This is not going, Sara thought, exactly by the book. But then things she was involved in rarely did.
“All right,” she said. “But you do what I tell you. You obey my orders, or I’ll send you packing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alek said with an amused grin.
“I mean it”
The tone of Sara’s voice wiped the smile from his face. “I know you do.” ''
“You better.”
Alek nodded. Sara took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s ... go see the cat.”
“Just who is the cat?” Alek asked Father Baltazar in a low voice. . .
“Possibly a spirit guicte sent by Papa Legba. If it is him, his name is Sandro.”
“Oh,” Alec said.
The cat was sitting, waiting patiently, his great plume of a tail curled around his feet. As the three approached he stood and stretched languidly. He arched his back in greeting and rubbed against Sara’s legs, his head nearly reaching her thighs. She hunkered down. He reared up and put his front paws on her knees so that they were almost eye to eye.
“Are you Sandro? Did Papa Legba send you?” she asked, feeling more than a little foolish.
The cat didn’t speak or make any other kind of overt response, but there seemed to be understanding in his red eyes.
“We’re looking for Jake McCarthy,” she continued, only somewhat reassured by the cat’s continuing attention. “Can you lead us to him?”
He stalked off, stopped in front of the side door to Club Carrefour, and waited there patiently while the three exchanged glances.
“It seems he wants us to go in,” Father Baltazar said. “Maybe he can give us a sign,” Alek suggested. “Like meowing twice, or something.”
Sara thought she could detect a sign of growing impatience on Sandro’s feline features.
“I think we should just go on in,” Sara said.
She pulled open the door, which squeaked alarmingly, exposing a portal into blackness. Sandro slipped past them into the dark, pausing only long enough to toss a backward glance in their direction as he disappeared into the building. 'f
Sara took a deep breath and drew her weapon.
“All right,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll go in first, then Alek. Father Baltazar, you bring up the rear. And move quietly.’’
They were in a short corridor. Sara could barely make out Sandro at the other end of the passage, waiting before another closed door. The hallway was unfurnished, and just this side of filthy. Evidently, it was a short service corridor used to feriy garbage to the alley Dumpsters, more than a little of which had ended up on the floor rather than in the alley. Sara figured they’d better move quickly before they met with a busboy carrying another carton of empties.
The door blocking the corridor turned out to be an unlatched swinging door. Sandro waited for them to get closer, then he reared up on his hind legs, put his large paws against the door, and swung it open himself. Thankfully, it opened a lot more quietly than the outer door. As they moved closer to the interior of the club they could hear music throbbing. They could feel the muted vibrations of numerous pairs of feet on the dance floor.
Sandro waited only a moment, as if confirming that they were following, then took off like a flash down the next stretch of corridor, turning left down the first branching hallway.
“I hope he knows where he’s going,” Alek said in a low voice.
“Shiah,” Sara and Father Baltazar admonished simultaneously.
They followed the cat down a set of rickety wooden stairs, moving slowly because they were going into deeper darkness, Sara almost stumbled at the head of the stairs, and Father Baltazar hissed to get her attention.
“Here,” he said, passing down a pen flashlight.
“Thanks—” Sara begin, and cautiously started downwards, the light focused on Sandro’s plumed tail as he pranced along ahead of them.
They got halfway down the stairway when a sudden sound made them all freeze. Sara clicked off the light and they stood on the stairs, holding their breath, looking back behind them toward the source of the noise.
Behind and now above them, in the corridor they’d just quit, someone came through from the club, whistling off-tune and dragging a full garbage bag. They could just barely discern him in the corridor. They waited until he passed, until they heard the sound of the outer door screeching open, a signal he’d reached the alley. Then Sara flicked on the light and they went down the stairs as quickly and quietly as they could, only to find themselves in a dark storeroom.
Sandro was waiting for them patiently at the foot of the stairs before a stack of crates of Importer Vodka.
“We don’t dare turn on the light,” Sara said after the penflash had swept over a bare bulb hanging down from a wire in the ceiling. “This’ll have to do.”
