'I hope so,' Lionel said. 'I've got a site to run.'
'I appreciate that, Mr. Parker, and the sooner we can get our job done, the sooner you can get back to yours.'
'So this isn't about gas?' Josh said, looking between Lionel and the CIA officer Tom Edwards.
'Can I ask who you are?' Edwards said.
'Josh Reed, Principal Tunnel Engineer. I assume you're interested in what we found, and it was me and my team that found it, so we may as well get to talking.'
Edwards smiled, not unkindly. 'Fair enough. Let's get to it then.' He turned to his colleagues, who took it as a sign to disperse into the site. When he faced Josh and Lionel again, the three of them were alone. 'You're both intelligent people, so I won't dance around the subject. You're right: this isn't about gas. This is about what you found. We will perform our investigation, and we may need to confirm some things with you—both of you—depending on what we find. For now, I can only ask that you stay in town and stay contactable, in case we need to follow up on anything.'
'You don't need to ask us any questions?' Lionel queried.
'Not now, no, but we may need to in the future.'
Lionel folded his arms. 'So we've been waiting here for no reason? I get told the CIA are coming to ask me questions and it gets me worked up, you know? So I find out there's nothing to it?'
'I'm very sorry if our message got mixed up, Mr. Parker; all I required was your whereabouts and contact information. There was no need to stay on-site. You know what these local cops are like; they get a little overzealous sometimes.'
'Okay then. So we can go?'
'You can go.'
Edwards held out his hand to Lionel, who hesitated, then shook it. The same was offered to Josh, who shook without pause.
'Once again,' Edwards said, starting to head to the site entrance, 'I'm sorry to ruin your day and your schedule. If we need anything, we'll be in touch.'
Josh and Lionel watched him walk away, and just before he disappeared around the hoarding, Josh called out, 'What do you think we've found?'
Edwards stopped, turned and shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said. 'That's what we're here to find out.' He then continued into the site, the large doors swinging shut behind him.
'Well, shit,' Lionel observed.
Josh stared at the hoarding, at the impenetrable barrier between him and what had gone from being his place of work to a federal investigation site. 'What now?'
'How are you feeling? Do you want to go get something for lunch at the usual?'
'Sure . . .' Josh said slowly, still looking at the hoarding. Somehow it seemed unfamiliar to him now. 'I'm feeling okay. Let's get something to eat. The usual.'
They walked a few blocks down to a deli near 62nd and 1st, sat down outside under the shade of a tree and ate sandwiches. The walk from the site to there had almost put the whole CIA fiasco to the back of Josh's mind; he was tired and hungry, and to sit down and devour his sandwich was to melt into bliss.
'I needed that,' he said, licking his fingers, all evidence of what had once been a sandwich gone.
Lionel, who was picking at his ham and cheese, looked troubled. Clearly the whole situation was taking more of a toll on him, and with good reason: he would be the one who'd have to pick up the phone and tell the boss why there were no holes being dug right now.
'You all right?' Josh asked him.
Lionel grunted. 'I won't be when I let Doug know what's going on.'
Josh took a swig of drink. 'I'm sure he'll understand. What's he going to do, fire you for obeying a federal officer? I don't think so.'
'I'm sure he'd try.'
'Well, why don't you get it over and done with instead of sitting there getting yourself all worked up about it?'
Lionel slopped his half-eaten sandwich down on the table. 'Yeah, you're right.'
Josh stood, stretching. The sun was hovering high above, and with it burning down and the sandwich in his belly, he felt lethargic. 'I'm going to head home,' he said. 'Call me if you hear anything.'
'See you,' Lionel said as he fished his cell from his pocket.
Josh tossed his trash away. As he was about to leave, Lionel, number dialed and cell to his ear, waved him back.
'Hey, man, I never got a chance to say before, but I'm sorry about the whole divorcing Georgie thing. That must be rough.'
'It's okay,' Josh said. 'It was for the best. It's been a long time coming—more of a formality by now.'
