by David Wood
“Yes, I noticed your accent.”
“I really should sort out the roaming or something, but I haven’t got around to it yet and I need to contact my friend. Is there a phone here I can use. It’s a local call and will only take a moment. I’d be happy to pay, of course.”
The waiter raised an eyebrow and Rose switched on her best one thousand watt smile, dipped her head a little coyly. “I know it’s cheeky to ask,” she said, emphasizing the English accent. She’d heard some Americans found it alluring.
The waiter softened, smiled a little crookedly. “There’s a landline on the counter inside. If you’re quick.”
“Thank you so much, you’re a life-saver!”
Rose paid for her coffee then picked up the landline the waiter offered and dialed the number she’d revealed. It rang three times, then someone picked up. Rose braced herself to respond carefully to what might be said, trying to think of something nondescript to start a conversation, but the line remained silent. She waited a moment more, wondering if the line were dead, but she heard a soft, relaxed breathing at the other end.
Not knowing what else to do, she said quietly, “Revenant.”
After a moment, a deep man’s voice replied. “Tonight. Midnight. The park. Behind Jacob’s Witch.”
Chapter 28
Crowley stood ready to fight, wondering if he could outrun the half a dozen rough-looking people blocking the way back. In truth, he was getting a little tired of running away from people.
The group paused. One man took a step forward. He was thin, baggy clothes hanging off his wiry frame. He had dark skin, smudged with dirt, but his eyes were bright, narrowed. “You okay, man?” he asked.
Crowley frowned. “I’m not sure. Am I?”
A woman stepped up next to the man who had spoken, brown hair matted and ratty, but her eyes as bright as his. “What’s a British fellow doing running around down here?”
“I’m Clyde, this is Sarah,” the first man said. “You in trouble?”
“My name is Jake. And yeah, I was in a spot of bother, but I think I outran it.”
There was murmuring among the group and then Clyde turned back to Crowley. “There’s been some sketchy looking characters down here.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin. “Some of ours have disappeared. More than usual, I mean. We’re kinda on the defensive.” He slipped his knife away in one oversized pocket of his coat and the others lowered their weapons.
“S’why we don’t go near the tunnels under Bellevue anymore,” said one man at the back.
“The hospital?” Crowley asked. “There are tunnels under there?”
“Anyhow,” Clyde said, deliberately interrupting. “You say you outran your trouble?”
Crowley decided to log that mention of Bellevue for later consideration. He hadn’t considered before what might lurk under the old hospital. “Who are you people? I mean, are you a group or something?” he asked instead.
“Topsiders call us mole people, because we live underground.”
Crowley looked around, wondering where to find the best way out. But curiosity burned. “You said some of yours had gone missing?”
Clyde turned to the others behind him and there was more whispered conversation, then they headed off back down the passage. Only Clyde and Sarah remained. “Want us to lead you back topside? We can talk on the way.”
“Sure, thanks.”
Clyde moved to walked alongside Crowley, with Sarah falling into step beside him. “We lose people for lots of reason,” he said. “But lately it’s been a lot more than usual. It’s got us on edge.”
“Understandable. What do you mean by lately?”
“The last year or so. Usually it’s drugs, booze, jail or...” He drew a finger across his throat. “A few just go. But then a bunch started disappearing. We had to find out where they were going.”
“So where did they go?”
Clyde flashed Crowley a dark look. “Dead. Murdered.”
“By whom?”
“The Revenant.”
Crowley’s heart pulsed an extra beat. His conversation earlier with Jerkwad on the floor of Jazz’s apartment came back in technicolor. The man talking about his boss. Snatches of conversation echoed in Crowley’s mind.
I ain’t ever met him in person, never seen his face... He calls himself the Witchfinder...
But these underlings, they’re sycophants, you know, they creep and scrape around.
But they don’t show much respect... they secretly call him the Revenant.
“You okay, man?” Clyde asked. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“The Revenant?” Crowley asked. “That’s what he’s called?”
“Yep.”
“And he’s real? Not just an urban legend or something?”
“Oh yeah,” Clyde said. “He’s real.”
“Too real,” Sarah added.
“So who is he?”
““No one really knows who or what he is,” Clyde said.
“But we hear stuff,” Sarah said. “We hide, we listen. We talk to each other.”
Clyde sighed, nodded softly, and dropped back a little to let Sarah speak.
She licked her lips, then said, “They say he’s some sort of vampire or soul-sucker. Not like monsters from the old movies. He’s the real thing. And he’s old, been coming and going since New York was called...” She scratched her chin.
“New Amsterdam?” Crowley prompted, the school teacher in him unable to resist.
Sarah nodded eagerly. “Every time he comes back, the dying starts again. They say he wants revenge for his lost love.”
“That’s not the reason,” Clyde said.
“Is he a serial killer?”
“More like an evil sorcerer,” Clyde said. “Or a mad scientist. He wants to be immortal. That’s what this is all about.”
“Can anyone describe him?”
Sarah shook her head. “Clyde follows him some times and spies.”
“From a long way away, and he keeps his face covered. If I went topside I could pass him by in the street and never know it. And that would be fine with me.”
