Lya was about to reply when Theresa burst into chatter again. “Oh, that’s great! I just know you two will get along fine! See you later, Lya. And be a good boy, Mike!” Theresa laughed and winked at Lya, then disappeared into the crowd, leaving her with Michael Corvino. He seemed to be amused by the whole maneuver.
“I’m sorry about my sister,” he said. “She’s always like that, you know.” His voice was a smooth alto, direct and almost challenging.
Lya chuckled. “Oh I know, all right. I work with her, remember?”
“That’s right,” Michael said, looking directly into her eyes. “You’re on TV, aren’t you?” There was a magnetic power in his gaze.
Lya stared into his dark eyes. He had long thick lashes that any woman would give a month’s salary to possess. His face was angular, the lips thin, and his nose was definitely Roman. Although he was not a classically handsome man, Michael Corvino had an indefinable quality about him that Lya was positive many women found very attractive.
“Yes, but you don’t watch the evening news, do you?” Lya smiled teasingly.
Michael retained his serious expression. “Well, not usually. I’m not home in time to catch it very often, but Theresa has told me a lot about you. She really likes you.” He paused to sip from his scotch. “I’m afraid she’s a bit of a matchmaker. She’s afraid her little brother’s going to grow up and be a bachelor his whole life.”
“He looks like he’s already grown up to me,” said Lya. “You aren’t the brother who works for the police department, are you?”
“The one and only. Lieutenant Detective Corvino, at your service. That’s why I don’t watch the news very often—too depressing, especially since I get a lot of it before you folks do. I work in Homicide.” He spoke the last sentence with a suggestion of pride, of understated toughness.
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know if ‘like’ is the right word. It’s a good job, but it’s not as glamorous as television makes people think it is, you know? And no offense to you or your co-workers. I was talking about the Hollywood types.”
They continued to chat, and Lya mentioned that she had taken the subway up to the party. Michael frowned and cautioned her lightly, reminding her of the city’s latest killer celebrity, a fellow who was making a name for himself by cutting people up in the subways. Michael told her he had been assigned to the case, and so far had not closed much ground on the suspect.
They moved to the bar to refill their drinks, and Lya fell silent for a moment. Something was drawing her to Michael Corvino, almost a feeling of trust. Impulsively, she began blurting out her odd experience of earlier in the evening.
Michael was not smiling when she finished her tale, only nodding slowly. “You know, there’s someone here you might enjoy talking to. Somebody who would love to hear your story.”
“What do you mean?”
“An old friend of mine. Dr. Lane Carter, he’s—”
“A psychiatrist! Come on, now, I didn’t sound that crazy, did I?” Lya teased. Michael laughed. “Oh, no, nothing like that. Lane’s a professor at NYU. Teaches philosophy and ancient religions. But he’s kind of a student of the bizarre, and I think he’d like to hear what you told me.”
“But why?”
“Well, I met him down at the precinct years ago. He’s called in as a consultant in some of our cases because he has lots of esoteric knowledge about the city. Local history is one of his hobbies, and he knows a hell of a lot about New York. I had Theresa invite him because he’s always a big hit at parties. He’s full of stories, and—well, come on, I’ll show you why. He was holding court in the kitchen, last I saw of him.” He took her arm firmly.
Lya let Michael escort her through several knots of people and down the hall to Theresa’s large, country-style kitchen, where they found a circle of people surrounding a short man who looked perhaps fifty years old. He had dark eyes and hair and a meticulously trimmed goatee that accented his sunken cheeks, and he wore a black velvet suit. He was speaking animatedly, with much gesturing of hands and eyes.
“… and the Federal Reserve Board is nothing more than a gaggle of fat cats! Gray-haired, gray-minded twits!” The crowd laughed. “It’s obvious that the interest rates have to be lowered drastically! Those old buffoons know that, but they’ve got too many friends who are bank presidents, too many favors owed. It’s a bloody mess, for certain.”