Lionel took hold of Josh's arm and jiggled it. 'Well, you hang on in there, okay? I'm your friend, and I'm here if you need me.'
'Thanks.'
Lionel, call answered, gave Josh a thumbs-up. Josh returned it with a wave, then headed for the subway. That was the real reason he wanted to be down underground, his mind occupied and his body away from all this: he wanted to forget her, put her behind him. But he couldn't. It was too hard.
The warmth of the day and the aura of the city, once a happy feeling, held nostalgia too deep and too intense for him to cope with now. As he walked, taking long hurried strides past the ice cream shop he had taken his son Joseph to for his third birthday, he held his breath, only releasing it as he descended the steps into the gloom of the metro. His life underground and the long shifts away from home had been what had made his marriage collapse; now they were his only solace.
Into Queens and back out into the sun, he boarded a bus that took him into Jackson Heights. As they trundled down Northern Boulevard, he glimpsed—as he did every time he took the Q66—down 82nd Street to see the home he had made with his wife, where they'd had their child. It was just a flash, and then it was gone, but he savored it with a heavy heart.
Josh's apartment was a few more blocks down on 103rd, above a bait and tackle shop. It was okay, a reasonable size—after all, the money he made was good—but he kept it modest so he could make sure Georgie and Joseph were looked after. It was the least he could do. He didn't want much: a bed to sleep on, a couch to slump on, a kitchen to cook in, and a bathroom to try and scrub the guilt off in. He did that, taking a hot shower, before lying down on the couch and falling asleep to some daytime show about penguins.
* * *
Agent Thomas Edwards brushed a smear of dust from his jacket as he stepped down from the elevator cage and descended the stairs into the expanse of the staging area.
'This is quite some operation,' he said to a fellow agent, following on behind. He got no response, but he didn't expect one; the apprehension was too great. He had hope—they all did—but it was too early to act on it. They needed to see it first.
Another agent awaited them at the bottom of the stairs, at the small platform where a single engine sat astride its tracks. 'In here, sir,' the agent said, and the three of them boarded.
'What have you found so far?' Edwards asked him, as the train pulled away, wheels chirping to find grip.
'Well, sir, I think we're looking at—well, perhaps it's best you see for yourself. I don't want to presume anything until we know for sure.'
Edwards nodded. The apprehension was real. They could all feel it, as much as they could feel the warm, clammy fug that seemed to thicken the air. 'How long?'
'A few minutes, sir.'
They were the longest few minutes Edwards had ever encountered. As the train entered the narrower tunnel, he realized how much his jaw ached. He was biting down, and hard, and he forced himself to relax. He hadn't been this nervous since his first day of training at The Farm. Eventually they settled to a stop at the end of the tracks, and he breathed a sigh, partly of relief, and of excitement. He had to hold it in. His training told him to maintain a stoic demeanor. He straightened his tie then disembarked onto the slurry-topped concrete below.
'How much further?' he asked.
'Just around this corner. Not far.'
'Okay. Stay with the train. Smith—with me.'
The pair marched along the slippery tunnel, smooth brogues struggling to keep them upright. More than once Edwards almost fell
, splaying his arms to stay balanced. It was embarrassing, but he didn't care. There would be something else to think about very soon.
The drill was what he saw first, and its size impressed him. He admired it as they approached it. A man in a hazmat suit awaited them. He looked anxious.
'Sir—' he began.
'In a moment, Bryant,' Edwards said dismissively.
The man looked like he wanted to say something more, but decided against it. 'Yes, sir.'
Edwards continued around the drill, running his hand along its steel chassis. 'All these years of searching,' he said, 'and this thing beats us to it.'
'Maybe,' his compadre said.
'Yes, maybe.'
They entered the fresh, raw tunnel, and with no manmade footing to guide them through the rock and mud, progress was slow. At one point Edwards considered turning back to fetch some proper attire, but it was the blackness at the end that kept him moving forward. He was too close to turn around. There was no going back now.
