by David Meyer
Traffic halted and people rushed out of their cars. Smartphones, held aloft by rubberneckers, captured the bloodied and bruised driver of the JetFlow still in her seat. Proprietary software collected all accessible video evidence in the area and pored over it, determining the driver was dead.
Malware leaned back in her plush, fabric swivel chair. A soft smile lit up her rosy cheeks. Her hair—long and black with red streaks—hung in layers, framing her smoky eyes and pouty mouth.
She was nothing like the stereotypical computer geek so prevalent in modern media. At least not on the outside. She didn’t, for instance, dress only in black and decorate her body with strange jewelry and odd tattoos. She didn’t sit in some dank, dark basement, surrounded by walls of computer screens and piles of high-tech equipment. And she certainly didn’t live a friendless, solitary life, utterly limited by poor social skills.
No, Malware lived a rather normal life. Almost boringly normal, by design. She had a real name—Willow—and real friends. She dressed in girly-girl clothes, stuff like skirts, blouses, dresses, heels, and the like. She was pretty, vivacious, and flirty.
But it was all an act. A mask, if you will. Malware, so normal on the outside, was quite different from the mouth-breathers with which she surrounded herself. Unlike them, she saw humanity for what it was. Namely, a collection of replaceable widgets on a controllable landscape.
She stared at her laptop, small and compact and filled with guts of her own personal design. The screen showed Terry’s corpse, mapped together from over a dozen camera feeds. Mouth breathers stood around it, snapping pictures.
She leaned forward, clearing the screen. Then she switched to her self-developed texting program and typed out an untraceable message, programmed to self-delete after a single reading.
Side project is completed, she wrote. Back to main project. No changes, I assume?
The message was for Ben Marvin, Chairman of the Federal Reserve. A man she knew quite well.
A few moments later, a reply popped up on her screen. Correct, it read. Everybody dies. Love you.
Love you too, Pop.
CHAPTER 16
“That you, Cy?” Graham’s gravelly voice sounded dull and hollow in the darkness. “If not, then you’re, uh, hearing things.”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I stared at my satphone, waiting for new orders from Malware. But the screen remained stale and eventually, faded to black. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing a couple of shots can’t fix.”
“Drinks are on me when this is over.”
“I feel better already.”
I switched on the flashlight function. A bright light shot out of the satphone, bathing the surrounding area in a harsh glow.
We stood inside a large lobby, partially gutted and shrouded with enough dust to fill a lake. The floor had been stripped to concrete and even some of that had been removed, revealing much older layers of concrete. Wheelbarrows, stuffed to the brim with dust, concrete chunks, rotten wood, and other debris, stood nearby. Raised platforms, mounted on metal brackets, stretched to the untiled ceiling. The walls were unpainted and featured plenty of spackle.
Turning in a circle, I saw several large signs, mounted on fancy easels. They screamed, Welcome to The Falcon! in elaborate calligraphy. I hiked to the closest sign and looked it up and down. “Please pardon our mess,” I read aloud. “And dream of what will be.”
“Ugh.” Graham made a face. “What kind of cheeseball wrote that crap?”
“A green one. I think this is one of those high-end, eco-friendly apartment buildings, designed to provide enough self-satisfaction to last a lifetime.”
“I wish I was rich. It must be nice to feel morally superior all the time.”
I skimmed over the rest of the sign. It spoke of plans for natural light, renewable construction materials, green power sources, and a private ecological courtyard stocked with plants indigenous to the area. Apparently, those plans were now on hold, probably due to the recession.
“What’s wrong with this concrete?” Kneeling down, Graham studied a shallow hole. “It looks uneven.”
“It’s layered,” I replied. “Rather than strip out old concrete, developers sometimes just add a fresh layer and use a bonding agent to keep it in place. It’s not the greatest way to do things, but it can save costs.”
“So, this is basically a concrete sandwich?”
“Yes. And it’s just as tasty as its knuckle-counterpart.” I pointed my flashlight into the hole, illuminating four layers of concrete. The lowest layer, crumbling and cracking in various places, looked like it had sat there for decades. “See the wood grain pattern on that bottom layer?”
He nodded.
“That’s board formed concrete. In other words, wood was used as the forming material.”
“Is that important?”
“Nobody uses wood these days unless they want the texture. I’d be willing to bet this concrete was laid before panel formed concrete came to prominence. In other words, between the early 1900s and the 1950s. Which means it probably lacks steel reinforcing.”
“It looks like all those urban archaeology classes are finally paying off.”
“Yup,” I replied. But the truth was more complex than that. I’d first learned about concrete while tagging along with Dad to one of his many work sites. Since I wasn’t allowed to wander off on my own, I’d sit around, bored as could be, listening to him prattle on about concrete, cement, and God knows what else. Amazingly, I never forgot any of it.
“The point is this,” I said. “This board formed concrete got covered up over the years. And without steel reinforcing, it eroded at a relatively quick rate. So, while the floor looked fine on the surface, it was secretly rotting away from within.”
Graham picked up some rubble lying in the shallow hole and rubbed it in his fingers. “How much would it cost to fix something like this?”
