The City Beneath

by Melody Johnson

The man whistled. “That photo was somethin’. Animal attacks are rare in these parts. I was lookin’ forward to gettin’ a closer look at those bites, but if there’s any credit to this mornin’s retraction, it seems as though I made this trip into the city for nothin’.”

  I let the paper drop to my lap. “You saw the front page photograph in yesterday’s newspaper?”

  The man nodded.

  “And you remember the animal bite?”

  “Of course. That’s a very vivid photo. How could anyone forget?” the man asked, but his gaze sharpened on me, as if the question wasn’t rhetorical.

  “How indeed?” I refolded the paper and tucked it back into my shoulder bag. “And what did you say your name was?”

  The man smiled broadly, and his dimple deepened. “Ian Walker, environmental science expert, at your service, ma’am. Call me Walker. Everybody does. And you?”

  I took his proffered hand, and his fingers enveloped my entire palm in a gentle but firm shake. His hand was callused, dry, and gigantic, but everyone’s hands were gigantic compared to mine. Not everyone shook mine like they weren’t. “Cassidy DiRocco, reporter for the Sun Accord: Shining light on Brooklyn’s darkest secrets.” I winked.

  “That’s not your slogan,” Walker said, laughing.

  “No, and it shouldn’t be, not after that retraction,” I said, pointing to his paper.

  Walker’s smile froze, and then he pointed at me in recognition. “You wrote that very article.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I admitted.

  “But not the retraction.”

  “Not the retraction,” I said flatly.

  Walker leaned toward me, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think there’s still hope they’ll need my expertise? Detective Wahl called me in as an expert witness last night, but this mornin’, she called me off the case.”

  I forgot my stitches and shrugged. Holding back a wince of pain was impossible. “You’ll determine what or who ate from the bodies by examining the bites?”

  “If there are bites on the bodies, I sure will, and if it’s an animal, I’ll find the critter and relocate it. Are you sure you’re all ri—”

  “There are bites on the bodies,” I said dryly. “Without a doubt.”

  “Accordin’ to the paper’s retraction and Greta’s phone call, there’s doubt.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “There’s certainly somethin’ interesting about bodies havin’ animal bites one day and not havin’ them the next. The way I figure it, the good detective can fire me face-to-face. She’ll have a bit of explainin’ to do about how the images she sent me for review are no longer the wounds on the victims.” Walker rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. “You saw the bites yourself?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then why did someone write the retraction?”

  “There’s been a”—I bit my lip, attempting to find a delicate phrasing—“a miscommunication between departments. That retraction was a mistake and should never have been printed.”

  “A miscommunication that you intend to correct?” Walker asked, his lips twitching in a smirk.

  I grinned. “You know me so well, so soon. And you came all the way here from . . .”

  “The southern tier. Erin, New York, to be specific, ma’am.”

  “Welcome to New York City. And you can quit the ma’ams. If I’m calling you Walker, you’re calling me DiRocco. Everybody does,” I said, smiling.

  Walker nodded. “DiRocco it is.”

  I leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what: You let me speak to Detective Wahl first, and I can guarantee that you’ll be examining the bites on those bodies by this time tomorrow.”

  Walker flashed a little dimple. “What makes you so certain that you can change Detective Wahl’s mind? Either there’s bite marks on the bodies or there ain’t, and the last I heard from Detective Wahl, there ain’t.”

  “Detective Wahl has been misinformed. If you’ll be able to identify the bites—”

  “I certainly will.”

  “—then we certainly need you. Let me take care of Detective Wahl.”

  Walker sat back with an amused expression on his face. “By all means.”

  When the desk clerk told Walker that Detective Greta Wahl would see him, Walker let me go in his stead. Greta was a curvy woman, but she looked bulky from the secondhand blazers she wore. Her wavy brown hair was slicked back in a tight bun at the back of her head, her usual updo while on duty. I’d felt ashamed the first time I saw her off duty and realized how pretty she really was, all soft curves and curls. I’d mentioned it once, and she had responded that gender neutrality was the point. If she wanted to be a hard-ass cop, she had to look the part; hard-ass cops didn’t have curves and curls.