Lya and Michael listened to Carter dissect the country’s economic problems for several minutes. Finally he paused, noticed Michael, and abruptly ended his discourse to greet him and his companion. Introductions were made and Lane Carter took Lya’s hand, making a very dramatic show of kissing it. “Charmed, my lady. Charmed.”
Lya was immediately taken with his European air. In fact, she decided, if she were casting Faust, Lane Carter would make a perfect Mephistopheles.
He guided their conversation expertly, asking the right questions, providing the proper quips. When Michael mentioned Lya’s experience in the subway tunnel, his eyes grew bright and he smiled eagerly. “Ah, yes! The underground; the world beneath the streets! Fascinating, is it not?”
“You mean you’re not surprised?” asked Lya.
“Of course not, my lady! Have you any idea what magical kingdoms lie beneath the feet of Manhattan’s unconscious millions? Those apocryphal tales about alligators in the sewers are nothing compared to some of the things that workers actually have discovered. There was an old Dutch church down by the Battery, oh, about a hundred years ago; they were demolishing it to put up some new buildings, and the Italian workers broke through a subcellar into some catacombs. Catacombs, mind you!”
“Really?” asked Lya. “With—with bodies?”
“Mummies, actually,” said Carter, an impish glow in his eyes. “They had not been preserved as well as they would have been in a drier climate, but there were row upon row of them, moldering in the darkness. Forgotten until that day, and now almost forgotten again.”
“I’ve heard stories like that, but I never thought they were true,” said Lya.
“All true, madam. All true, indeed.” Lane Carter drank deeply from his vodka gimlet, then began anew. “Did you know that almost every time they begin excavating for a new building down by the Battery and Wall Street, they dig up something strange? The archaeologists have a field day before the cement is poured. People don’t realize that New York is an old city. Going on four hundred years old. There are things beneath our feet that would shock some of us.”
“Shock us?” asked Lya lightly.
“Quite so, my dear! Why, there is an underground grotto, a lake actually, that is teeming with a unique species of giant, eyeless, albino frogs! There are passageways and dungeons under the East Village. There is, believe it or not, a subway train somewhere in the depths of the city that was lost in the early part of the century and has never been found!”
“Lost? How do you lose a subway train?” Lya laughed, sounding skeptical.
“If we knew the answer to that question, it would not be lost then, would it, my lady? But no! It was indeed lost a long time ago. A train with its operator and passengers. They seem to have been simply swallowed up into the bowels of the earth. A wrong switch was thrown, perhaps, and they went hurtling off into the blackest of nights, never to be seen again.”
“When did it happen? Are there any records of it? Who could I talk to about it?” Lya tried to keep the excitement out of her voice, but knew that she was not completely successful; in spite of herself, she was becoming fascinated with the idea.
“Ah!” said Carter. “Methinks the lady detects a story here! Planning to do a little feature for the 6:30 filler?”
Lya felt her face flush, and she sipped from her wine to cover her discomfort. “Well, perhaps, if you must know. I guess a journalist is always on the lookout for a good story.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” said Michael warmly. “A good place to start would be with the Transit Authority people.
If it actually happened, there would be records of it.”
“Oh, it happened!” Lane Carter cried theatrically. He stooped his shoulders and waved an arm slowly toward the floor. “There are places beneath us that few have imagined, much less seen! There are hundreds of miles of subway lines that lie in unbroken darkness, abandoned stations, work sheds, and access tunnels the plans for which have long been lost and forgotten. There is a virtual kingdom of darkness under our feet!”
Lya smiled at Lane’s melodrama, but by now she was hooked, caught up in his enthusiasm and the awe he felt for the world beneath the city.
“So that’s why you hate to go down into the subways,” said Michael slyly. “I’ve always wondered about that.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Carter. “Did you think it was just those marauding bands of punks with knives and clubs, the derelicts and lunatics? Gods, no! There are far greater mysteries down there, things we may have had a hand in creating with our primitive borings into the earth, but things of which we have little comprehension, and even less control. The ancients had good reason for proclaiming their Hades to be under the earth. They knew things that we have not yet rediscovered.”
