Текст книги "Reliquary"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

PART THREE

HUT OF SKULLS

It can be illustrative to view the various stratum of subterranean New York society in the same way one would view a geologic cross section, or a food chain showing devolvement from predator to prey. Highest on the chain are those who inhabit a twilight world between the underground and the surface; who visit soup kitchens, welfare offices, or even places of employment by day, only to return to the tunnels by night to drink or sleep. Next come the long-term, habitual, or pathologically homeless persons who simply prefer the dark, warm filth of the underground to the sunlit, often freezing filth of the city streets. Below them—often literally—are the multiple substance abusers and criminals who use the subway and railroad tunnels as havens or hideaways. At the bottom of the cross section are the dysfunctional souls for whom normal life “topside” has simply become too complex or painful to bear; they shun the homeless shelters and flee to dark places of their own. And of course there are other, less categorizable, groups that exist on the fringes of these main strata of underground society: predators, hard-core criminals, visionaries, the insane. This latter category comprises a growing percentage of the homeless, primarily due to the abrupt court-ordered closures of many state mental institutions in recent years.

All human beings have the propensity to organize themselves into communities for protection, defense, and social interaction. The homeless—even the deepest, most alienated “moles”—are no exception. Those who have chosen to live in perpetual darkness below ground will still form their own societies and communities. Of course, societyitself is a misleading term when dealing with the underground population. Society implies regularity and order; underground living is, by definition, disordered and entropic. Alliances, groups, communities come together and dissolve with the fluidity of mercury. In a place where life is short, often brutal, and always without natural light, the trappings and niceties of civilized society can fall away like so much ash under the least pressure of wind.

L. Hayward, Caste and Society Beneath Manhattan

(forthcoming)

= 46 =

HAYWARD PEERED DOWN the abandoned subway tunnel, toward the flashlights that played like emergency beacons across the low ceilings and wet stone walls. The Plexiglas riot shield felt bulky and heavy against her shoulder. To her right, she could sense Officer Carlin’s alert, calm presence next to her in the dark. He seemed to know his stuff. He’d know that the worst thing you could be below ground was cocky. The moles wanted to be left alone. And the only thing that inflamed them more than the sight of one policeman was the sight of many policemen, bent on rousting and eviction.

At the front, where Miller was, there was lots of laughter and tough talk. Squad Five had already rousted two groups of upper-level homeless, fringe dwellers who had fled upstairs in terror before the thirty-strong phalanx of cops. Now they were all feeling like hot shit. Hayward shook her head. They had yet to encounter any hard-core mole people. And that was strange. There should have been a lot more homeless in the subway tunnels beneath Columbus Circle. Hayward had noticed several smoldering fires, recently abandoned. That meant the moles had gone to ground. Not surprising, with all the racket everyone was making.

The squad continued down the tunnel, pausing occasionally while Miller ordered small teams off to explore alcoves and side passages. Hayward watched as the groups came swaggering back out of the dark, empty-handed, kicking aside garbage, holding their riot shields at their sides. The air was foul with ammoniac vapors. Even though they were already deeper than ordinary rousting parties ever went, the atmosphere of a field trip had not yet dissipated, and nobody was complaining. Wait until they begin to breathe hard,she thought.

The spur tunnel came to an abrupt end and the squad proceeded, single file, down a metal staircase to the next level. Nobody seemed to know just where this Mephisto hung out, or the extent of the Route 666 community, the primary target of their roust. But nobody seemed to be worried about it. “Oh, he’ll come out of his hole,” Miller had said. “If we don’t find him, the gas will.”

As she followed the rattling, jostling group, Hayward had the unpleasant sensation she was sinking into hot, fetid water. The staircase came out in a half-finished tunnel. Ancient water pipes, weeping with humidity, lined the rough-hewn rock walls. Ahead of her, the laughter tapered off into whispers and grunts.