My gaze flitted around the unfinished lobby. “Apparently, too much.”
My mind drifted and I found myself thinking about Beverly, about that grainy video. About her gagged mouth, her bruised legs, her cut-up torso. And most of all, about that look in her eyes. That crazed, fearful look. Like she was about to enter a seething well of madness from which she might never return.
The satphone vibrated in my hands. Switching off the flashlight function, I checked the screen.
You’re welcome, it read.
For what? I wrote back. Gracing us with your virtual presence?
For opening the door, Malware replied. I didn’t have to, you know.
A soft click rang out. A dull whining noise, one I hadn’t noticed before, faded away into the darkness.
I glanced at the door and noticed a metal box mounted on the wall. I walked over and opened it up. Inside, I saw a computer screen along with a pull-out keypad. The screen was dark, lifeless.
“Whatcha got there?” Graham asked.
“It looks like some kind of electronic locking mechanism,” I replied. “Malware must’ve hacked it.”
“That’s how we got in here?” He rubbed his jaw. “We’re like two puppets being led around a stage.”
“Let’s just hope she doesn’t cut our strings before the show ends.”
Most of my digs and salvage jobs had taken place in extremely remote locations. In places where computer networks, cell phone towers, and the like were either nonexistent or barely functional. So, while I’d faced all sorts of criminals over the last few years—crooked policemen, dirty politicians, smugglers, grave robbers, black market dealers, and so on—a hacker was new territory for me.
Texting is so impersonal, I wrote back. If you send me your address, I’ll thank you in person.
Tempting, but I’d hate to make your little girlfriend here jealous. Are you ready for another round of Do or Die?
You need a new game.
But this one is soooo much fun.
A small image appeared. I clicked it and another grainy video filled the screen
. It began to play and I saw a long shot of Beverly. She sat in the same folding chair, bound in the same chains, and with those same horrid speculums attached to her eyes.
The camera panned in close and I was forced to look away. My gaze flitted to her surroundings, searching for clues. But all I saw was white walls and beige carpet.
The video ended and deleted itself. A new message popped up on the screen. I need you to excavate the box and send me the contents, I read. Or she’ll … well, you know the rest.
What box? I wrote back. How do I find it?
If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a game, would it? Oh, and Cy?
I arched an eyebrow, wondering what kind of ridiculous time frame Malware was about to give me. The unexcavated box, whatever it was, most likely lay beneath the concrete. To find it, I’d need a high-powered multiple-input, multiple output phased array radar system. And to dig it out, I’d need a concrete saw or something similar. With the right tools, I could probably do the job in twenty-four hours.
My gaze swept across the unfinished lobby. I saw hammers, saws, drills, and other handheld tools. But nothing even close to a MIMO system or a concrete saw. How am I supposed to get through that concrete? I wondered. With my teeth?
My satphone vibrated and I glanced at the new message. Then I blinked. Did a double take and read it again.
You have one hour, I read. Or she dies.
CHAPTER 17
“One hour?” Disbelief filled Graham’s voice. “That’s impossible.”
Not only was it impossible. It was an utterly ridiculous, not-even-in-the-right-ballpark amount of time.
I mulled the situation over in my head. Earlier, Malware had seemingly given us far too much time. But we’d needed every second of it to get through the riot. Now, she’d given us far too little time. Either she was crazy or …
“There has to be a trick to this.” I checked my satphone. The time was 9:30 p.m. “What do you know about this building?”
“It’s infested with cockroaches,” Graham replied as an army of little bugs scurried up and over his brown boots.
“Do you know what was here before The Falcon?”
He shook his head. “I can barely keep track of what’s happening on my own street, let alone one I barely visit.”
Closing the texting program, I opened my Internet browser. I typed 1199 Madison Avenue, Manhattan into a search window. In less than a second, the browser showed a list of links and descriptions, bragging about how that was just the tip of the approximately 413,000 results iceberg.
I scanned the links and descriptions. They were focused entirely on The Falcon. Specifically, its plan to reinvent city living, its much-hyped start date, and of course, the construction delays that had eventually consumed it.
I went back to the search window and added the word history into the mix. This cut my results way down and links to a couple of blogs—Lost Manhattan, The Borough Bros, New Amsterdam to New York—topped the list. I clicked one at random, opening an article entitled, From Finance to Falcon: The Brilliant Reinvention of 1199 Madison Avenue.
“Okay, it looks like multiple buildings have existed on this site over the years,” I said as I scanned the article. “The current one was erected in 1923.”
“The Roaring Twenties.” Graham looked thoughtful. “That fits with what you said about the board formed concrete layer.”
“The original occupant was a branch of Five Borough Bank. The name’s misleading since its branches were all in Manhattan. Regardless, it was pretty sizable for its day, with sixteen separate locations.”
“What happened to it?”
“It survived the Great Depression and World War II before going insolvent in 1952.” I read more. “Afterward, this building sat vacant for almost a decade until a couple of hotshot developers bought it. They built offices, upgraded the wiring, and made other improvements. Eventually, they convinced an advertising agency to take over the lease.”
