Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“Not all homeless go below,” Hayward said. “But the ones afraid of the shelters, the ones that hate the soup kitchens and subway gratings, the loners, the cult freaks—they tend to go down. First to the subway tunnels. Then farther. Believe me, there’re lots of places to hide.”

Pendergast nodded. “Even on my first trip, I was astonished at the vastness. I felt like Lewis and Clark, setting out to explore unmapped territory.”

“You don’t know the half of it. There’s two thousand miles of abandoned or half-dug tunnels, and another five thousand miles still in use. Underground chambers, sealed up and forgotten.” Hayward shrugged. “And you hear stories. Like about bomb shelters, secretly built by the Pentagon in the fifties to protect Wall Street types. Some of them are still stocked with running water, electricity, canned food. Engine rooms filled with abandoned machinery, ancient sewers made from wooden pipes. An entire freakin’ lost world.”

Pendergast sat forward in his chair. “Sergeant Hayward,” he said quietly. “Have you heard of the Devil’s Attic?”

Hayward nodded. “Yeah. I’ve heard of it.”

“Can you tell me where it is, or how I can locate it?”

There was a long silence while she thought. “No. One or two of the homeless mentioned it during rousts. But you hear so much crap down there, you tune most of it out. I always thought it was bullshit.”

“Is there anybody I can talk to who might know more?”

Hayward shifted slightly. “You might talk to Al Diamond,” she said, her eyes drifting again toward the picture of the haystacks. Amazing, she thought, how a couple of thick dabs of paint could capture an image so clearly. “He’s an engineer for the PA, a real authority on underground structures. They always call him in when a deep main breaks, or when a new gas tunnel has to be bored.” She paused. “Haven’t seen him around for a while, though. Maybe he bought the farm.”

“Excuse me?”

“Died, I mean.”

There was a silence, broken only by the soft hush of the waterfall. “If the killers have colonized some secret space underground, the sheer number of homeless will make our own job extremely difficult,” Pendergast said at last.

Hayward took her eyes from the picture of the haystack and fastened them on the FBI agent. “It gets worse,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Autumn’s only a few weeks away. That’s when the homeless really start streaming underground, anticipating winter. If you’re right about these killers, you know what that means.”

“No, I don’t,” Pendergast said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Hunting season,” Hayward said, and shifted her gaze back to the painting.

= 27 =

THE LENGTH OF grimy industrial avenue ended in an embarkment of riprap, half tumbling into the murky depths of the East River. Beyond lay a panoramic view of Roosevelt Island and the 59th Street Bridge. Across the river, the thin gray strip of the FDR Drive wound its way up past the United Nations and the luxurious Sutton Place co-ops. Nice view, thought D’Agosta as he stepped out of the unmarked cruiser. Nice view, lousy neighborhood.

The August sun slanted into the avenue, softening the puddles of tar and coaxing waves of shimmering heat from the pavement. Loosening his collar, D’Agosta once again checked the address the Museum personnel office had given him: 11-46 94th Avenue, Long Island City. He glanced at the nearby buildings, wondering if there was some mistake. This sure as hell didn’t look like a residential neighborhood. The street was lined with old warehouses and abandoned factories. Even though it was noon, the place was almost deserted, the only sign of life a shabby panel truck pulling out of a loading bay at the far end of the block. D’Agosta shook his head. Another frigging dead end. Leave it to Waxie to saddle him with what, in Waxie’s opinion, was the assignment of lowest priority.

The door to 11-46 was of thick metal, dented and scarred, and covered in perhaps ten coats of black paint. Like everything else on the block, it looked like the entrance to an empty warehouse. D’Agosta rang the ancient buzzer and then, hearing nothing, pounded heavily on the door. Silence.

He waited a few minutes, then ducked into a narrow alley along one side of the building. Making his way through crumbling rolls of tar paper, D’Agosta approached a window of wired glass, webbed with cracks and almost opaque with dust Climbing onto the tarpaper, he rubbed a hole clean with his tie and looked in.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he made out a vast empty space. Faint bars of light striped across the stained cement floor. At the far end was a staircase leading up to what must once have been the office of the line boss. Otherwise, nothing.

There was a sudden movement in the alley, and D’Agosta turned to see a man coming at him fast, a long kitchen knife shining wickedly in one hand. Reflexively, D’Agosta leapt for the ground, pulling his service piece as he did so. The man stared at the gun in surprise, stopping short. He gathered himself to flee.

“Halt!” D’Agosta barked. “Police officer!”

The man turned back again. Inexplicably, a look of amusement came over his features.

“A cop!” he cried sarcastically. “Fancy that, a cop in these parts!”

He continued to stand there, grinning. He was the strangest-looking person D’Agosta had ever seen: a shaved head, painted green; a wispy goatee; tiny, Trotskyesque glasses; a shirt made out of something like hairy burlap; ancient, red Keds sneakers.

“Drop the knife,” said D’Agosta.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the man said. “I thought you were a burglar.”

“I said, drop the damn knife.”

The grin disappeared from the man’s face. He tossed the knife onto the ground between them.

D’Agosta kicked it aside. “Now turn around, slowly, and put your hands on the wall. Spread your feet wide.”

“What is this, Communist China?” the man objected.

“Do it,” D’Agosta said.

The man obeyed, grumbling, and D’Agosta patted him down, finding nothing more than a wallet. He flipped it open. The driver’s license showed an address next door.

D’Agosta holstered his gun and handed the man his wallet. “You know, Mr. Kirtsema, I could’ve shot you back there.”

“Hey, but I didn’t know you were a cop. I thought you were trying to break in.” The man stepped away from the wall, wiping his hands together. “You don’t know how many times I’ve been robbed. You guys don’t even bother to respond anymore. You’re the first cop I’ve seen around here in months, and—”

D’Agosta waved him silent. “Just be more careful. Besides, you don’t know squat about handling a knife. If I was a real burglar, you’d probably be dead right now.”

The man rubbed his nose, mumbling something incomprehensible.

“You live next door?” D’Agosta asked. He could not get over the fact that this man had painted his entire scalp green. He tried not to stare at it.

The man nodded.

“How long?”

“About three years. I used to have a loft in Soho, but I got evicted. This is the only place I found where I can do my work without being bothered.”

“And what kind of work is that?”

“It’s hard to explain.” The man grew suddenly guarded. “Why should I tell you?”

D’Agosta dug into his pocket, flashed his badge and ID.

The man looked at the badge. “Homicide, eh? Someone murdered around here?”

“No. Can we go inside and talk for a moment?”

The man looked at him suspiciously. “Is this a search? Aren’t you supposed to have a warrant?”