Alek looked around.
“They couldn’t have stashed Jake here,” he observed. “There’s no door. He could just walk away.”
He was looking at Sara, and it seemed that the same thought hit both of them at the same moment.
Unless, Sara told herself, they were stashing a body.
“Uh—” Alek said. “He could be tied and gagged, though.”
“Yeah,” Sara said in a low voice. Bleakness shot through her at the thought.
“I don’t think It’s as simple as that,” Father Baltazar said. “Papa Legba wouldn’t go through the trouble of sending us a spirit guide to lead us down a corridor and a flight of stairs.”
The three looked at Sandro. He seemed to be nodding in agreement. He went down an aisle formed by two rows of stacked liquor cartons and stopped about halfway to the far wall. He stood there for a moment, then began scratching at the floor at his feet, barely visible in the light cast by the small penflash.
“There’s something there,” Sara said.
They followed the tiny spotlight. Sandro looked up at them expectantly, then down to a spot on the floor covered by a rubber carpet runner. Alek kneeled down and flipped the runner aside to expose a wooden trapdoor set into the floor, held in place by a padlocked shaft shot through an eyebolt
“What have we here?” he asked rhetorically.
The three hunkered down around the trapdoor, glancing at each other.
Sara rattled the padlock. “I don’t know about you guys, but my breaking and entering skills are a little weak.”
“I’m a musician," Alek said, “not a burglar.”
Father Baltazar shook his head, but then glanced at Sandro. “Papa Legba is the opener of the way. The guardian of the door.”
Sandro, who was sitting on his haunches in his familiar position with his tail wrapped around his feet, seemed to grin a feline grin. He stood, reached out, and tapped the lock gently with a paw. It sprung open like he’d used a lockpick on it. , .
The three looke'd at each other.
“Thank you,” Father Baltazar said.
Sandro seemed to nod.'
“Carefully and quietly,” Sara said, as he reached out to shoot the bolt and open the trapdoor.
The door was well oiled and opened without a squeak. Alek carefully set it down on the floor without making a sound and the three-the four, counting Sandro-kneeled around the opening, looking down at a ladder leading into blackness.
A soft breeze wafted up from the unknown below. It was cool and rather moist, smelling of damp and naked earth. Sara leaned over the opening and cautiously flashed the beam of the penlight into the darkness, but it was too feeble to illuminate whatever lay below.
“Can you see anything?” Father Baltazar asked in a low voice.
Sara shook her head. “We’ll have to go down blind.” She looked at the men. “I don’t think Sandro’11 be able to negotiate a ladder. One of you will have to take him.”
Alek cleared his throat. “I don’t want to, uh, shirk any duty, but I’m, uh, allergic to cats. I’d hate to sneeze at a critical moment.”
“No problem,” Father Baltazar said. He held out his han
ds and Sandro leaped lightly into his arms, pressed against his chest, and hooked his front paws over the priest’s shoulder.
“All right,” Sara said. “Down we go.”
It was not a long descent, no more than thirty or forty steps down a ladder made of narrow gauge metal piping. Descending a ladder in utter darkness isn’t the easiest thing to do, but at least the rungs were regularly spaced and the ladder was solidly constructed. This must be, Sara thought, a commonly .used route to wherever Sandro was taking them. She wondered if it was used frequently enough to be guarded, or if security was lax. Or, better yet, non-existent. She hoped it were the latter.
Sara reached the bottom first, descending to a paved surface of some kind. She stepped aside, giving the others room to drop down from the ladder, and stood listening and looking as hard as she could.
She heard only silence, saw only darkness. They seemed to be in a tunnel of some kind. She waited until all were down from the ladder, then chanced a brief flash of the light. It really wasn’t bright enough to illuminate anything, but there was no reaction from hidden guards, so she thumbed it back on after some moments of quiet darkness.
They were standing, she discovered, on a raised concrete platform that dropped off into yet more darkness only a few feet in front of them. She went forward cautiously. Sandro, who had been let down by the priest, stalked at her feet.