Lane Carter smiled impishly, placing a thin, white index finger against his temple. “There are some things, madam, that man was not meant to know, if I may quote from several hundred less-than-illustrious fifties science fiction films.”
The conversation drifted on to other topics as other partygoers joined in, and Lane Carter’s fascinating tidbits about the New York underground world were lost in flamboyant descriptions of lost cities, ancient languages, and the peculiarities of the druid religion. The man was a limitless well of information and arcana, and Lya was suitably impressed.
When their drinks were almost finished, Michael suggested that they return to the bar and get refills, and Lya nodded. The wine had relaxed her, and Michael Corvino’s presence gave her a sense of security. He obviously liked her and was making no attempt to disguise his feelings. There was something intriguing about the way he looked so directly into her eyes and the way he touched her arm with such naturalness. Although he had a warm smile and a smooth, assured voice, she detected a hard core in him, a resilience that kept his mind sharp and his senses alert.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly. “You’ve been staring off into space for at least two minutes. It’s starting to look serious.”
Lya smiled, but she was a bit taken aback by his directness. Michael Corvino was clearly a man who spoke what was on his mind. It startled her, but she liked it. “Oh, nothing much. I was just thinking about the feature I could do on the world underneath the city—I’ve been looking for a new idea all week.” She paused and looked at him. “And I was thinking about you, too.”
Michael smiled. “A couple of good things to be thinking about, I’d say.” He put his arm around her and gave her an affectionate hug. “I’m glad I introduced you to Lane. He’s quite a character, and he’d do a great interview, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes! Do you think he would mind?”
Michael laughed. “Are you kidding? He’s a born ham!” Lya giggled. Automatically, she glanced at her watch, and was surprised to see how late it was. “Oh, lord, I didn’t realize what time it’s getting to be.”
“Have to get up early?” Michael took a long pull from his drink, then stared intently at her.
“I always get up early,” she said. “It makes the day seem longer, and I feel like I’m getting more accomplished.”
“I know what you mean. I tend to keep some weird hours myself.”
“I guess I’d better make my adieus to your sister.”
“Let’s do it together,” said Michael, again taking her arm to guide her through the crowds. “I should be getting along myself.”
They said good night to Theresa, and Lya noticed that her friend had a tipsy smile of satisfaction on her face. Theresa seemed to be smugly convinced that her matchmaking had been a great success, especially since Lya and Michael were leaving together. Briefly Lya entertained the fantasy of going home with him. She had never gone home with a man after just meeting him, but somehow, with Michael the notion seemed exciting—and tempting. She pushed it away.
Michael opened the door for her. “I’ll help you get a cab. No subways at this hour.”
She smiled and nodded. “Especially not at this hour.”
He held her arm as they walked down to the street, but he said nothing. Even his silence seemed to radiate a sense of assurance, of familiarity. Lya was definitely interested in this man and understood why Theresa had tried to get them to meet earlier.
Michael stepped off the curb and began aggressively hailing the passing logjam of yellow cars along Lexington Avenue.
“Most of them are full,” he called. “Just hang on—I see one up the block with the light on.”
Lya watched him as he edged farther out toward the traffic flow. There was a grace in his movements that was fluid and direct. There was a lot to be said for body language, she thought.
A big yellow Checker slipped out of the traffic flow at that moment and pulled up at the curb. Michael held open the door and gestured for her to climb in. Before closing it, he leaned inside and smiled. “I’d like to see you again. I’ll get Theresa to give me your phone number.”
Again Lya was a bit surprised by his directness, but she found it appealing. She smiled and said, “I’d like that.”
“That’s great,” said Michael. “I’ll be seeing you soon. Be careful.” He leaned closer and kissed her once, then pulled away and closed the door.
Lya found herself in a bit of haze, stunned for an instant or two. No man had produced such an effect in her for a long time. She realized she’d been working so hard that she hadn’t taken the time to go out once in a while and relax. Maybe now she had found a good reason to find the time.
