Book Trk
Chapter 42
Chapter 42
James
“You know Charlotte, those charts and plans you assembled of the underground systems are going to
be useful to more than just City architects and engineers. When Beth was first held, they kept her
underground somewhere. An old subway station they think. I've given duplicates of your plans and files
to Will Stanton for the police to run a full search of the area.”
She considers my words, chewing at a thumbnail….
I’ve got to break that habit in her….
…. Now’s not the time….
“They weren't entirely accurate, Master. That's why it took me so long to get back.”
“What were the differences?”
“Some routes were sealed up where I didn't expect. Others had entrances that weren't on any of the
records I had.”
“New entrances would you say?”
“Could be.” She picks at a bit of remaining hangnail. “Yes. Now I think about it.”
“Modern work not on any of the official plans? Could be our traffickers at work. Charlotte, I think Will
Stanton would like to discuss this with you. What you saw down there. Do you have any problem with
that?”
Her eyes glint. “No, of course not. Anything I can do to help.”
*****
The Present
He whistles through his teeth, a tuneless noise that serves to give him a little comfort in these
uncomfortable surroundings.
Officer Phil Cardelli, Rookie, is not technically alone. His partner searches along an adjacent passage,
following routes marked out on a plan, laminated against the filth all around. The plan is detailed and
complicated, overlaying sewers, subways and city service tunnels of all kinds.
Periodically, they call each other, maintaining contact. But right now, he feels….
What’s the right word?
Yeah…. Spooked….
Never thought when I signed up that police patrol included sewers….
He passes muck and debris, rat droppings and occasional skeletons. A dead cat, bloated and semi-
decayed, eyes obscenely open, bobs in the water.
He feels better thinking of it as water.
The heavy rubber waders reach up to his waist, suspended on braces which dig into his shoulders. The
work is dark, stinking and deeply unpleasant.
The place, frankly, gives him the creeps.
And what’s the damn point?
“Hey, Phil!” His partner’s voice echoes down the dark and dripping passage.
“What?”
“I’ve found something.”
“I’ll be right there….”
The ‘something’, after he has backtracked and taken the alternative tunnel, is loose stonework. Unlike
all the other walls and the vaulting roof, constructed from brick smooth and black with age and slime,
this looks freshly disturbed and quite out of place, mere rough stone in a rough rectangular-ish inset.
“That look like a door to you?” mutters Quinn, flashing his torch.
“Yeah…. There’s next to nothing between the stones. As though it could be taken apart again fast.”
Cardelli pokes at a crevice with a fingernail, then again with his car key.”
“For God’s sake don’t drop that. If you think I’m putting my arm down to the bottom so you can drive
home, you can forget it.”
He snorts and keeps prying at the gap. With very little effort, the stone eases loose and then prises out
entirely. Its neighbours are loose as rotten teeth.
“We should call this in.”
“We’ll have to go up top to call. Let’s find out what’s on the other side first.”
Torch pointing through the single hole, they peer through to a long corridor stretching into impenetrable
darkness. Not a sewer, the floor looks old, made of neatly cut stone flags.
“Are those more doors coming off in the distance would you say?”
“Could be…. Exits anyway.”
“Old service tunnels maybe, for the sewers. They can’t have wanted to wade everywhere.” Above
them, a train rumbles roars then passes.
“Mmm… maybe, but….” He angles the torch down to the scummy residue coating the stone floor. “…
those footprints are recent.”
*****
An hour later and the tunnels are alive. Dogs and their handlers are accompanied by armed patrols.
The ‘service tunnel’ continues several hundred feet, branching at various point. The side branches are
still being explored, where they go…. This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.
…. where they come from….
But the main discovery is a door.
The door is new, along with the frame it is set in. Heavyweight steel, cemented into an old vaulted arch
and unpleasantly slimy in the dank air, it blocks the tunnel. A heavy-duty lock drives thick steel bars
deeply into the surrounding stone. This door is designed only to be opened from one side.
Cardelli and Quinn watch as the techie with oxy-acetylene kit arrives, dons mask and gauntlets. As he
turns to his work, his voice drips Irish sarcasm. “Well now, you’ll not be watching this unless you want
to be burning holes in yer eyeballs.”
The two turn away as the flame sparks up.
“Crap! It’s the Commissioner.”
“What’s he doing down here? You don’t get the brass in a place like this.”
They slump to attention, but Stanton waves them back. “How long?” he asks the cutter.
“It’ll take as long as it takes.”
A thin glowing line traces an outline of the lock, leaving strings of light dancing across the vision of
anyone glancing that way.
“There she goes,” Flicking off the gas, he puts down his torch. He swings a lump hammer up against a
rough circle of plate with a clang. Another blow, and the bars loosen and slide from their sockets, falling
with an echoing clatter to the floor.
Light shines through the hole, dim and dour, but light nonetheless. Murmurs and muttered voices carry
through.
Stanton stoops, stares through and curses. “Holy crap.”
*****