Leaning over the edge of the precipitous drop-off, Sara saw that they were overlooking a dirt-floored tunnel some ten feet below their current level. She pointed the penflash upward, but couldn’t discern the tunnel’s ceiling in the feeble light.
A sluggish rivulet of water was running through the center of the tunnel’s floor. Running, though, was the wrong word, Sara thought. It was barely trickling. They could all smell it from where they stood, especially Sandro, who seemed displeased with its strong odor of decay. Also in the center of the tunnel floor were broken iron track?, clearly long unused.
“A lost subway tunfifel?” Father Baltazar speculated as he kneeled next to Sara, looking down with her at the tunnel floor. -If
“Seemingly so,” Sara said. “It could make for a convenient hideout, all right.”
Sandro rubbed against her arm, impatient to get on. He did all but announce, “This way,” as he led them down the tunnel’s platform into the waiting darkness.
They walked for fifteen minutes, though perhaps because of the darkness it seemed much longer.
The concrete platform ended abruptly after twenty yards or so. They had to hang from the lip of the platform and drop down four or five feet to the tunnel floor below. It was an unnerving thing to do in the near darkness, and less than pleasant to walk so close to the stinking rivulet paralleling their path through the subterranean depths. The ground was soft, almost muddy, and seemed to suck at their feet with every step, making Sara feel like they were trekking through an underground swamp. The air was cool, but with that peculiar musty taste common to caves and other sunless, closed-in environments. It was almost impossible to gauge time and distance, but eventually Sara knew they were approaching something when she could see faint light leaking in from around the tunnel curve.
She switched off the penflash. It was light enough so she could discern the white blur of her companions’ faces, as well as the even whiter blur that was Sandro, leading them onwards. 1
She looked at the others, and held a finger across her lips. They nodded, Father Baltazar grimly, Alek with suppressed excitement. They went on, Sara using gliding steps to minimize even the tihy sucking sounds made by their feet oozing through, the mud.
Finally they rounded file curve and stopped to stare at what lay before them.
It was a subway station, built in the 1920s and perhaps abandoned and forgotten not too long afterwards. But though it was clearly old, it showed no signs of decay. Someone had lavished time and money on its upkeep, even pirating electricity to flood the station with light.
' -The platform was clean and neat. There was no garbage, not even any dust on the platform. Its tile walls were a colorful Art Decoish mosaic depicting a desert oasis at night that looked as fresh as the day it was made. Several empty kiosks stood next to the blocked-off stairways that once led upwards. On the tunnel floor, resting next to another platform, was a subway train, an indeterminate number of cars stretching out into the darkness beyond the lighted area.
The cars looked as old, or older, than the station, and were in just as fine condition. They were red with gold trim. Lights glowed dimly inside the first couple of cars, but Sara was at the wrong angle to see into the cars’ interiors.
Sandro fastidiously found a dry spot to sit while he regarded Sara and the others with a look that plainly said, “It’s your show. What do you want to do now?”
Sara thought about it.
“I’m going on ahead,” she fmallysaid in a low voice. “You wait here until I give the signal to advance-” She shook her head, stopping Father Baltazar’s objections before he could voice them. “That’s the way it’s going to be,” she said. “Don’t wony. I’ll yell for help if I need it.”
She handed the penflash back to the priest, and again unholstered her sidcarm. 'She and Sandro went together deeper into the subway station.
It was action time. Or soon would be. The voices in her head were whispering excitedly to each other, as if they could already smell that blood that would soon be spilled.
Sandro regarded her suspiciously with a sideways glance, as though he could hear or otherwise sense the voices.
“Don’t worry,” she told the guide. “They want to help.”
He regarded her dubiously, but said nothing.
She moved as silently as the cat by her side. Together they reached the last car in the line, and went up the short stairway to its rear door, Sandro in the lead.
Sara put her hand on the door handle and tested it. It was unlocked.
She’d gone through a lot of doors leading to unknown but probably dangerous situations, sometimes alone, usually with Jake at her side. Never before with a cat.