  When Greta saw me and not Walker coming toward her, she grinned. “It’s not like you to charm anyone, but it is just like you to get your way. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

  “Me, not a charmer?” I smiled back. “I’m offended.”

  She passed me a steaming cup o’ joe and let me take her seat while she sat on the corner of her desk. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  I sipped the coffee. “Not great.”

  “Are you seeing a specialist about that hip again?”

  “What do you know about my hip?”

  “I know that you’re limping on it,” Greta pointed out.

  I sighed. “I’ve had a rough night. Look, G, I need to tell you something that you’re not going to like, that you won’t even believe until you see all the evidence. Hear me out before you kick me out of the precinct, will you?”

  Greta raised her eyebrows. “When you put it like that, how could I refuse? What do you have for me?”

  I slapped yesterday’s newspaper on the desk in front of her and pointed at the picture. I’d only just opened my mouth when she started shaking her head.

  “Now, Cassidy—”

  “Detective Wahl, you just promised to hear me out.”

  “Detective Wahl?” she asked, grinning.

  “You had that tone. Your ‘please escort her out of the building’ tone,” I said.

  Greta gave a megawatt smile. “Cassidy DiRocco will never get kicked out of this building, I promise you that, no matter what kind of paper she slaps on my desk. We have your picture by the watercooler, so the rookies know who to give statements to.”

  I shook my head. “Infamy will only carry me so far. This story may be that breaking point.”

  Greta glared at me. “There is no breaking point when you save a uniform. You had our back, and we’ll always have yours.”

  “I’ll remind you of that in a minute,” I warned.

  “Quit the foreplay, and make a move already.”

  I nodded. “Look at the picture.”

  “Uh-huh,” Greta said, looking.

  “What do you see?”

  Greta sighed. “I don’t know where you got this picture, but there were no—”

  “This picture, along with dozens of shots, were taken by Meredith at Paerdegat Park Monday night,” I stated.

  “There was not an animal attack at Paerdegat Park. The slices were clean, like knife wounds.”

  “The pictures—”

  Greta shook her head, looking regretful but determined. “I don’t need to see the pictures, DiRocco. We have our own photographer on staff. I was there myself, and there were no bite marks on the victims.”

  “What if I told you that you told me yourself, in person on Monday night, that there were bite marks on the victims?” I asked, tapping the newspaper with my nail.

  “I would ask you to show me proof,” Greta said.

  “Exhibit A, my recorder,” I answered, whipping out the recorder from my shoulder bag.

  Greta blinked, and for a fraction of a second, she looked worried. “Then I would say that we were all going crazy, because I know beyond a doubt that I never confirmed bite marks on those bodies. I saw the bodies myself, and they we
re slashed by knives. I never would have called for a retraction if I knew otherwise.”

  I hit Play on the recorder. The husky rasp of my voice catalogued the date, time, and location before I asked a few of my standard questions about the case. Greta’s warm, honeyed tone flowed from the speaker, answering each one in turn.

  Eventually, I asked, “Have you ever seen a case like this, Detective? Should people expect more of these crimes in the future, or do you suspect this slaughter is a onetime occurrence?”

  Greta’s rich, alto voice unmistakably answered, “That’s hard to predict, DiRocco. We haven’t experienced a case like this since I’ve been on the force. I’d suspect an animal attack if we weren’t smack in the center of Brooklyn. We’ll have to confirm with the local zoos before we can determine anything further, but without an animal to blame, we may be looking at human bites. An environmental science expert will be consulted to confirm the bite origin, and at that time, we’ll be able to take precautionary measures either way. Locals should be aware of their surroundings, especially at night. Keep to well-lit areas, and stay in groups.”

  My voice came on again, asking further questions, but I stopped the recorder.

