With or without Edison, he had one more clue to follow up. When Saddiq had spotted him in the tunnel just after he’d left the crime scene, he’d had asked if Rebar had given him documents. That meant that the documents were important, and Saddiq didn’t have them.
Joe shifted the old hoodie into a more comfortable position as his pillow and stared into the dark.
Rebar hadn’t given those documents to Joe as Saddiq had assumed. But Rebar had possessed them—Joe had seen them in his pockets when he’d been breaking the hole into the wall.
If those documents had disappeared by the time he’d been killed, Rebar had hidden them himself. He hadn’t had much time, so they must be close to the bricked-in presidential train car. If Rebar had hidden them in the car or the room itself, the police would have found them, and they would, presumably, have pointed to other suspects in Rebar’s death besides Joe. That meant that they had been hidden somewhere else.
In the tunnels.
Joe pulled Andres’s coat up under his chin. Tomorrow, he would find those papers.
Maybe they held the key to set him free.
Chapter 36
November 29, 11:40 p.m.
Carrie Wilbur Home for Adults with Special Needs
Oyster Bay, New York
Ozan eased the window latch to the side with his knife. He’d disabled the motion sensor on it a long time ago.
“Ozan?” asked a soft voice from inside the room.
“Just me,” Ozan whispered. “Remember, it’s our secret.”
He lifted the window and climbed through it, careful to close and latch it from this side. Sometimes the staff did late-night bed checks and also checked the windows. He could hide under the bed when they came, but he didn’t want them to see an open latch. If they asked Erol about it, he’d tell them the truth.
A few seconds later, he stood next to his brother’s bed, looking down at the peaceful manatees on his bedspread. Slow, fat, and happy, they munched through an endless sea of blue. He bet they never got headaches.
“You came to tell me a story?” Erol tucked the blanket under his armpits.
“I did.” Ozan sat on the edge of the bed.
In a voice hardly louder than a whisper, he told Erol the story of The Rainbow Fish. He’d never particularly liked it. It was wrong that the fish had to slice scales off its own body and give them away to make friends. But Erol loved the story, so he told it to him every time he visited. Erol was asleep again before he got to the end, so he stopped telling it, leaving the fish with most of its shiny scales intact.
Ozan wished that he could have told his brother about his day—his good kill of the tennis instructor, his fruitless pursuit of the computer genius and his dog, how he’d finally gone back aboveground to shower and shave and nap. How a quick nap had restored most of his strength.
Whatever bug he’d been fighting off, he’d conquered it. Maybe that sweat bath had been good for something. Or maybe it was just getting solid sleep. Either way, he felt like his old self again.
Once he’d gotten cleaned up and fresh, he’d contacted an old friend with the CIA, Rash Connelly, and told him what he knew about Tesla and Subject 523. Dr. Dubois had links into the CIA, so Rash probably knew most of this stuff anyway. What he didn’t know, he’d keep to himself.
“Why didn’t you get this Tesla after you killed 523?” Rash asked.
“Not my orders.” Ozan didn’t mention that he’d failed to kill Joe twice, or that he’d taken out the kid in front of the station.
“The police say that the tennis player was killed by a professional, but they won’t give us the name.”
Ozan counted to three, thinking it over. “That was me. New orders. I thought the kid was my target—he looked like the guy, he was wearing the guy’s company clothes, and he had the guy’s dog. It was an accident.”
Rash sat silent on the other end, probably trying to decide how much sympathy to have for the accident. He must have decided that the tennis instructor wasn’t worth fighting over, because he said, “Why are you calling me now?”
“I want on the team. I want to bring Tesla down.”
“That’s unorthodox.”
“I’m on the job regardless.” Ozan let him think that those orders came from Dr. Dubois. “And I think it’ll be easier for everyone else if I’m in the loop. It’ll keep accidents from happening.”
