The Schwarzschild Radius

by Gustavo Florentin

  She swung the tire iron at the handle. It didn’t budge and the noise was deafening in the steel chamber. Some light now streamed in and she could see a little. She looked around for anything else she could use to escape. There wasn’t much. Jumper cables, a can of tire sealant. Then something moved on the other side of the cargo space. She caught a glimpse of it in the sliver of light that came through the broken signal. Now it made a noise.

  She lifted the tire iron with one hand and advanced on her knees toward the sound. Her left hand felt in front of her. Then it touched a blanket with a body under it. She tore off the cover and a girl rolled over on her side. She’d been beaten badly.

  “Achara,” whispered the other girl. “I’m Rachel. Olivia’s sister.”

  A helicopter flew overhead, but kept going. The noise coming from the back of the van was going to be a problem. He should have brought a tranquilizer, but he still wasn’t thinking straight from the insulin.

  Brazos had just managed to make it to his hideout in time to drink three cans of warm soda. This had kept him from passing out and his senses began to return. His hands still trembled and he felt weak, not even half his normal strength.

  The helicopter made another pass. The white van might as well be sending up flares. Brazos looked at his Garmin GPS. He had to make this van disappear from view in a hurry.

  He swung onto the ramp for the Verrazano Bridge. At Exit Seventeen, he veered onto the ramp for SR-27 West toward North Conduit Avenue. In seventeen minutes, he was in East New York.

  The van continued up Van Sinderen Avenue and pulled into the entrance of Greenlawn Cemetery. There was a Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits and a Burger King across the street. After finding a deserted spot, he parked the van with the back toward the dead.

  As soon as he opened the rear door a tire iron came at him so fast he barely had enough time to block it. He pulled Achara and her makeshift weapon out in one motion and slammed his fist into her face. She slumped to the ground and he kicked her in the ribs. Then he grabbed Rachel’s ankle and pulled her out with one yank.

  “Up! You make noise, I kill you and your sister.”

  He put painted sunglasses on them. The GPS glowed in front of him and he quickly found his next target.

  The abandoned East New York station tunnel ran a half mile, four tracks wide and hadn’t seen service since 1924. It was only two-hundred yards away. They made their way to the tunnel entrance and he dropped them down the side of the retaining wall. They proceeded into the maw of the abandoned shaft. It ran about three-thousand feet and was originally sealed off, but junkies and homeless people had broken through. They marched on until there was no more light from the street.

  Navigating with a flashlight, they stumbled over needles, condoms, mortar, dead rats. It was getting dark outside fast and the night belonged to him. The GPS said they were about half way through this tunnel.

  No one could hear their screams in here, but he had to make sure. He forced rocks into their mouths, then ripped off a piece of Gorilla tape and sealed their lips. More tape bound their hands and feet.

  He thought about raping them, but he wanted to conserve his strength, and he wasn’t feeling very horny after the bout with insulin.

  They would stay here until dark, then move on to the final objective.

  till no sign of the van,” said Marchese.

  Three hours had passed since the killer had picked up Achara. Three hours, enough time to put someone through a wood chipper. How can God allow men like Brazos to exist, McKenna mulled to himself. Nothing meaningful had come back from the FBI―no aliases, no other addresses in the U.S., no jobs. The guy had a phony social security number, stolen off a dead kid in Jersey. Was he heading for the Mexican border? Canada? Brazil, which had no extradition treaty with the U.S.?

  A break finally came at 9:20.

  “McKenna here.”

  “A tow truck operator was called to haul away a white van from the grounds of Greenlawn Cemetery in Brooklyn after closing time. It belongs to Brazos.”

  “And inside?”

  “A kid’s knapsack with some kind of bird house and a half-eaten candy bar. No sign of blood, but there was plenty of struggle. The rear headlights were busted from the inside.”

  “On my way.”

  Cops combed the grounds of the Greenlawn Cemetery with the K-9 units. McKenna scanned a Google Earth map of the area on his laptop. There was a subway El, a baseball diamond, a couple of fast food places, gas stations.