For the next two minutes, I outlined the rest of 1199 Madison Avenue’s rather unremarkable history. When I was finished, Graham scrunched up his brow. “It’s got to be the bank,” he said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. When it went defunct, its owners must’ve left something—cash, maybe—behind.”
“Like in a floor safe?”
He nodded. “One built into the original concrete layer. If it was disguised somehow, it could’ve been overlooked when the bank got cleared out.”
I liked the idea, but ultimately discarded it. There simply wasn’t enough time to dig up an old floor safe. Whatever Malware wanted, it had to be easier to find.
Still, I was fairly certain it had something to do with the defunct bank branch. And so I thought about banks. I thought about the purpose of banks and how they worked. And I thought about money and how banks secured it.
“I’ve got another idea,” I said. “Follow me.”
I turned to the southeast. A concrete stairwell lay before me, its dust-covered steps rising to the heavens while simultaneously descending into the dark underworld.
I grabbed hold of a rickety railing. Instantly, I flashed back to my childhood. Specifically, one of those rare times I’d managed to sneak away from Dad while visiting one of his buildings. I recalled sprinting through an abandoned eighteen-floor structure, the sounds of a distant argument ringing in my ears. Running so fast I could feel the breeze whipping against my face and ruffling my hair. Flying down flights of steps, the odors of concrete and dust hanging heavy in my nostrils. Arriving in a giant basement, dark and foreboding and full of mysterious rubble.
My freedom had lasted mere minutes. And as Dad entered the basement, I recalled my chest tightening up. Not from fear, but from sadness. Sadness from knowing I’d never see that basement again. Sadness from knowing no one would ever see it again. For the building, that marvelous place of mystery and dark dreams, had been sentenced to death by none other than my own dad.
As the flashback melted back into the recesses of my mind, I descended the steps, using my flashlight function to light the way.
A basement, dark and musty, lay at the bottom of the stairwell. It featured a rather tall ceiling and was about a quarter of the lobby’s size. I aimed my beam around the space, taking note of the drywall construction, the wadded-up plastic sheets, the empty white buckets, and the piles of cement blocks.
“Whoa.” Graham wrinkled his nose as he walked off the last step. “It stinks down here.”
I sniffed at the air. It smelled like mold and mildew run amok. Which got me thinking.
Shifting my gaze from the floor to the ceiling, I hiked around the room. Then I walked to the west and studied the wall. It was unpainted and made from drywall paneling.
“Notice anything odd about this place?” I asked.
“Besides the smell?”
“It’s a whole lot smaller than the lobby.”
His one good eye widened in realization. “You think something’s behind that wall?”
“Malware said we were supposed to find a box. Bank vaults hold lots of boxes.” A smile creased my lips. “Safe deposit boxes.”
CHAPTER 18
“A safe deposit box?” Graham’s expression morphed from curiosity to sheer dubiousness. “I don’t know, Cy. That seems like a long shot to me.”
“The Five Borough Bank must’ve constructed a vault on these premises, right?”
He nodded.
“So, what do you do with an old bank vault anyway? It would’ve been expensive to move. And what if another bank wanted to take over the lease?”
“Okay, I see your point. The building’s owners might’ve decided to hold on to it for a little while.”
“Time passes,” I said. “Eventually, they sell the property to someone else. The new owners build offices, redo the floors. But they leave the vault alone for the same reasons as the previous owners. At some point, other firms take over the lease. Maybe the vault gets used for storage at first, maybe not. Either way, it’s still h
ere and still requires cleaning and maintenance. In short, it becomes a nuisance. So, the owners board it up.”
“I’ll buy that,” he said. “But why would Malware care about some old safe deposit box? Especially since it would’ve been emptied out years ago.”
“Not if it wasn’t claimed.”
“How often does that happen?”
“More than you think,” I replied. “For instance, a lot of safe deposit boxes went unclaimed during the bank failures of the Great Depression. Eventually, they were transferred to Washington, D.C. In fact, I think the U.S. Treasury still has some of them.”
“Well, that blows your theory all to hell. Any unclaimed boxes from this bank were probably sent to D.C.”
“Maybe. But what if the building’s owners decided to hold on to them for a bit? Just in case the rightful owners came looking? Enough time passes and—”
“And they end up a permanent part of the landscape.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s a solid theory. But even if the boxes are here, what are the chances they still hold anything of value?”
“Not good. Valuables would’ve been looted a long time ago.” I thought for a moment. “So, maybe Malware isn’t interested in gold bars or jewelry. Maybe she wants something else.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure. But I know how we can find out.” I studied the west wall. “Find the utilities. Make sure everything’s off. Power, water, gas, everything.”
“On it.” Graham pulled out his satphone. Turning on the flashlight function, he hiked across the basement.
I’d pulled down my fair share of drywall in the past. Normally, preparation was essential in order to ensure a clean, efficient job. But I’d already spent five of my sixty minutes and anyway, I didn’t care about cleanliness or efficiency.
I looked around for a stud finder. Not seeing one, I walked parallel to the wall, knocking carefully on its surface. After about ten feet, I happened upon a large, hollow-sounding spot.
“Utilities were already off,” Graham called out.