“Watch your step,” Hayward said, pointing her flashlight downwards. The floor of the tunnel was peppered with narrow boreholes.

“Hate to trip over one of those,” Carlin said, his large head made even larger by the heavy helmet he wore. He kicked a pebble into the closest borehole, then listened until a faint rattle came reverberating up. “Must have fallen a hundred feet,” he said. “Hollow down there, too, by the sound of it.”

“Look at this,” Hayward said under her breath, shining her light on the rotting wooden pipes.

“A hundred years old if they’re a day,” Carlin replied. “I think—”

Hayward put a restraining hand on his arm. A soft tapping was sounding in the heavy darkness of the tunnel.

A flurry of whispers filtered back from the head of the squad. As Hayward listened, the tapping sped up, then slowed down, following its own secret cadence.

“Who’s there?” Miller cried out.

The faint sound was joined by another, deeper tapping, and then another, until the entire tunnel seemed filled with an infernal symphony of noise. “What the hell is it?” Miller asked. He drew his weapon and pointed it down the beam of his flashlight. “Police officers. Come out, now!”

The tapping echoed on as if in mocking response, but nobody stepped into the flashlight beams.

“Jones and McMahon, take your group ahead a hundred yards,” Miller barked. “Stanislaw, Fredericks, check the rear.”

Hayward waited as the short details disappeared into the darkness, returning empty-handed a few minutes later.

“Don’t tell me there’s nothing!” Miller shouted in response to the shrugged shoulders. “Somebody’s making that sound.”

The tapping tapered off to a single, faint ditty.

Hayward took a step forward. “It’s the moles, banging on the pipes—”

Miller frowned. “Hayward, stow it.”

Hayward could see that she had the attention of the others.

“That’s how they communicate with each other, sir,” Carlin said mildly.

Miller turned, his face dark and unreadable in the blackness of the tunnel.

“They know we’re here,” Hayward said. “I think they’re warning the nearby communities. Sending out word they’re under attack.”

“Sure,” said Miller. “You telepathic, Sergeant?”

“Read Morse, Lieutenant?” Hayward challenged.

Miller paused, uncertain. Then he guffawed loudly. “Hayward here thinks the natives are restless.” There was some brief, half-hearted laughter. The single tapping continued.

“So what’s it saying now?” Miller asked, sarcastically.

Hayward listened. “They’ve mobilized.”

There was a long silence, and then Miller said loudly, “What a load of horseshit.” He turned to the group. “Forward on the double! We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

As Hayward opened her mouth to protest, there was a soft thudding sound nearby. One of the men in the front ranks staggered back, groaning loudly and dropping his shield. A large rock bounced toward Hayward’s feet.

“Formation!” Miller barked. “Bring your shields up!”

A dozen flashlight beams swept the blackness around them, probing alcoves and ancient ceilings. Carlin approached the injured policeman. “You okay?” he asked.

The cop, McMahon, nodded, breathing heavily. “Bastard got me in the stomach. My vest took the worst of it.”

“Show yourselves!” Miller shouted.

Two more rocks came winging out of the darkness, flitting through the flashlight beams like cave bats. One rocketed into the dust of the tunnel floor, and the other struck a glancing blow off Miller’s riot shield. There was a roar as the Lieutenant discharged his shotgun, the rubber pellets slapping off the rough ceiling.

Hayward listened as the sound reverberated down the tunnels, finally dying into silence. The men were looking around restlessly, stepping from one foot to the other, already jumpy. This was no way to work a roust of this size.

“Where the hell are they?” Miller said to no one in particular.

Taking a deep breath, Hayward stepped forward. “Lieutenant, we’d better move right now—”

Suddenly the air was full of missiles: bottles, rocks, and dirt came pelting out of the darkness ahead of them, a rain of garbage. The officers ducked, pulling their shields up to protect their faces.

“Shit!” came a frantic cry. “Those bastards are throwing shit!”