Rash had hesitated again, longer this time. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It turned out that he could do a lot. He’d called Ozan back during dinner to tell him that he was officially on board. The CIA’s orders were not to apprehend Tesla—they were to kill him. He was considered armed and dangerous, having killed two civilians and maybe a cop, and was believed to be in possession of sensitive classified information.
Ozan found that the perfect ending to a difficult day.
Tomorrow he’d go back underground with the morning shift. He’d find Tesla, interrogate him, then kill him, and be done with this job. After that, he’d take a long break, enjoy his restoration to health. Maybe take Erol on a trip to Florida to see the manatees. He smiled down at his brother.
He couldn’t tell Erol of the possible vacation until the job was over and the trip was a sure thing. So he watched his brother sleep and ate some of the pink marshmallow snacks that Erol kept in a box by his pillow. He envied Erol his happy, simple life.
Eventually, he took a spare blanket from the closet and stretched out on the carpet under Erol’s bed to get some rest. He didn’t mind the floor—he’d camped out on worse. He slept best when he could hear the regular, untroubled sound of his brother’s breathing.
His days might be filled with cold death and bloodshed, but here he had an island of peace. He set his watch alarm for seven a.m. That would give him plenty of time to leave before the staff came to wake Erol.
Tomorrow he would take care of Tesla and finish this chapter of his life.
Chapter 37
November 30, 4:11 a.m.
Tunnels behind the Gallo House
Joe woke up feeling worse than he had the day before. His back was in open rebellion. He’d slept outside on the ground often as a kid, but clearly his back was too old to put up with that kind of nonsense anymore. Stifling a groan, he sat up and promptly cracked his head against the roof of the tunnel. He felt like he’d barely slept at all.
Every hour or so throughout the night he’d woken up reaching for Edison, remembering each time with a lurch that the dog was gone. He didn’t even know if his best friend was dead or alive. Alive. Edison had to be alive.
He checked the time on his computer. Too early, but he wasn’t going back to sleep. The best plan was to give up, have breakfast, and figure out where Rebar had hidden those papers. Maybe then he could put the pieces together and show the finished puzzle to the police. His life would go back to normal. Or as normal as it got these days.
Rifling through his food supplies, he came up with a MoonPie and a can of Dr Pepper for breakfast. Celeste, a vegetarian who only ate organic, would have been appalled. Although, technically speaking, the chocolate-covered marshmallow pie was vegetarian, and so was the Dr Pepper. He raised them both in an imaginary toast to her, and thanked her silently for taking in his dog.
After he finished his healthy breakfast, he packed most of his food back into the hoodie and stashed it up in the tunnel. The packet of trail mix and a bottle of water went into his backpack. That should get him through the day and, with luck, he could come back here tomorrow for refills. But he couldn’t hide here forever.
Now, to work. First, he checked the surveillance cameras. Nothing new on them—Abbott and Costello had performed their regular tunnel checks all night long—but, around eight p.m., Vivian had showed up.
Abbott must have seen the red light, because he’d hustled out to meet her at the bottom of the elevator, gun drawn. She’d stepped out, hands in the air, and had a long, animated discussion with Abbott, who had finally let her into Joe’s house.
He wished that he had audio to hear what they had talked about. But he didn’t, and without cameras inside the house, he had no idea what she’d done in there. What she hadn’t done yet was leave.
She knew that he must have a secret exit, because he’d escaped while she’d stalled the cops and CIA agents sent to apprehend him. Had she told someone? He shuddered. At least she hadn’t done so last night. If they’d found his hideout, they would have pulled him out, and they hadn’t.
Instead, they’d sat around inside his house, cozy and warm, sleeping on his bed for all he knew, while he was consigned to the cold rocky tunnel. It was starting to piss him off.
Keeping the window with the surveillance video running, he opened the video he’d taken of the murder scene. As he remembered, no papers were in Rebar’s pockets, and Saddiq had asked Joe if he had “documents,” which meant that Saddiq didn’t have them then either.
