The Manhattan Hunt Club

by John Saul

  Heather read through the page twice, wishing she could find a reasonable explanation for what she was reading, but unable to ignore the cold, clinical directness of the log. Her heart racing, she flipped through the book until she came to the most recent entry.

  The last of her doubt faded away as she read the words that had been so carefully written on the page.

  In the space for identifying the “Quarry,” Jeff’s name was neatly inscribed.

  The “Date of Extraction” was three days ago, the date that Jeff had supposedly died in the crash of the Correction Department transport van.

  The “Dates of Hunt” entry was only partially filled in, with today’s date as its opening.

  The closing date was still blank.

  The “Hunting Party” consisted of Adder, Mamba, Rattler, Viper, and Cobra.

  “I wish you’d killed him,” she said coldly. “But who are they? What kind of people would do such a thing? What kind of people could even think of such a thing?”

  Keith held out the wallet he’d taken from the man’s pants. “His name’s Carey Atkinson,” he said.

  Heather’s eyes widened with shock, and when she exchanged the logbook for the wallet, her hands were trembling. She stared at the driver’s license for several long seconds, and when she spoke again, her voice was as unsteady as her hands.

  “Keith, I know Carey Atkinson. He’s a friend of my father’s.”

  Keith frowned. “How good a friend?”

  Heather took a deep breath, then she met Keith’s gaze. “Very good,” she whispered. “He’s the Chief of Police.”

  Keith’s lips compressed into a grim line. “I guess we know how they got Jeff out of the van.”

  As the truth of what Keith had just said sank in, Heather felt cold fury. “Could you have killed him?” she asked. “If you’d wanted to?”

  Keith nodded. “If I’d known who he was and exactly what he was doing, I would have. I’d have broken his neck.”

  Heather took the gun out of her pocket and gazed at it. “Until just now I wasn’t sure I’d actually be able to use this. But if we find the rest of those men . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Let’s just hope we find Jeff before they do,” Keith said. He flipped through the book, then stopped. “Holy Jesus,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Look.” He held out the book. “Maps.”

  Heather took the book and studied the hand-drawn maps carefully. There were eight pages of them, meticulously detailed, and as she moved back and forth from one page to another, the maze of passages and tunnels began to make some sense. Her finger touched a spot on the first map, pointing to where the men must have entered the labyrinth that lay beneath the streets.

  A suspicion began to grow inside her. He wouldn’t do something like this. He couldn’t!

  But she couldn’t dispel the suspicion that had taken root in her mind.

  Jagger froze, turning his attention away from the pain of his burns, focusing on the footsteps. When he’d first heard them, echoing so quietly that he almost failed to catch the sound at all, he was so sure it was Jeff returning that he’d nearly whispered to him. But an instinct deep within him had issued an alarm, and he stayed silent.

  The approaching footsteps slowed, became more cautious.

  Now he knew it wasn’t Jeff.

  Then who?

  A hunter?

  Maybe just a drunk.

  It didn’t matter. The important thing—the only thing that mattered—was that it wasn’t Jeff.

  He inched back, shrinking his huge frame deeper into the alcove, pressing against the end wall so hard his spine started to go numb.

  As the footsteps came closer, he almost stopped breathing, concentrating every nerve in his body on the dark space beyond the alcove.

  Whoever was approaching seemed to sense his presence as well, for whoever was hidden in the gloom paused after each step, as if to listen, to take stock.

  Then the footsteps stopped altogether, and Jagger held his breath, afraid that even the air moving through his lungs might give him away.

  The tense moment stretched, and when it finally ended, it wasn’t a sound that broke it at all.

  Instead, it was a tiny spot of brilliant red that crept into the edge of Jagger’s vision like a drop of glowing blood oozing slowly through the filth that covered the rough concrete floor of the tunnel.

  Or some sort of predator stalking its next meal.