Crowley’s mind whirred. Surely this was all urban myth, it rang like a campfire tale. He tried to think of anything that might connect Jazz to the Revenant, why the man’s cronies were at the reporter’s apartment. He didn’t really believe all the stuff Sarah had told him, but there were always seeds of truth in legends, even those of the modern urban variety. There had to be some connection. Two things Jazz had been investigating were Matthew Price and the bodies in the crypt under Washington Square Park. An unexpected piece dropped into place, but Crowley wasn’t certain if it actually fit or if he was clutching at straws. Clyde had said the disappearances started about a year ago. Wasn’t that when Price said he’d come back to New York from travelling around the country?
Every time he comes back, the dying starts again.
Crowley shook his head. He couldn’t write it off, but it was also easy for confirmation bias to put things together when they didn’t actually mesh. He decided to file that possibility away for later. But he was beginning to think that perhaps Rose had been right all along. So what about the crypt? Lots of bodies, some of them very fresh, several others less than a year old, maybe.
“You guys live underground,” he said. “Do any of these passageways connect to old crypts? Washington Square Park for example.”“
“Haven’t heard about that one,” Clyde said. “But could be. A lot of times, topsiders dig down to the underground by mistake. Other times something opens up on its own, like a crack in the old rock finally busts open.”
On a hunch, Crowley pulled out the scrap of paper he’d found at Jazz’s apartment. “Tell me if you recognize any of these people,” he said, reading by the light of his phone.
They didn’t react to the first couple of names, but when Crowley read out ‘Ricky Gallagher’, both Clyde and Sarah said, “Ricky!”
“You know him?”
&nb
sp; “Ricky was a good kid,” Clyde said. He really wanted to get clean. Tried hard. He lived down here a year ago, maybe more. One day he just disappeared like most do. We figured he was dead or in jail. But then he showed up about four months ago.”
Crowley drew a deep breath. The coincidence was too much to ignore. “You remember the name of the company?”
Clyde shook his head. “I don’t, sorry.”
“Sale something?” Sarah offered.
“SaleMed?” Crowley asked, remembering the name of Price’s company.
“That was it!” they both said together.
“How did you know that?” Clyde asked.
“Let’s just say you guys are joining some dots for me.”
“Is that why you were running for your life and ended up down here?” Clyde asked.
“Yes, my friend, I believe it does. Can you remember anything else about the Revenant? No matter how far-fetched or insignificant it might seem.”
“I reckon Sarah told you all of it,” Clyde said.
“There’s one thing.” Sarah scratched her head, the lines of her brow furrowed. “Some say his brother stole something from him and he’s trying to get it back. He can’t be immortal until he does.”
That sounded like fairy tale nonsense but Crowley nodded in thanks. “Fair enough. So any idea where I can find Ricky.”
“Maybe he’s working at that SaleMed place,” Clyde said. “But last we saw him, a few weeks ago, he was going to a meeting. I don’t know where, but if you like we can show you where Ricky went back topside.”
“Okay, that would be great.”
Crowley thought maybe he needed to check out SaleMed in more detail. And he owed Rose an apology too. He didn’t expect to find Ricky Gallagher working happily in his new job. If anything, he suspected he’d already met the poor lad briefly, the top-most corpse of that pile under Washington Square Park. But the more he could learn about him, the better he might be armed with information.
It didn’t take too long going through a bewildering series of old passages before Clyde stopped and said, “This is the place.” He pointed up to a rusty set of iron rungs buried in the bricks that led up to a maintenance cover similar to the one above the Washington Square Park crypt. “You can head up there, but be cautious when you open it up. Make sure no one’s around, they tend to freak out, you know? Or you might trip someone.”
“Okay, I’ll be careful. And thank you, I really appreciate your help.”
“Our pleasure. Best of luck to you.”
Clyde smiled and Sarah dipped her head briefly in farewell, then the two of them slipped away and were quickly swallowed by the darkness. Crowley marveled at their life, their intricate knowledge of these underground passageways and their ability to navigate them in the blackness. His phone was quickly losing charge where he’d been using it as a flashlight and he couldn’t wait to get back above ground.
He climbed the ladder and carefully lifted one edge of the maintenance cover. He looked out and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Bloody hell!”
Chapter 29
Crowley laughed to himself, staring at the ostentatious gold marquee that read TRUMP TOWER. Of all the places in New York to emerge. Then he saw a heavily-armed security guard staring at him with wide eyes and Crowley’s amusement fled. The guard started toward him.
Well, he was seen, so he might as well own it and make like he had every right to be there. He pushed the cover the rest of the way aside and climbed out, then turned and put the cover back in place. As he stood up straight again, the security guard was right beside him. Assault rifle held level with Crowley’s gut, casual but threatening.
“What the hell are you doing?” the guard asked.
Crowley put on his best smile. “Well, I was lost, but now, as they say in the old hymn, I am found.”
“Spend a lot of time in the sewers do you?”