So, Rebar had been in possession of those papers when Joe had met him at around four in the morning, but he hadn’t had them by the time Joe had found his body at 5:30 or so. He’d hidden the papers, searched the car, and been murdered, all in an hour and a half.
The logic still held.
All Joe had to do was find those documents. The car itself and the brick room were out. If he had hidden them there, it seemed likely that Saddiq would have found them. He was a thorough guy, and he’d clearly been interested in them. Even if he hadn’t found them, the police would have, which meant that if they’d been there, they were gone now.
There was an access tunnel that led to the street a few hundred yards from the railroad car, but Joe didn’t think Rebar would have gone up there and, if he had, Joe certainly wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps. The most likely hiding place was in the tunnels themselves. It was dark, and no one ever came down there—it was perfect. Even something as big as the train car had stayed hidden for seventy years.
He had to think like Rebar. He had been ex-military. He had been ill. He had not introduced himself by his real name, but as Rebar and as Subject 523. Rebar sounded like a street nickname—most of the homeless guys Joe had met had one. Subject 523 was a different thing entirely. That sounded like a specific identifier, as if he were part of an experimental group, maybe something down in Cuba that had caused him to go AWOL in the first place. Maybe something related to the toxoplasmosis.
Joe brought up surveillance video of Rebar entering the concourse and climbing over the end of Platform 23 (blue, red). Twenty-three again. Maybe a coincidence, but maybe not.
He went back to the video he’d shot of the murder scene, hoping he’d filmed footprints. Rebar’s big boots had tramped all over the inside of the brick room. Joe was glad he’d done that quick panorama outside. He identified Rebar’s prints once coming, heading away toward the tracks that led north to south, unused nowadays, and then coming back.
It was a place to start.
Joe slipped on Andres’s coat and his backpack and pulled back the bolt that held the tunnel door closed. If someone happened to be passing by or looking, he was caught. He swung it open just wide enough to fit through and dropped to the ground, landing with a scuffing sound.
The tunnel around him was empty and dark. He didn’t dare turn on a flashlight, so he donned his night-vision goggles. He hated to do it, as anyone with a flashlight could blind him, but he’d never find his way through the dark tunnel without them, not without Edison. He missed the yellow dog.
Joe made it all the way back to the murder scene without seeing another soul. Maybe the patrols had gone home for the night. Or maybe they were due back any second. Moving stealthily, he hurried to the tracks that Rebar had stepped onto the night he was killed.
He glanced back toward the open area behind him, full of track. Rebar wouldn’t have hidden anything there—trains were constantly moving through there. No privacy. If he hadn’t chosen the car, then maybe he’d chosen the abandoned tunnel next to it. No one was likely to go down there.
He’d search it inch by inch if he had to, but Joe had a theory about where Rebar might have hidden those papers. Rebar was a counter, just like Joe. And he had been obsessed with the number 523. He hurried down the tunnel, counting each tie as he stepped on it. Cyan, blue, red, green, brown, orange, slate, purple, scarlet, and cyan plus black for ten. He crept along, keeping track of each number, head swiveling around, hoping that the night-vision goggles would let him pick out the hiding place.
When he reached five hundred and twenty three (brown, blue, red), he stopped. There was nothing obvious here, but just ahead was a dark mound. He hurried over. The track had been ripped up beyond this point, and the ties had been piled in an untidy stack. It was the perfect place to hide something. Who would ever think to look here?
Joe would.
He looked back down the tunnel for a trace of moving light, like from a flashlight, but saw nothing. It was as safe as it was going to get. He tipped up the goggles and risked using his flashlight. Several minutes of careful digging, which was louder than he would have liked, produced a flat briefcase. It had been fine leather once, but now the surface was cracked. The hinges were broken and someone, probably Rebar, had tied it together with a belt.
Joe tucked it into his backpack. He itched to open it, but it wasn’t safe here. The police patrolling the tunnels might be back at any second. They might have heard the noise that he’d made moving the train ties and be on their way to him right now. He had to get to a safe place.