  “He had to walk out of here or steal a car.”

  “There’re no reports of stolen cars in the area for the last two and a half hours, which must be a record for Brooklyn,” said Marchese.

  “He had at least one hostage with him,” said McKenna. “Unless he already killed her and left her somewhere, so he could travel light.” And was Rachel with him too? Or had he disposed of her already? Where can you hide around here? He turned to the Google map again. It kept zooming in and out.

  “Damn thing has a mind of its own.” He oriented himself again on the screen. He clicked on every icon and the name of the location popped up. Reyes Deli Grocery, Shell Fuel, Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits, Bushwick Walking Tour, C-Town Super Market, Subway, Quality Inn, Tunnel Approach.

  “What’s this―Tunnel Approach?” He clicked on it and a photo expanded. It was a gloomy looking entrance to some kind of passageway. He right-clicked on it for directions. It was just a few hundred yards away.

  The dogs picked up Rachel’s scent as soon as they entered the tunnel. McKenna was relieved for a second, then he thought of what they might find.

  “Where’s the exit to this,” said McKenna.

  “It’s about a half mile south, but it’s been sealed up for years. No trains come through,” replied Marchese. “I grew up here.”

  The SWAT team entered with night vision goggles. It was already dark outside, and inside the tunnel it was pitch black. McKenna wore body armor and carried an AR-15, and was praying for a chance to use it. Deep down, he didn’t want this to end in an arrest and trial.

  The scent was getting stronger, judging from the dogs. On the ground there was the usual detritus. He didn’t want to see a body added to this trash.

  His GPS said they were about half way into this tunnel. Fifteen-hundred feet and it may as well be the center of the Earth. The dogs stopped.

  “The scent ends here,” said one of the handlers.

  The handlers led the dogs further ahead, but they came back. They alerted strongly on one spot on the ground where the garbage had been cleared away.

  “She was right there for sure,” said the handler. No sign of a struggle.

  Back outside, McKenna demanded a report of all the cars stolen within the last four hours for a one-mile radius. When the report arrived, there were six cars.

  “APB on all these. I wouldn’t expect all of them to be on the road anymore with all the chop shops in the area. But he’ll be on the road.”

  Brazos left the girls in the tunnel tied up while he stole a car. After parking the Nissan Maxima in the Popeye’s lot, he went back for them. Checking the streets, he sprang out with the girls in tow. He held them tightly by the hand as he walked them blind up the street to the waiting car.

  “Stay down or you’re both dead.”

  After Brazos dragged Rachel back to the execution chamber, she thought her life was over. He had downed three sodas to counter the effects of the insulin, then sat for ten minutes, ordering her to lie down on the floor. Then two hands picked her up and threw her against the wall. He ordered her to put her street clothes on, then he beat her till she passed out.

  When she had awoken in the van, she was sorry to see Achara, but relieved that Joules wasn’t there too. That meant he was safe.

  Where was he taking them? Did he have another hideout? Why didn’t he just escape alone without the baggage of two girls in tow? She checked her pockets. Empty.

  n Bushwick Avenue, a lone cruiser flashed its lig
hts five cars behind Brazos. He slammed down on the accelerator and made a right onto Grand Street, then a left at Vandervoort. Brazos zigzagged around several blocks, then landed back on Vandervoort. A right onto Division Street and a quick left at Porter Avenue. He had lost the cruiser, but a radio call had no doubt gone out. Brazos mounted his GPS on the dash and punched in his next destination. Rain was coming down hard.

  Ten minutes later, he spotted a police helicopter overhead. He was still too far from his target to abandon the car. Just keep within the speed limit and follow the digital voice that now guided him. A spotlight dropped down on Brazos’ car like a net. The chopper was directly over him. He punched in an alternative objective and changed course. Two minutes later, Brazos pulled into a dump off of Schenck Avenue. Lots of abandoned cars. Good. With a map of the ground in his head, he stopped the car and pulled out the girls.

  He marched them in the dark two hundred yards to a stand of trees and took a pry bar out of his backpack. It took a few minutes of rooting around, but he found it. He levered up the manhole cover and pointed to the hole in the ground.