  As Jagger’s eyes followed it, the crimson spot veered toward the wall opposite his lair and began climbing, moving back and forth, patrolling the wall like a soldier tacking across a battlefield. When it came to the ceiling, the spot abruptly vanished, but Jagger neither released his breath nor let himself relax.

  The spot reappeared, now on the wall of the alcove directly opposite his face, no more than six feet away.

  It began creeping downward, once again moving back and forth, and when it paused, Jagger was certain it had found him. But a second or two later it continued its progress until it reached the floor of the alcove. Instead of moving closer to him, however, it went the other way, edging closer and closer to the lip of the alcove’s floor, until it disappeared, almost as if it had fallen over the edge.

  His lungs burning, Jagger slowly began letting his breath escape, struggling against the urge to exhale in a sudden burst and gulp in a fresh supply of oxygen. He could sense the presence in the darkness now, feel it edging closer. Keeping his back pressed against the end wall, he twisted his head until his neck started to cramp, straining his eyes against the darkness and his ears against the silence.

  The barrel of the rifle appeared first. It crept into the range of Jagger’s vision and paused, as if the cold metal itself sensed danger. Then it began to move again, lengthening until Jagger could see the end of the weapon’s telescopic sight and the hand that gripped its stock.

  Still he didn’t move, waiting until his instincts told him the moment had come.

  The fingers of one hand closed tightly around the wide end of the railroad spike, while the fingers of the other flexed in the darkness, readying themselves.

  The hunter’s other hand appeared, its forefinger curled around the weapon’s trigger, and Jagger knew this was his chance. He whipped one arm up, his fingers closing around the stock of the gun, and jerked it forward so fast that the hunter had no time even to release it from his grip. In almost the same movement, Jagger’s other arm arced around, his hand wielding the point of the spike as if it were a stiletto, plunging it deep into the man’s chest.

  The gasp that escaped the man’s lungs was his final breath, for the spike had already slashed through his heart before he even knew what had happened. His lifeless fingers slipped away from the rifle and he crumpled to the floor, leaving his weapon in the hands of his executioner.

  The tunnel containing the alcove where he’d left Jagger was only a few yards ahead now, and Jeff froze, his arm coming up to stop Jinx, who was half a pace behind him.

  A sound had stopped him, an expulsion of breath, as if someone had just taken a blow that knocked the wind out of him. But now, instead of hearing low moans of pain, or the gasping of someone struggling to regain his breath, all he heard was silence.

  Jinx remained frozen beside him as they both listened, but the silence stretched on, and Jeff began to wonder if he’d really heard anything at all. He started forward again, moving more slowly than before, still sensing that something ahead had changed.

  He came to the intersection of the two tunnels, with the alcove several paces in from where the passages met. He paused there, listening.

  Nothing.

  Finally, he stepped out of the shelter of the cross passage and turned toward the alcove.

  A shaft of red light shot out of the darkness, and Jeff’s heart leaped as he realized what it was.

  The hunters had found Jagger, and now he himself was pinioned by the slim shaft of a rifle’s laser sight. But instead of a shot,
he heard a voice.

  “I got one of ’em,” Jagger said, his voice echoing off the hard concrete walls.

  The shaft of red abruptly disappeared, and Jeff felt the tension drain from his body as Jagger appeared. “Jesus, Jag, I thought you were going to shoot me!”

  “An’ I was startin’ to wonder if you were comin’ back at all,” the big man replied. A second later he was sucking the last drops of moisture out of the cup Jeff had brought him.

  Jeff saw the crumpled figure of a man sprawled on the floor of the tunnel and moved closer, feeling oddly numb as he gazed at the dead man on the floor.

  The man was dressed in black clothing and had a small pack strapped to his back. Jeff could see that he wasn’t one of the normal denizens of the tunnels, if there was anything normal about the strange tribe of society’s detritus that had accumulated beneath the streets. Clearly, this man was one of the hunters, and as he stared at the fallen figure, Jeff felt not even a twinge of remorse at what Jagger had done.