  “I never said any of that,” Greta denied, looking pale. “I wouldn’t have spoken about animal bites, and I certainly never intended to confirm ‘bite origin’.”

  “I believe the environmental science expert in your waiting room would say otherwise.”

  “DiRocco, what the hell is going on?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I sighed, knowing that she would never believe the truth about the man from last night and his strange ability to control people’s minds. Hell, I couldn’t quite believe it myself, but maybe if we dug just a little deeper, we could find the source of the animal attacks and prevent another massacre.

  “Have any of the autopsies been completed yet?” I asked.

  Greta nodded. “Only two of them. No bites were recorded.”

  “Have a different medical examiner redo the autopsies. And if I were you, I’d read the report as soon as it’s completed, before another witness is compromised,” I suggested.

  Greta shook her head, her gaze fixed on my recorder. “But no one threatened me to change my story. I saw the victims myself, and they were clean slices from knives, not animal bites.”

  “Just do me this one favor, G,” I pleaded. “Have the autopsies repeated, look at the results as soon as they’re complete, and if I’m wrong—if the second autopsies reveal knife wounds—I’ll let the whole thing go.”

  Greta narrowed her eyes. “And if you’re right?”

  “If I’m right, then you will allow the polite and well-mannered Ian Walker to do his job the best he knows how. And you’ll let me do mine, without demanding any more retractions. Deal?” I asked, offering my hand.

  “You met Walker, I take it?” Greta asked. “He came anyway, despite my voice mail?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe Walker was the one who did the charming,” Greta commented.

  I wiggled the fingers of my outstretched hand.

  Greta hesitated as she mulled it over. Finally, she wrenched her gaze from my recorder and took my hand. “It’s a deal.”

  On my way out of the station, I locked eyes with Walker. I gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded back, his dimple deep and distracting. Just as I would have passed his chair, however, he stood and sidestepped in front of me.

  I raised my eyebrows. All his height was in his legs. Standing so closely, I had to crane backward to meet his gaze.

  “Are you intendin’ to walk home?” he asked.

  I blinked. “Is that your business?”

  “The animal who left those bites on the victims is still wandering the streets. If home isn’t nearby, I’d recommend taking a cab. It’s already dark,” Walker whispered urgently, his speech decidedly less drawling.

  “Whether home is nearby or not, I usually take a cab,” I said, keeping my weight on my left leg to relieve some of the pressure on my hip. Scenes from Monday night flickered in my mind, and I shuddered, suddenly grateful all over again for the new, fortified locks on my windows.

  “Good. Then I’ll see you around,” he said, the dimple reappearing.

  I smiled back. “You’d better. I’m expecting a statement on those bite marks.”

  “I don’t make a habit of givin’ statements to the press,” Walker tossed over his shoulder as he walked past me toward Greta’s desk.

  “You wouldn’t be talking to the press,” I said to his back. “You’d be talking to me.”

  The police nearby who overheard our exchange laughed. I pointed my finger at all of them as I left. The officers only laughed harder; the lot of them knew me too well.

  Walker hadn’t lied. While I’d bartered with Greta, the sun had set, casting the neighboring blocks in shadow. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that the street was well lit, but the city lights hadn’t dissuaded whoever was responsible for the attacks at Paerdegat Park, nor the man who was responsible for attacking me last night. I slipped my hand into the outer pocket of my shoulder bag and clenched the pepper spray tightly in my right fist. I wouldn’t be caught unarmed a second time.

  The shouts, curses, and beeps of city traffic muffled the tap of my shoes on the concrete walkway. Businessmen and women dodged between the masses, talking sharply on their cell phones and balancing briefcases, laptop cases, and coffees while closing deals. I picked up my pace. My hip didn’t appreciate the extra use, but I ignored its grinding ache and walked briskly down the sidewalk toward Rogers Avenue to hail a cab.

  As I neared the corner, a group of tall, leggy women in loose sweaters cut in front of me to hail a cab, as well. They were laughing and talking animatedly.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to cut through their group to reach the street.