“Get organized, men!” Miller cried. “Give me a line!”

As Hayward turned, looking for Carlin, she heard a nearby voice say, “Oh, my sweet Lord,” in a disbelieving whisper. She spun around to a sight that weakened her knees: a ragged, filthy army of homeless was boiling out of the dark tunnel from behindthem in a well-planned ambush. In the lambent glow of the flashlights it was impossible to get a good count, but to Hayward it seemed there must be hundreds: screaming with rage, brandishing angle irons and pieces of rebar.

“Back!” Miller cried, aiming at the mob. “Fall back and fire!” A fusillade of shots rang out, brief but impossibly loud in the confines of the tunnel. Hayward thought she could hear the slap of rubber bullets on flesh: several of the figures in the front rank fell, squealing in pain and tearing at their rags, thinking they’d been shot.

“Off the pigs!” a tall, dirty mole with matted white hair and feral eyes cried out, and the crowd surged forward again. Hayward saw Miller retreat into the confused group of officers, barking contradictory commands. More shots rang out, but the flashlights were flickering wildly off the walls and ceiling and there was no way to get a bead. The moles were screaming, a wild, ululating cry that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Oh, shit,” Hayward said in disbelief as she watched the mob surge through the flickering darkness and collide with the phalanx of police officers.

“The other side!” she heard a cop cry out. “They’re coming from the other side!”

There was a sound of shattering glass, and a flickering darkness descended, punctuated occasionally by muzzle flashes as more rubber bullets were fired, mingling with strange screams and cries. Hayward stood rooted in place amidst the chaos, disoriented by the lack of light, trying to get her bearings.

Suddenly, she felt a greasy arm snake up between her shoulder blades. Immediately, her paralysis evaporated: dropping her shield and throwing her weight forward, she flipped the assailant over her shoulder, then stomped his abdomen viciously with a booted foot. She heard the man’s howl of pain rise above the hoarse screeching and the firing of the guns. Another figure came at her, rushing out of the blackness, and instinctively she assumed a defensive posture: low, weight on the back leg, left arm vertical before her face. She feinted, chopping with the left arm, then floored him with a roundhouse kick.

“Holy shit,” came Carlin’s appreciative voice, as he waded in beside her.

The darkness was now absolute. They were finished unless they could get some light. Quickly, Hayward fumbled at her belt, found an emergency flare, and yanked its firing string. The length of tunnel was bathed in an eerie orange light. Hayward looked around at the struggling figures in amazement. They were walled in on both sides by huge numbers of moles. There was a pop and a burst of light beside her: at least Carlin had the presence of mind to follow her example.

Hayward held the flare aloft, scanning the melee, looking for a way to organize the men. Miller was nowhere to be seen. Picking up her shield and pulling her “ugly stick” from the leather scabbard, Hayward took some tentative steps forward. Two moles rushed forward, but judicious blows of her baton drove them back. Carlin, she saw, was beside her, a massive, intimidating presence in the dark, guarding her flank with his own baton and riot shield. Hayward knew that most of the underground homeless were malnourished or weakened by drug abuse. Though the flares had temporarily eroded the moles’ advantage, the greatest danger remained their superiority of numbers.

Now other police officers were rallying around them, forming a line against one wall of the tunnel with their shields. Hayward could see the number of moles that had come up from behind was relatively small, and they were massing with the main group. The bulk of the police were re-forming on the far side of the mob, which was retreating back into the dark recess of the tunnel toward the stairway, screeching and throwing rocks. The only way out was to flank the mob, driving them up to the next level in the process.

“Follow me!” she yelled. “Drive them toward the exit!” She led the officers toward the right flank of the mob, dodging rocks and bottles as she ran. The homeless surged back into the tunnel and Hayward fired over their heads, breaking their ranks. The rain of debris slowed as the mob began to run out of projectiles. The screaming and cursing continued fitfully, but their morale seemed to be broken, and Hayward watched with relief as the mob scrabbled back in disorder.