  He knelt down and pulled the backpack loose, then began going through it.

  There were a couple of sandwiches in a bag from a deli on Broadway, and a bottle of expensive spring water whose flavor wasn’t quite as good as what came out of the city’s taps but would certainly slake Jagger’s burning thirst as well as his own. In addition to the food and water, he found a flashlight, a pair of night vision goggles, some kind of two-way radio, and a notebook. He turned on the flashlight and was just opening the notebook when Jinx swore softly.

  “Jeez! It’s that priest!”

  Jeff, puzzled, shined the flashlight in the ashen face of Monsignor Terrence McGuire.

  “It’s the guy from that place on Delancey Street,” Jinx went on. “You know—they’ll give you a free meal if you let them preach to you awhile.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  But before Jinx could answer him, Jagger spoke up, his voice full of suspicion.

  Suspicion, and menace.

  “What’s she doing here?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Jinx as his right hand tightened on the railroad spike, which was still stained with the priest’s blood.

  “She knows the tunnels,” Jeff replied, still trying to digest this new information, and overlooking the menace in Jagger’s voice. “She can help us get out.”

  Eve Harris hovered restlessly behind the small bar in the room deep beneath The 100 Club that served as the sole meeting place for the Manhattan Hunt Club. In fact, she had been responsible for the design of the room. It had been an empty storage chamber when she first saw it, the walls and floor constructed of the same cold, moldering concrete that made up the catacomb of tunnels beneath the streets. She’d seen the possibilities of the space at once, the huge beams supporting the concrete of the first basement reminding her of a hunting lodge, and as she chose the paneling, the carpet, and the furniture, she never wavered from the lodge motif. It was more elegant and urbane than one might find in Montana, but perfectly matched the sensibilities of the members of the Hunt Club. The fireplace had presented no difficulties at all, since there was already a chimney for the furnace directly overhead—the masons only needed to tap into it. Its mantelpiece, from a Victorian gamekeeper’s lodge in Northumberland, fit the room perfectly, and the bar, replicating one she’d seen in a small pub outside of Ulster, complemented the fireplace perfectly as well.

  After pouring herself two fingers of the ancient cognac that had been her husband’s favorite, and returning the decanter to its place of honor in the exact center of the second shelf of the back bar, Eve Harris regarded the trophy above the fireplace. “Bastard,” she murmured, raising her glass to Leon Nelson, though there was no one else in the room to hear her. Nelson’s sightless eyes stared back at her, and as she gazed at the impassive expression on the face of the mounted head, she wondered if it was the same expression he’d had when he killed her daughter. For a moment she almost wished he were still alive, so she could have the pleasure of killing him the way he’d killed Rachelle, slowly and painfully. Her eyes roamed over the rest of the trophies, and as always happened when she was in this room, the heat of vengeance began to thaw the cold hatred that had filled her soul for so many years. And it wasn’t over yet, she thought. The prisons were still filled with criminals whose rights the courts had somehow held to be more important than those of the people whose lives they had ruined.

  As she poured herself another two fingers of cognac, this time leaving the decanter on the bar, she glanced nervously at her watch.

  The hunters had been gone more than two hours, and it had been an hour since any of them had checked in.

  That was unusual.

  Even more unusual was her growing sense that something had gone wrong. Eve Harris had long since learned to trust her instincts. So she picked up the two-way radio—a specially designed unit not available to the general public—and began going through the five frequencies programmed into it, a single frequency dedicated to each of the hunters, which allowed all of them to communicate with her but not with each other. It was both part of the sport and an extra precaution—if any of the radios fell into the wrong hands, nothing any of the other hunters said could be overheard by the wrong people. When the first of the five frequencies was glowing brightly in the LED screen, she held the miniature radio close to her lips and pressed the button.

  “Adder,” she said softly. “Report, please.”