It hadn’t been the sewer, but the man’s words gave Crowley the excuse he needed. He’d noticed a van earlier that day, and the name emblazoned on the side had entertained him. He used it now. “As a matter of fact, yes. I work for the Bureau of Water and Sewer Operations. I was inspecting a system down there and got turned around, lost the way I’d come down. Now, of course, I can see exactly where I am. I should be one block that way.” Crowley pointed back over his shoulder and started taking a few steps backwards. “Have a good day now!”
He turned and strode off, his back itching at the thought of the security guard’s weapon trained on him. But there was no challenging shout and Crowley kept walking then quickly turned the corner. It seemed he had bemused the man enough to slip away. Now he needed to call Rose.
“Where the hell have you been?” Rose’s voice was exasperated, but her relief was also evident. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“Sorry about that. It’s a long story and I’ll fill you in when we catch up. Where are you?”
“I’m in a café not far from Central Park. And I’ve got news for you too.”
They met on the corner of Park Avenue and East 60th Street, outside the Christ Church, only a couple of blocks from where Crowley had emerged from underground. They hugged, Rose’s tight grip betraying her concerns. He was saddened he’d caused her such worry.
“This way,” Rose said, and led Crowley around to a pair of dark double doors.
“Before you tell me why we’re here,” Crowley said. “I just wanted to say, I think you’re right about Price.”
She gave him a look and he weathered it, knowing it was one he thoroughly deserved. “I know,” she said.
“I should have listened to you.”
“You should.” She stared hard at him for a moment, then her face softened. “Thank you.” She leaned forward and they kissed, Crowley savoring the immediate thaw in her.
“That’s the Grolier Club,” Rose said, pulling away and pointing at the doors. “It’s locked up tight right now, but it’s relevant. Let’s take a walk and compare notes.”
They headed down East 60th and into the southern end of Central Park, enjoying the greenery and birdsong. Crowley marveled that such a place could exist in a city as dense and packed as New York. They strolled along East Drive, past Central Park Zoo, then turned left and walked past the Carousel. As they went, they related their respective stories, and all they had learned.
Once the tales were told, they walked on in companionable silence for a while, both digesting the news. After a moment, Crowley said, “Hang on, I need to make a call. Check on Gertie.”
His aunt answered after only a couple of rings, sounding in good spirits. “How are you doing?” Crowley asked.
“I’m well. Are you two lovebirds enjoying the city?”
“We’re having quite a time, I’ll tell you that.” Crowley remembered running for his life, bullets flying behind him, and suppressed a smile.
“Well, that’s wonderful, dear. When are you going to come and see me again? Shall we have dinner tonight?”
Crowley looked at Rose. “Dinner with Gertie tonight?”
“Sure.” She smiled. “But not too late, yeah? An early dinner and early to bed?”
Crowley turned back to the phone. “Sure thing, Auntie, we’ll come over about five? We don’t want to be out too late tonight.”
“Wonderful, I’ll see you then?”
“Will Pr... Matthew be there?” Crowley asked before she could hang up.
“I’m not sure. He’s been a little absent the past couple of days, actually. Caught up in a lot of work stuff, apparently. I’ll be sure to let him know you’re coming, but I don’t think he’ll make it. When he gets into these work things, it usually occupies him totally for however long it takes.”
I’ll bet, Crowley thought to himself, but was relieved to hear Price probably wouldn’t be around. “Okay, well we can see him again later. It’ll be nice to have just the three of us together.”
They found a bench and sat down to investigate the phone Crowley had taken
from Jerkwad. He’d switched it to flight mode, partly to preserve the battery and partly in paranoia against it being traced. All the emails on it were cursory, no details of anything specific or helpful. The one number it had been used for was unlisted, but Crowley had no doubt who was at the other end. Everything added up too neatly.
“So Price is the guy they call the Revenant,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “This is all a little frightening.”
“Do you think it’s possible that he really is... immortal? Ish?” Rose asked. “Remember the photo I found in that book on witchcraft?”
Crowley scoffed, shook his head. “Come on, that’s impossible.”
Rose’s eyebrows shot up. She held up one hand and began counting off on her fingers. “The blood eagle, the hammer, the Anubis key–”
“Okay, okay, point taken. You’re right. There’s weird stuff in this world, but really? My aunt’s boyfriend is an immortal witch?”
“I have more.” Rose took out her phone and tapped up the photo gallery. “This guy here is the doctor who conducted the Bellevue experiments.”
Crowley pursed his lips. It was undeniable. The man was a dead-ringer for Price.
Rose swiped across to the next photo. “And this one is of Francis Bannerman, a few years before he began construction on the castle.”
“He looks a little bit like Price,” Crowley said. “But that’s not him.”
“Shut your hole,” Rose snapped. “You know better. Don’t be so obstructive. This is Bannerman on the day they broke ground.” She swiped across to the next photograph, a much less grainy and aged image. It was undeniably Price. Not someone similar, maybe related. It could only be Matthew Price himself.
“I think that from now on, just to be on the safe side, we ought to assume everything is true,” Rose said. “Price is the Revenant. He’s been alive for at least a few centuries, and whatever he’s doing to keep alive involves killing people. He uses the underground tunnels of New York City to transport the bodies unseen when he’s here. Who knows what else he does when he travels elsewhere.”