He turned off his flashlight, put on the goggles, and jogged back the way he’d come, wishing that a tunnel branched off, but none did. He reached the brick room without incident, but when he looked off to the side, he saw a couple of men heading across the wide tunnel where the tracks converged—where he liked to play fetch with Edison.
He ducked back inside the dark tunnel and waited.
The men got so close that he could hear them talking. Not exactly stealthy.
“How are we supposed to find him? There’s miles of tunnels down here, assuming he didn’t just get on a private helicopter and fly to Canada,” said a man with a gravelly voice. He sounded as if it had taken fifty years of smoking cigarettes and drinking whisky to perfect that growl.
“He’s a nut,” the other man said. “Can’t go outside, my ass.”
“I bet he could if he was properly motivated, like by having the whole damn tunnel system crawling with cops.”
Joe wished that were true.
Their voices grew louder. Joe shrank back against the tunnel wall. He didn’t dare retreat farther for fear of making a sound.
“I say leave him until we get another superstorm to wash him out,” said Gravel Voice. “My feet hurt.”
“He might’ve killed Officer Chin.”
“Or Chin might’ve fallen in front of that train.”
The other man grunted.
“Either way,” said Gravel Voice, “I say we shoot first, so we don’t have to chase him.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
The voices moved closer. Joe held his breath. If they saw him, he wouldn’t be able to get away. He was trapped.
Chapter 38
November 30, 6:36 a.m.
Gallo House
Vivian gave up on sleep. She’d dozed a little in Tesla’s bedroom, after insisting on sleeping on his bed, but too shy to do more than lie down on top of the quilt. She didn’t know exactly where his bolt-hole was, but it was up here somewhere. She’d prowled around, but one or the other of the cops had shadowed her every move, and she didn’t want them around when she found the secret door.
Eventually, she’d told them that she was going to bed, and they’d reluctantly left her alone. When the men had done their hourly patrols, she’d searched the house for Tesla’s bolt-hole, but she hadn’t found it. She’d also found no evidence that Tesla had come back into the house, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he had. He needed food. He needed Wi-Fi. And she’d noticed that the cops left the house together every hou
r for about five minutes. If she were Tesla, she’d sneak in during that time and gather whatever she needed from inside.
She looked up at the plastered ceiling above Tesla’s bed. The plasterer had done an excellent job—the ceiling was perfectly smooth, coved at the edges. A hairline crack ran along one corner, probably from the house shifting when the trains went by. All in all, the house was solid, the kind she’d only read about in books.
She fingered the antique quilt. Her mother would have loved it—tiny stitches formed intricate patterns. The seamstress had spent a long time getting it just right. The quilt and sheets smelled like lilac. Where had Tesla found a lilac-scented detergent? It fit the room perfectly.
The agents downstairs, and they were agents, not police, closed the front door. Time for another circuit of the tunnels. She didn’t think that Joe would come in that way. He’d come in through the entrance he’d escaped out of, wherever it was.
She’d lied when she told them that Joe had slipped down the right-hand tunnel when he’d seen that the elevator was coming down, leaving her behind to answer questions. He had been under her protection at the time, so she’d felt obligated. If they caught him and charged him, her deceit might come to light.
If they caught him? When they caught him. She’d heard that today they were going to start searching the tunnels in a grid pattern with trained bloodhounds. Even with hundreds of miles of tunnels to hide in, Tesla wouldn’t be able to avoid them forever.
She sat up in bed, ran her fingers through her hair. She might as well look for him again. She’d do a round of the station, especially the restaurants, looking for the dog. She wished that she had the easy, and illegal, access to the surveillance footage that Tesla so obviously enjoyed. She’d have been able to monitor him from the comfort of her own home—or his.
As much as she’d been taken aback by the house when she first saw it, it had started to grow on her. She could see why he liked living in the sumptuous antique quarters completely isolated from the noise and bustle of the city above. His bedroom was bigger than her whole apartment and, she hated to admit it, it smelled better, too.
The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) Page 20