It was hard going, and halfway down he stood still to catch his breath. His fitness wasn't what it used to be, especially since he quit field work and landed himself a comfortable desk, but he wasn’t going to let that deter him. All that deskwork had led to this moment. This was it, he could feel it.
He could certainly feel something. Standing still, lungs gulping the damp, earthen air, he felt an energy in his body. A glance shared with his fellow agent confirmed that they both felt the same thing, and they pushed on, digging their heels in harder and gasping for breath until their throats were fire.
Then, they were at the edge.
'Careful, sir,' Edwards's colleague warned, but Edwards waved him quiet. The energy was palpable, swimming through them, emanating from the black. It was time. He'd held back, but now he knew beyond all doubt that this was really it, what he'd spent his life searching for. Edwards allowed himself a smile.
Chapter 4
Later that afternoon, Josh awoke. He felt groggy, as he always did if he slept during the day, but all the better for it. Rubbing his eyes, he stretched, sitting up and looking out of the window. The sun was most of the way through the sky, ready to disappear behind the building opposite. He looked at his watch: he'd been asleep for three hours. Getting up, he noticed that the voicemail was flashing. He played the message back.
'Hi, Josh, it's Craig. Just calling to see what's up for tomorrow, if we'll be on-site or not, and what the deal with the pay is. If you can get back to me—oh, hang on, there's someone at the door. Anyway, get back to me. Speak soon. Bye.'
Shit, Josh thought. He'd completely forgotten about calling the others. He'd been working double shifts to get the schedule bang on target for the executive visit, and it had clearly taken its toll.
Hitting redial, Josh lifted the receiver to his ear. The line rang. It continued to ring. Eventually it hit the voicemail.
'Hi, Craig, it's Josh calling back about work. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. Look, it's probably best if I talk to you rather than leave a message. I'll try your cell.'
Josh hung up and redialed Craig's cell. To Josh's surprise, the cell also rang through. There was no voicemail set up on it, so it just kept ringing. He's going to answer, Josh thought, every time he considered hanging up. It was at least a minute before he gave in. He then immediately dialed the number of one of the other tunnel workers. The phone rang, then went through to voicemail.
'Steve, are you there? Pick up if you can hear me. If not, call me back. It's Josh.'
And then he hung up. He proceeded to dial the numbers of everyone else in the team, home and cell, and got nothing, up until the last man: Carlos Garcia.
'Carlos!' Josh exclaimed. 'You're there!'
'Who's this?' Carlos replied, sounding wary.
'It's me, Josh. From work?'
'Oh, sorry! I didn't recognize your voice. Are you all right? You sounded a little tense just then.'
'Yeah, I'm fine. Look, you haven't heard from any of the others, have you?'
Carlos paused. 'The others? In the team you mean?'
'Yeah.'
'No . . . should I have?'
Josh was about to tell Carlos that none of them had answered his calls when he stopped himself. It sounded stupid. He was getting worked up over nothing. They were probably sitting down to dinner with their families, or out in Central Park, enjoying the last few rays of the afternoon. A flash of a dream came back to him, the pulsing energy of the cavernous room a whisper as a headache began to form behind his right eye. 'No, I was just wondering if you have.'
'Oh, okay. So what's happening with work? Are we back on for tomorrow?'
'No, that's the thing. Lionel and I were leaving the site, when a load of—'
'Sorry, hang on a second, there's someone at the door.'
'Okay, sure.'
There were muffled sounds as Carlos presumably put the receiver to his chest. Josh could hear what sounded like conversation. It lasted quite some time, longer than Josh thought seemed normal for an unexpected sales call. He thought Carlos would have them gone and done by now. The receiver crackled, and Carlos was back. 'Look, I've got to go. I'll speak to you tomorrow.'
'Carlos, who's that—'
But Carlos was already gone.
Josh tried to calm himself, but he could already feel the blood pumping in his veins. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Craig gets a visitor, doesn't answer, Carlos gets a visitor too . . . can't get hold of any of the others . . .
'I need to sit down,' Josh said to no one other than himself, and he did so. The room spun regardless.