  McKenna popped the trunk on the Nissan Maxima. Nothing.

  “Seal off the area,” said McKenna. “He’s got the water on one side; I don’t think he’s swimming to Rockaway.”

  The dogs picked up the scent right away. They scratched at the manhole cover.

  McKenna turned to the K-9 unit. “These manholes are six or eight hundred feet apart. Be there if he comes up for air.”

  McKenna made sure the safety on the AR-15 was on and descended the ladder. It was an eighty-four inch storm drain and that meant they would travel faster without having to slouch. But so would Brazos. When the six-man team had descended, they put on night-vision goggles.

  “Figure they have a thirty minute head start,” said McKenna. “Double time.” They jogged through the concrete tunnel, keeping their feet on either side of the stream running down the center. Water from the rain came in from multiple inlets and was pooling. How fast could Brazos travel with two girls? Were they hurt? That would slow him down more.

  He scanned the walls of this tomb. It wasn’t the first time humans were here. The walls were covered in graffiti. Joey and Louise fucked here 1992. Spiders all over. Whenever a car ran over a manhole cover, it sounded like thunder. What were they going to find at the end of this shit hole?

  Brazos had Rachel by the wrist and Rachel had Achara’s hand as they were dragged through the cavern. Brazos wore night vision goggles and he was going at a blistering pace. They were ankle-deep in water and the tunnel grade went steeply downward. A storm raged above and water poured into the chamber. Brazos looked at the Tritium dial of his watch. The water was rising and it wasn’t just from the storm. If it got too high before he reached the end of the tunnel, he’d have to make an escape through one of the manholes. Hopefully, it would cooperate and open. After a few hundred yards more, the water was up to his shins. Brazos had to get to the end quickly to make his next objective. Suddenly he stopped and cupped his hand over Rachel’s mouth. Sound carried in this place. Cops were on his trail. Maybe a thousand yards. He should have lost them, but that damn chopper had spotted him. This chase had gone on long enough. He had to get the job done and get out. Next stop, the execution chamber.

  The water had slowed McKenna and his team. The storm outside had abated, but the water kept rising. Half-way up his shins now. Could Brazos still be in the tunnel? How fast could two girls move in this?

  McKenna couldn’t help noticing the ease with which he fell into the role of hunter once again. It was like the chase reflex in big cats. Here he was again going through the bowels of the earth in pursuit of evil. He had lain awake at night thinking of this freakazoid and McKenna felt violated that Brazos could intrude on his sleep, follow him into the toilet, and walk with him to the store.

  He grasped the synthetic stock of the weapon with his wet hands. It was hot as hell down here and getting hotter as they descended. The smell in the tunnel was more briny. He scooped up a handful of water and put it to his nose. Seawater. “Hold it. Anyone know what this tunnel drains into?”

  “We’re heading south and south is Jamaica Bay,” said Sergeant Escobar.

  “That’s what I thought. High tide is coming in.”

  “Where are you taking us?” asked Rachel.

  “Where you’ll never be found,” replied Brazos.

  The water was up to Rachel’s knees and she could feel the steep incline. How much deeper into this were they going? They would all drown.

  Brazos’ GPS lit up every three or four minutes like a lightening bug in the dark. In those moments of illumination, Brazos’ countenance took on a green tinge and with the night-goggles, he appeared insect-like.

  When was this ordeal going to end? How was it going to end? Did Olivia make it out? What a twist of fate that Olivia was replaced by her twin sister who had escaped one hell hole to arrive at another in the land of milk and honey. She could feel Achara starting to fade. At first, she was clinging to Rachel’s elbow, but now Rachel’s arms were taught between her and this killer.

  Suddenly there was a faint light ahead. Yes, she could see it. The ground was steeper than ever; the water was now up to her thighs. They had reached the end.

  “In,” he commanded. The sky was above them and in front was the ocean. Rachel grabbed Achara’s waist and they plunged into the cold water. “Keep your mouths shut from here on.”