Always a first time for everything, she told herself. She looked down at Sandro. He seemed to wink at her. She pushed the door open and he darted into the subway car. She followed after him, her gun drawn, arms braced in the shooter’s stance, ready to fire.
There was no one to shoot at. Though furnished with luxury appliances, the car was otherwise empty. All the seats had been tom. out and replaced by what seemed to be a modem, well-appointed kitchen. A refrigerator emitted a low hum next to a stove and oven combination. What looked like a closet at the far end of the car turned out to be a pantry, well-stocked with canned foods, dry goods, and various bottles of expensive scotch, tequila, gin, ram, and other liquors.
Sara went through the car wonderingly. The kitchen in her apartment had a sink, a can opener, a stove she rarely used, and a microwave. This p ace was a gourmet’s delight.
Idly, she stopped at the refrigerator and opened the door to glance inside. Immediately she wished she hadn’t. Among the leftovers and condiments, resting on then-own shelf, were five heads, glassy-eyed and staring, , sheered through cleanly at the base of their necks.
She recognized one of them. Juliette. She could imagine who the other four were. At least Jake’s head wasn’t among them. That had to be a good sign. She closed the door quickly, anger and nausea fighting for control of her brain.
The anger won.
Sandro, waiting impatiently by the far door, turned to face her. Sara didn’t need his warning glance, nor the whispers in her head. The lights in the second car glowed through pulled window shades. They went quietly through the door and stepped over to the platform of the second car. Sara listened for a few moments, but could hear nothing.
Something inside her-not the voices, but something of and by her own self-told her that this was it. She tested the door. It, too, was unlocked.
Please, Jake, she plead silently. Be inside. Be okay.
She flung the door
open, and was thrown into deep, dark disappointment, as she realized that her prayer had gone unanswered.
The interior of this car had also been gutted and refitted, but as a bedroom, not a.kitchen. It was the most luxurious bedroom Sara had ever seen.
The bed itself was' enormous, bigger than king-size, with brass head and foot boards. On each side of the bed was a nightstand with a small Tiffany lamp glowing with stained glass, depicting blooming orchards that looked disturbingly sexual. She didn’t care to examine the paraphernalia heaped up on the nightstands too closely.
Erotic paintings hung on all the walls. Erotic statues-from bronze miniatures to life-sized marbles-were scattered about, seated on pedestals, small tables, and, in the case of the life-size Hercules and the Three Graces, resting on the deep, ancient, richly colorful handmade rug that covered the car’s floor.
Sara had no time to study the paintings and statuary, though a glance showed her that some were playful, some passionate in the extreme. She moved toward the bed and then stopped, staring at what she saw among the rumpled linen.
There were two forms. One, face up, was handcuffed to the brass headboard. One, face down, was handcuffed to the brass footing. One was Roger Stem. The other was Jerry Stem. They didn’t look to be in good shape.
Sara went to the side of the Stem-Jerry?-at the head of the bed. His eyes were open, but staring and glassy. An empty vodka bottle lay on the rumpled sheet next to him, a half-empty pizza box rested on top of various implements and impedimenta that lay on the night stand. There were bruises on his face and across his skinny chest
Sara reached out to feel his pulse, but immediately knew she wouldn’t find one. His flesh was already cold.
With a grimace Sara moved to the other Stem. His back was marked with livid welts. Gently she turned and lifted his head to look at his face. One eye was swollen shut by bruising. A trickle of dried blood traced a line from his nose down his chin. He, too, was cooling.
“You just can’t find good toys nowadays,” said a voice. Sara dropped Rog~or Jer’s-head back onto the mattress, and jumped backwards, swinging her gun up.
It was Jean. She stood at the front of the car, legs braced wide, hands on her hips, so that her short black silk robe covered nothing of importance. Her body was as .white as the marble statues that adorned the sleeping car, and all lithe muscle. Her breasts were tiny, although the nipples were large and dark. Her hips were narrow, but she exuded an overpowering female sexuality.
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