Get a hold of yourself, he thought. You're getting carried away. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Of course there was a reasonable explanation, because everything was perfectly reasonable. It had just been an odd sort of day, and he was letting himself get all caught up in it. He was tired, after all, and there had been the gas, the police, the CIA . . . the room. There had been something in that room. Something he couldn't see, but definitely something he could feel.
'Right,' he said, blinking to jerk that train of thought from its tracks. I'll call Carlos back. The sales caller was sure to have gone by now, and Carlos would answer the phone again, they'd have a discussion, and all would be normal.
A little unsteadily, he made his way over to the phone and redialed Carlos's number. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Was the sales person still there? Surely not. Carlos wasn't the type to stand there and listen to their spiel with a forced smile on. Josh tried his cell, but it was the same story there. His blood had been pumping before; now it was a torrent through his veins.
What to do? Carlos only lived a few blocks away—in fact, they'd met at the Walmart over in Rosedale, and that's how Josh had ended up hiring him. That was back when Josh still lived at home, but it was still only a ten-minute walk from 103rd. Should he go? Would it be weird? It wouldn't be if Josh explained everything, would it? The CIA agent, Edwards or whatever his name was, hadn't explicitly told him he couldn't mention this to anyone.
Josh flopped back onto his sofa, head in his hands. It had all gotten away from him. He flicked on the TV to try and take his mind off it, but it didn't work. All he could think about was the blackness.
'Shit,' he said, getting up. It was getting dark down on the street below, so he pulled on a jacket and headed for the door, grabbing his keys on the way. Then, hand on the door handle, he stopped. What was he doing? He retraced his steps back over to the phone, tried Carlos again. He's going to answer. He's got to answer.
There was no answer.
Before he knew it, he was out the door, down the stairs and walking the street, hands stuffed in pockets and zip done up to the top. With every footstep he doubted himself more, but he kept his eyes down, watching slab after slab of concrete sidewalk roll by, each one a little closer to putting his mind at ease.
Just stopping by, he'd say. I was out for a walk and thought you might fancy a drink. Yeah. That'd do it. Carlos would be ho
me, probably eating his dinner. Josh would apologize, they'd catch up quickly and then he'd be off, satisfied, back to his apartment, to his couch, his bed, his kitchen and his shower, and everything would be normal.
But something in his gut told him that nothing was going to be normal. He swallowed the thought back down and carried on, one slab at a time.
A car horn blared as he stepped out into the road to cross. Shuffling back, waving his apology as the car's owner scowled at him and continued on, he blinked, clearing the sweat from his eyes. He was hot, very hot. He unzipped his jacket and let some of the cool evening air filter in. Calm down. You need to calm down.
He took a left onto 98th, scanning the road for Carlos's car. He thought he could see it, giving his heart a jolt. As he got closer, he could confirm that, yes, that was Carlos's car. If the car was in, Carlos was most likely in. Josh picked up his pace, relief drawing him closer. The point from him waking up this afternoon to now seemed so ridiculous all of a sudden. The sensible, rational side of him had been right all along, yet he'd still let his imagination get the better of him. He grinned at how foolish he'd been.
In through the door and up the stairs. It was always open. Latch had broken years ago, but no one cared enough to fix it. Around the old mattress propped up in the hallway. That hadn’t arrived there much later than when the lock broke. It wasn't a particularly nice place. It had that smell about it: cheap soap and piss.
Then Josh was face to face with the door. Carlos's door. The door Carlos had answered that ended his call with Josh, where he'd stood and told the salesman thank you but no thank you. Where Josh was about to talk to him now and put his mind at rest. What the alternative would be, he didn't know; all he knew was that there was no alternative. There couldn't be.
That vast space had been so black, yet filled with so much energy.
Josh thumbed the doorbell, and a dull chime sounded inside. He listened, ears alert, waiting for the familiar sound of muffled footsteps through the apartment. He could almost hear Carlos now: Just a sec, I'm coming!
New York Deep Page 3