  Brazos pulled them to shore. But the freedom of the open air wasn’t going to last. The GPS snapped on and that meant they were going somewhere specific. There was nothing improvised here, Brazos knew what he was doing. Her destiny was in that little box.

  Rachel was right. Within ten minutes, Brazos led them to a half-buried freight container. There was a rusted opening on its side and Brazos pushed them through it. A flashlight hurt Rachel’s eyes, then revealed an entrance to what Rachel dreaded most―another tunnel.

  “This thing’s filling up,” said the sergeant. “We’ve got to make a decision.” The water was up to their thighs and rising. “There’s a manhole cover up ahead. There won’t be another one for hundreds of yards and the water may be over our heads before that.”

  McKenna wanted to go on, but he couldn’t be reckless with their lives.

  “Okay, let’s try the manhole cover.”

  One man went up the ladder and struggled for five minutes. McKenna looked at his watch. Five minutes lost.

  “This won’t budge,” said the guy above.

  “There’s another one three hundred yards back, but no guarantee that’ll open either,” said McKenna. “Let’s go on for ten more minutes. If we don’t reach the end, we abort.” All agreed.

  McKenna set a blistering pace. Five minutes later, the water was up to their waists and still rising. This tore him up. He wished he was alone, so he didn’t have to be responsible for six guys drowning. If they had to abort now, could they even make it out before the water was over their heads? Now the water was chest-deep and he felt for bodies under his feet. No way a couple of five-foot-three girls made it through this.

  “Hold it,” said McKenna. The rain outside had stopped and there was only a trickling of water entering the tunnel. “Anyone see a light ahead or is it me?”

  “Yeah, look at the water up ahead. It’s lighter,” said the sergeant.

  “It might be the tunnel outfall, but it’s totally submerged. Give me that rope.” McKenna tied it around his waist. “Pay it out as I go. If I pull on it twice, reel me in. If I pull on it three times, I want one man to follow at a time.”

  McKenna put his goggles back in their waterproof case and took a deep breath. He’d have to swim underwater, find the exit, then take a chance and follow it to the surface.

  He dove in with the Maglite flashlight. The seawater stung his eyes. Visibility, two feet. More tunnel, shit. But more light too. If the rope snagged on anything, he was dead. McKenna committed himself and kicked hard, thrusting forward
. His lungs were bursting. More tunnel. He could barely see now. Forward. It was time to tug the rope twice or he’d die here. A few more feet and he’d tug. The light brightened just enough to tempt him to go on. His diaphragm was spasming as he kicked toward the light and broke the surface in Jamaica Bay.

  He quickly tugged the rope three times before they decided to pull him back on their own. His feet touched the bottom and he made his way to shore quickly to provide resistance to the rope as the next man came up. The others would make it through in half the time with the rope to pull on.

  He anchored himself against the shoreline and pulled the rope taught. Then, as if big-game fishing, he felt a huge tug at the end of the line. He counted the seconds and prayed for no screwups.

  Santos surfaced first. Escobar was last. But no time to rest. Brazos’ lead was extended.

  They radioed for the K-9 unit and within ten minutes, they were back on Brazos’ trail. The dogs alerted on Rachel’s scent, not Brazos’, so she was still alive. The trail led them to a half-buried shipping container. There was an opening on the side.

  “That hole goes into the ground,” said the sergeant. He lowered himself in and popped out three minutes later. “It’s an old subway tunnel. We’ll take the dogs. Bend those edges, so they don’t get cut.”

  “Get with the MTA and see if they can email us a map of this tunnel,” McKenna said into the radio.

  He and the six-man SWAT team went in first, followed by the K-9 unit. The night-vision goggles went back on.

  “Brazos didn’t just find this tunnel by accident. He knows where he’s going and this place could be booby-trapped,” said McKenna. “Proceed accordingly.”

  It was part of the old Jamaica line from the look of it. How many of these places did Brazos have? The last one was a slaughterhouse. Was this some kind of a sick pied-a-terre? There were stairs leading to a lower level. McKenna’s guess was that’s where they went and the dogs agreed.