She took a moment to catch her breath and size up the situation. Two cops were lying on the filthy floor of the tunnel, one cradling his head, the other apparently knocked senseless. “Carlin!” she called, nodding at the wounded men.

Suddenly, there was a loud commotion in the retreating ranks of the mob. Hayward held the flare high, craning her neck for the source of the disturbance. There was Miller, marooned on the far side of the large group of moles. He must have fled back down the tunnel during the first attack, and been caught by the second ambush.

Hayward heard a pop, saw a cloud of smoke, sickly green in the fitful glow of the flare. Miller, panicked, must have gone for the tear gas.

Christ, that’s the last thing we need. “Masks!” she cried aloud. The gas billowed toward them in slow, lazy rolls, spreading along the floor like a poison carpet. Hayward fumbled with her mask, snugging the Velcro tight.

Miller ducked out of the cloud, looking like an alien apparition in his mask. “Gas them!” came his muffled yell.

“No!” Hayward began to protest. “Not here! We’ve got two men down!”

She stepped forward as Miller, ignoring her, grabbed a canister from the belt of a nearby officer, popped the pin, and threw it toward the mob. Hayward watched one or two other canisters fly as the panicked men followed Miller’s example. There were more dull popping sounds, and the crowd of moles disappeared into the roiling clouds of smoke. Hayward could hear Miller directing other officers to drop their canisters down the boreholes that dotted the floor of the tunnel. “Smoke the bastards out,” Miller was saying. “If any more are hiding below, we’ll flush them with these.”

Carlin looked up from the prone body of the policeman. “Stop, goddammit!” he roared.

The clouds of gas were rising slowly now, spreading their vapor throughout the tunnel. All around, cops were kneeling, dropping canisters down the boreholes. Hayward could see the homeless streaming up the staircase, trying to get away from the gas. “Time’s up!” Miller yelled, his high-pitched voice breaking. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” Most of the policemen needed no more encouragement, and vanished into the clouds of gas.

Hayward fought her way back toward Carlin, once again bending over the prone figure with McMahon. The other casualty was sitting up now, holding his gut and retching. The gas was creeping toward them.

“Let’s back them up a bit,” Hayward said. “We can’t put a mask on this guy while he’s puking.” The conscious cop stood up slowly, swaying and holding his head. She led the officer away while Carlin and McMahon carried the unconscious man to a safer spot in the tunnel.

“Wake up, buddy,” Carlin said, patting his cheek, bending forward to examine the nasty gash across the man’s forehead. The roiling green wall of tear gas was coming closer.

The man’s eyes fluttered open.

“You okay?”

“Shit,” the man said, trying to sit up.

“Can you think straight?” Carlin asked. “What’s your name?”

“Beal,” came the muffled reply.

The gas was almost on them. Carlin reached down and unstrapped the mask from the man’s service belt. “I’m gonna put this on you now, okay?”

The man named Beal nodded vacantly. Carlin strapped on the mask and turned the D-valve. Then he helped him carefully to his feet.

“I can’t walk,” Beal said through the mask.

“Lean on us,” Carlin said. “We’ll get you out of here.” The cloud had now enveloped them, a strange greenish fog lit by the flickering of the dying flares. They moved forward slowly, half-dragging the man along, until they reached Hayward, who was adjusting the gas mask around the head of the other wounded policeman. “Let’s go,” she said.

They moved carefully through the tear gas. The surrounding area was deserted; the homeless had fled the gas and Miller, leading the group of officers, had followed behind them. Hayward tried her radio, but she was unable to raise anybody through the dense static. In the far distance, they could hear coughs and curses as the stragglers hiding in the warren of tunnels below were forced to the surface by the gas. Now she could make out the staircase. The airflow was slowly spreading the tear gas through the tunnels and up to the next level, filling their escape route. But Hayward also knew it would drive the rest of the moles to the surface. She sure as hell didn’t want to be around when they came out.