A very good reason.
CHAPTER 3
PEAKE
There were times when Melvin W. Peake was perfectly lucid in both his thinking and his perceptions. But there were other times when he suffered what he had come to call “lapses.” Although he had not actually noticed it, his lapses were becoming more and more frequent and were beginning to intrude on his daily life and routine. Melvin Peake’s lapses tended to come on with no prior warning, and he would fall into their special world like a man tumbling into a black pit. Sometimes he would come to his “regular self,” as he called that particular state of mind, and realize that he had been “lapsing.”
As he did at that moment.
It was as though Melvin Peake had been sleeping and suddenly woke up. A blink, and there was a splash of dirty light before his eyes and a thunderous, rattling, continuous roar. He became aware of grimy yellow tiles, defaced posters, peeling blue-painted upright girders, and the sound of leather scraping on the concrete platform.
There are singularly ugly aquamarine plastic benches in some of the subway stations. Peake had always thought them very tasteless, albeit functional. He was sitting now on one of those benches, suddenly aware of the Broadway Local, the Number 1, rumbling out of the station.
(Station? What station? Where am I?)
Looking up behind his seat, he sought out the inlay of the dirty mosaic tiles. 137TH STREET—CITY COLLEGE said the sign.
(What am I doing here?)
At that moment Peake noticed that his right hand was holding something tightly by a handle and that the object was stuffed deep inside his topcoat, a long herringbone that stopped only four or five inches above his shoe tops. Slowly, still grasping the object, Peake withdrew his hand, lifting up the front flap of his coat to peer into the hiding place.
He was holding a large Cutco carving knife. Its mirrorlike blade caught the dim light of the station and flashed it back angrily, boldly. This startled Melvin, and he thrust it back into the folds of his coat, feeling confused. He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten minutes past midnight.
(So l
ate. Why am I out so late?)
He could not explain his actions, as was always the case when he became aware of being in one of his lapses, so Peake did the one thing he had found helped him through such times. He relaxed his muscles, closed his eyes, and let the other part of his mind carry him away. Carry him away like a sleeping child in the arms of its mother …
He was soon dreaming, or imagining, or remembering. He was never sure what it was, but the scenes flickered through his mind stroboscopically in black-and-white. Melvin W. Peake watched the tall, thin man come into the small apartment in the East Bronx. The man was carrying an old-fashioned lunch pail, which seemed to complement his khaki work clothes in an almost classic manner. Peake could not see the features of the man’s face; the face was always in shadows and accented by a heavy stubble of beard. The only striking aspect of the dark face was a pair of bright yellow eyes that seemed to glow with a preternatural energy. The tall, thin man seemed to stagger as he entered the room and looked down at Melvin. Melvin, he knew, was a little boy then, because he was sitting on the living room carpet, a worn floral pattern of big, blowsy roses, playing with a wooden dump truck and some plastic soldiers. As he looked up at the tall man with the shadowy face, Melvin saw the lunch pail leave his hand and land with a clatter on the ragged settee. Then the man was bending at the waist, swinging his big, flat hand; the hand seemed to move in slow motion, leaving a trail in the air like a comet in the sky. The hand reached Melvin’s small cheek with brutal force, and a burning, stinging, shocking burst of pain shook his head and neck. The force of the blow sent him reeling over with dreadful quickness, and as he plunged toward the carpet, all he could see was the big roses in the carpet coming closer and closer, getting bigger and bigger.
The tall, thin man had been Melvin W. Peake’s father. And Melvin had always thought roses were the ugliest flowers he had ever seen.
It was a familiar memory: Melvin’s father coming into the house and just slapping him, or shocking his whole body with the blow of a closed fist. There was never any reason for the punishment. Melvin never could recall anything he had done to deserve the blows, but the blows rained down upon him from his earliest memory until his father stopped coming through the door anymore, until his aunt came to him when he was ten years old and said that his father, the tall, thin man with the dark face, was dead.
Night-Train Page 3
