’t have any identity at all—it’s easier to ignore people if you know nothing about them. As long as you don’t know the facts, you can assume anything you want—whatever condition they’re in, it must be their own fault.” Her eyes shifted to Heather. “That’s why people won’t even look them in the eye—you look in someone’s eyes, and you might see things you don’t want to know. So it’s easier just not to look.” When Heather didn’t disagree, Eve abruptly shifted gears. “Why are you coming to me?” she asked. “Why not go to your father?”
Heather’s demeanor clouded. “As far as my father is concerned, Jeff is—” Her voice caught and she couldn’t bring herself to utter the word. Then she started over again. “My father doesn’t believe in reopening cases. He thinks it’s a waste of time. And when I called Jeff’s lawyer this morning, he said he’d tried to talk to a few people in the subway station, but they wouldn’t talk to him. He thinks we’re wasting our time, too.”
Keith, who had been watching Eve carefully as Heather spoke, stood up.
“I
think we’re wasting our time here, too,” he said. He turned to Eve. “Look, Ms. Harris, whether you help us or not, we’re going to talk to the people who live in the tunnels. I’ll go into them myself if I have to. Yesterday you seemed like someone who’d help me. If you’re not going to, just say so.”
As Heather stood up, too, Eve Harris made her decision. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to help you,” she said, looking at her calendar. “I’m meeting someone at one o’clock this afternoon. If you can meet me at Riverside Park at one-thirty, I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise you anything—these people can be very . . . well, let’s just say they can be very skittish. And understandably so. But at least I can introduce you to someone who knows a lot about what goes on in the tunnels.” She held up a cautionary hand at the excitement she saw burning in Keith’s eyes. “But that’s all I can do. I’ll be just south of the marina, and I’ll try to make the introduction. After that, you’re on your own. Deal?”
“Deal,” Keith replied.
“Then I’ll see you at one-thirty.”
Jagger’s eyes fixed malevolently on Tillie. “If we don’t wanna go, I don’t see any way you’re gonna make us.” The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and arms were bunched into hard masses, and though he was still sitting at the table where he and Jeff had sat down to eat, he looked coiled tight, as if ready to spring. Standing at her stove like a general at a command post, Tillie appeared totally unaffected either by Jagger’s demeanor or his words.
“This is my place,” she said. “I decide who can stay and who can’t.”
“What do you mean, your place?” Jagger challenged. “This ain’t nobody’s place. It’s nothin’ but a fuckin’ hole, for Christ sake. You don’t own it, and if we want to stay here, that’s how it’s going to be.”
“Maybe I better explain to you how things work down here,” Tillie replied, still seemingly unmoved by the menace in Jagger’s voice. “You know what a family is?” She paused, waiting for Jagger to reply, but he met her words with silence. Her eyes, sunk deep in fleshy sockets, narrowed. “I asked you a question. You got a hearing problem?”