As they reached the stairs, Beal suddenly doubled up, retching into the mask. Turning quickly from the other man, Hayward tore Beal’s mask off. The officer’s head sagged forward, then whipped back as the gas hit him. His limbs stiffened and he thrashed about, tearing himself from their grasp and collapsing to the ground, clutching at his face.

“We gotta move, now!” McMahon cried.

“You go,” said Hayward. “I’m not gonna leave this man here.”

McMahon stood there indecisively. Carlin glared at him. Finally, McMahon scowled. “Okay, I’m with you.”

With McMahon’s help, Hayward lifted the gasping Beal to his feet. She nuzzled her mask close to the man’s ear. “Either you walk,” she said quietly, “or we all drown. It’s as simple as that, good buddy.”

= 47 =

THE NYPD’S CRISIS control center had been brought on-line for the drainage operation. As Margo entered, trotting behind Pendergast and D’Agosta, she noticed several banks of communications equipment still sitting on dollies. Uniformed officers were standing over benches overflowing with grid maps. Heavy wires, wound with electrical tape, snaked across the floor in thick black rivulets.

Horlocker and Waxie sat at a long table, their backs to the communications gear. Even from the door Margo could see that their faces were slick with sweat. A small man with a brushy little mustache sat at a computer terminal nearby.

“What’s this?” Horlocker asked as they arrived. “The ladies’ visiting committee?”

“Sir,” D’Agosta said, “you can’t drain the Reservoir.”

Horlocker tilted his head. “D’Agosta, I don’t got time for you right now. I’ve got my hands full, dealing with the Wisher rally on top of this shit. And meanwhile the roust of the century is taking place underground. I’ve got the force spread thin as a pancake. So just write me a letter, okay?” He paused. “What, you guys been swimming?”

“The Reservoir,” Pendergast said, stepping forward, “is loaded with deadly lilies. It’s the plant the Mbwun beast needed to survive. The plant that Kawakita derived his drug from. And it’s ready to go to seed.” He unshouldered the muddy plant and slapped it onto the table. “There it is. Riddled with glaze. Now we know where they’ve been growing their supply.”

“What the hell?” Horlocker said. “Get that goddamn thing off my desk.”

Waxie broke in. “Hey, D’Agosta, you just finished convincing us that your little green monsters in the sewers needed to be flushed out. So now we’re doing it, and you want to change your mind? Forget it.”

D’Agosta stared distastefully at Waxie’s bulging, sweating neckline. “You sorry sack of shit. It was your idea to drain the goddamn Reservoir in the first place.”

“Now listen, Lieutenant, you watch—”

Pendergast held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please.” He turned to Horlocker. “There will be plenty of blame to apportion at some later time. The problem now is that, once those seeds hit saltwater, the reovirus that carries the drug will be activated.” His lips twitched briefly. “Dr. Green’s experiments show this drug capable of affecting a wide variety of life-forms, from unicellular organisms all the way up the food chain to man. Would you care to be the one responsible for global ecological disaster?”

“This is nothing but a big load of—” Waxie began to blurt.

Horlocker laid a hand on his sleeve, then glanced at the large plant soiling the papers littering the command desk. “Doesn’t look that dangerous to me,” he said.

“There’s no doubt,” Margo said. “It’s Liliceae mbwunensis. And it’s carrying a genetically engineered modification of the Mbwun reovirus.”

Horlocker looked from the plant to Margo, then back to the plant again.

“I can understand your uncertainty,” Pendergast said calmly. “A lot has happened since this morning’s meeting. All I ask is twenty-four hours. Dr. Green here will run the necessary tests. We’ll bring you proof that this plant is loaded with the drug. And we’ll bring you proof that exposure to saltwater will release the reovirus into the ecosystem. I know we’re right. But if we’re wrong, I’ll withdraw from the case and you can drain the Reservoir at your leisure.”