  One of the women snorted at something her friend was saying, oblivious to me.

  Just below the bustle of city life, however, I sensed something that made the back of my neck prickle. I glanced down the street. The businessmen and women I’d just passed were still talking and walking. Horns were still blaring and people were still cursing and shouting. Everything around me was normal, but inside, my heart had tripped and was pounding against my ribs in a hard, frantic fall.

  Walker’s warning is making me skittish, I told myself. I was not being tracked or followed or watched. The retraction didn’t have a byline, so for all anyone knew, I had followed the man’s orders and written the retraction myself. He had no reason to come back for me. I was a few steps away from hailing a taxi and less than ten blocks from my apartment, and I was not going to be attacked two nights in a row.

  A low and deep and hauntingly familiar hiss rattled from the alley behind me. I gave up on reason, listened to my gut, and ran.

  A clear, bloodcurdling shriek pierced the air behind me. I cursed, thinking of the laughing, excited women who were hailing the cab, but I didn’t turn to look. I knew what was hunting. I’d seen his fangs and felt the pull of his icy eyes and remembered the slice of his talons sinking deep into my shoulders.

  I ran faster.

  My shoulder bag slapped against my side. I tucked one of the straps under my arm to keep it tight and steady against my body as I elbowed past other pedestrians. They glared at me, their expressions annoyed and angry. One looked concerned. Others were looking behind me, and their expressions made me run even harder.

  I cut across the street against a red crossing light, dodged around a honking taxi, and sprinted down the next block, trying to put as much space and traffic and turns as possible between me and whatever was hunting. A third scream hadn’t sounded, and the avenue to East 29th Street was straight ahead. I gripped my pepper spray tighter against the sparking grind of my hip and just ran.

  A black and iridescent green blur suddenly rushed me. Something tore through my forearm. I screamed and triggered the pepper spray, but the blur had already disappeared down an a
djacent avenue.

  “You’re hurt!”

  People were running and screaming around me, but a few had frozen in shock. They were staring down the alley where the blur had disappeared. A man was in front of me, pointing at my arm.

  I peered down, shaking. Blood poured from a deep, jagged gash across my forearm. The victims from Paerdegat Park had suffered from identical wounds. Meredith’s close-up in yesterday’s paper could have been my arm. A sudden vision of my body lying eviscerated on the concrete like their bodies burst through my mind.

  No, I thought, I am no one’s victim, not ever again. I covered the wound with my hand, hoping to staunch the bleeding and the pain.

  The man stepped forward. “You need a doctor.”

  “Run,” I gasped. My voice was low and rasping and not my own. “Get off the street.”

  “What was that? Who—”

  A rattling hiss growled from the alley.

  I didn’t wait for the man. I ran. East 29th Street was only a few more blocks, but another black and iridescent blur swooped down from overhead to slash at my legs. I screamed again. I heard people screaming around me. Holding my breath, I shot more pepper spray, but the blur disappeared just as quickly as the first. The spray sizzled like acid against my slashed calves.

  Gasping, I stumbled around the corner and dodged left onto East 29th. Several of the nearby apartment buildings had walk-in lobbies. My apartment was only a block away, but any shelter now was better than this cat-and-mouse bullshit. Resolving to slip into the next open apartment complex, I tucked my chin and pumped my arms and legs as fast as I could despite the pain.

  A blur of black, flapping cloak, and glowing violet eyes darted out from a side alley and tore a gash over my stomach.

  I faltered midstep, and the pepper spray slipped from my hand. A suspended moment of shock and breathless disbelief washed over me, and I suddenly felt the warm gush of blood pour over my abdomen and drip down my thighs. My knees almost buckled. I caught myself against the side of the building’s brick face, struggling for balance.

  The familiar, rattling hiss vibrated from the surrounding shadows. There couldn’t have been just one or two; there must have been dozens surrounding me in every direction—in front, behind, to the side, and above me—as the dissonant crescendo of hisses overpowered every other city sound.