  Heather Randall and Keith Converse were moving slowly through a darkness that was almost complete. According to the maps they’d found sketched in Carey Atkinson’s notebooks, they were in the second sector of Level 3. The darkness was almost complete, but using the night vision goggles, Keith could clearly see what lay ahead. Through the eyepieces, the tunnels seemed to be lit by a surrealistic green light that appeared to have no source at all. Heather, following him, was blinded by the darkness and finding her way only by keeping her right hand on Keith’s shoulder. The vibration in her pocket startling her, her hand jerked away from Keith, and for a moment she felt a surge of panic as her only link to another person was broken. Then her fingers found Keith again, and his hand closed over hers.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  She was about to answer when she felt the vibration again, but this time realized it was the tiny radio they’d found in Carey Atkinson’s backpack. They’d thought it was a cell phone until they discovered it had only two buttons, one labeled PWR the other TLK. When they’d turned it on, the screen had glowed slightly. There was a single earpiece, the kind inserted directly into the ear canal. A tiny hole on the face of the instrument appeared to be the microphone. Keith concluded it was a radio of some kind, though he hadn’t seen anything like it before.

  They toyed with the idea of using it, but quickly rejected the notion, for that would betray to whomever it might contact that it was no longer in Atkinson’s hands. Now, as it vibrated a third time, Heather whispered, “The radio—I think someone’s trying to call Atkinson.”

  “Put in the earplug and hit the power button,” Keith whispered back. “But don’t say anything. Not a word.”

  Heather fumbled with the earplug for a moment, then carefully went over the surface of the radio with her fingers. The power button was on the right, the talk button on the left, but she pressed neither until she was certain she held the radio right side up. Then, her forefinger shaking, she pressed the button. There was a moment of silence before she heard a voice, with the crystal clarity of digital technology.

  “Adder? Report, please.”

  Eve Harris listened to the static-free silence, willing Carey Atkinson’s voice to reply to her. The radio had the best range of anything yet developed, but in the maze of concrete tunnels, even this system’s range was severely limited. The five miles it could reach in open space with a direct line of sight was cut down to half a mile, at best, in the tunnels. That should have been sufficient, however, because the gamekeepers and herders knew to keep the quarry well within the perimeter of th
e hunting ground. Though reception might be fuzzy in certain areas, every sector of every level was within the radio’s range, and unless one of the hunters strayed too far, she should never lose contact with any of them. And this connection sounded as if it was clear.

  Clear, or not there at all.

  “Adder?” she repeated, her voice taking on an urgent note as her sense that something had gone wrong grew stronger. “Report, please. Now!”

  When she still heard nothing but silence, she switched frequencies. In less than a minute she had determined the locations of Perry Randall, Arch Cranston, and Otto Vandenberg, and assured herself that at least they were operating well within the hunting ground.

  Monsignor McGuire, like Carey Atkinson, didn’t respond; but the cleric’s radio had at least emitted the static that was missing from Atkinson’s. Finally, she switched back to the original frequency she’d entered. “Adder,” she said one more time. “Do you read me?”

  But no voice emerged from the tiny speaker in her own radio, and a moment later, certain something had gone wrong, she severed the connection.

  Heather’s hands were shaking so badly that she nearly dropped the tiny radio, and when she pulled the earplug loose, she made no attempt to wind the wire around the radio itself, but instead just stuffed the whole thing deep into her pocket. Keith reached out to find her, felt her shivering, and steadied her against himself. “What happened?” he asked. “What did you hear?”

  “A voice,” Heather breathed. “It was asking for ‘Adder,’ asking him to report. When I didn’t answer, the radio went dead.” She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled and had a note of deep fear. “I was just going to take the plug out of my ear when the voice came back. . . .”

  “And . . . ?” Keith prodded her gently.

  “I recognized the voice, Keith,” she whispered, barely audible. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’d swear it was Eve Harris!”