“You should have withdrawn on day one.” Waxie sniffed. “You’re FBI. This isn’t even your jurisdiction!”

“Now that we know the manufacture and distribution of a drug is involved, I could make it my jurisdiction,” Pendergast said evenly. “And very quickly. Would that satisfy you?”

“Just a minute, now,” said Horlocker, darting a cold look in Waxie’s direction. “There’s no need for that. But why not just pour in a good dose of weed killer?”

“Offhand, I can’t think of any herbicides that could reliably kill all the plants without harming the millions of Manhattan residents who rely on this water,” Pendergast said. “Can you, Dr. Green?”

“Only thyoxin,” she said, pausing to think. “But that would take twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight, to do the job. It’s very slow acting.” Then she frowned. Thyoxin. That word came up recently, I’m sure of it. But where?And then she remembered: it was one of the fragmentary words in Kawakita’s burned notebook.

“Well, we’d better pour it in anyway.” Horlocker rolled his eyes. “I’ll have to alert the EPA. Jesus, this is turning into one hell of a screwup.” Margo watched him glance at the frightened-looking man at the nearby workstation, who was still hunched over his monitor, an exaggerated look of concentration on his face.

“Stan!”

The man jerked up.

“Stan, I guess you’d better abort the drainage sequence,” Horlocker said with a sigh. “At least until we get this figured out. Waxie, get Masters on the horn. Tell him to proceed with clearing the tunnels, but let him know we’re going to need to keep the homeless on ice an extra twenty-four hours.”

Margo watched as the man’s face grew paler.

Horlocker turned back to the engineer. “You heard me, Duffy?” he asked.

“I can’t do that, sir,” the man named Duffy said in the smallest of voices.

There was a silence.

“What?” Pendergast demanded.

Looking at the expression on Pendergast’s face, Margo felt a stab of fear. She’d assumed their only problem lay in convincing Horlocker.

“Whaddaya mean?” Horlocker exploded. “Just tell the computer to shut it down.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Duffy said. “As I explained to Captain Waxie here, once the sequence is initiated, everything is gravity-fed. Countless tons of water are moving through the system. The hydraulics are all automatic, and—”

Horlocker slammed his hand down on the table. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t stop it with the computer,” came the strangled response.

“He never said anything about that to me,” Waxiewhined. “I swear—”

Horlocker silenced him with a savage look. Lowering his voice, he turned back to the engineer. “I don’t want to hear what you can’tdo. Just tell me what you cando.”

“Well,” Duffy said reluctantly, “someone could go underneath the Main Shunt and turn off the valves manually. But it would be a dangerous operation. I don’t think those manual workings have been used since the automated system went on line. That’s at least a dozen years. And forget stopping the Reservoir inflow. We’ve already got eight-foot aqueduct pipe bringing down millions of cubic feet from upstate. Even if you succeed in closing those valves manually, you couldn’t stop the water. When it enters the Reservoir from the north, it’ll raise the level over the banks. Everything will just pour into Central Park and—”

“I don’t care if you create Lake Ed Koch. Take Waxie, get the men you need, and do it.”

“But sir,” Waxie said, eyes wide, “I think it would be better if…” his voice trailed off.

Duffy’s small moist hands were working busily at nothing. “It’s very difficult to get down there,” he babbled. “It’s directly beneath the Reservoir, suspended under the valve works, and there’s rushing water and someone might get hurt—”

“Duffy?” Horlocker interrupted. “Get the hell outof here and shut those valves. Understand?”

“Yes,” Duffy said, his face paler than ever.

Horlocker turned toward Waxie. “You started it. You stop it. Any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Waxie said.

“What?”

“I mean, no, sir.”

There was a silence. Nobody moved.

“Get your asses moving, then!” Horlocker roared.

Margo stepped aside as Waxie lurched to his feet and followed Duffy reluctantly out the door.