The tan jacket blossomed now with a growing red patch, and the man was groping desperately at his wounds as he staggered around to face Peake. His eyes were wide with fear and disbelief—a look Peake had come to know intimately. It was as if his victims were unable to believe that all that blood they saw was actually their own.
With a rehearsed, quick, flicking movement, Peake lashed out at the staggering man, catching him under the chin, opening up a thin red line across his throat. The line widened and for an instant appeared to resemble a smiling mouth, before the blood rushed forth. In a final desperate act, the bleeding man lunged for Peake, but it was a futile move.
Peake stepped back calmly and watched his victim collapse on the platform.
But as the man fell to the concrete, landing on his back, the victim’s jacket fell open to reveal a police-issue .38-caliber revolver still nestled in its underarm holster. Peake froze, his eyes wide with shock. Never had he expected to see his father carrying a gun! Without thinking, he crouched down and searched the man’s pockets, finding a small two-way radio and a wallet with an NYPD badge pinned to its inner flap.
He could not accept the possibility that his father had somehow become a policeman. Either this was all a trick used by the demons who kept sending him back, or …
(I’ve killed the wrong man.)
But as he stood there, pondering these thoughts, he realized that it really didn’t matter; it had felt good anyway, and there was still the purging, cleansing effect that overwhelmed him.
(It was good to kill. It felt good to kill. Don’t worry about it.)
Running from the platform, Peake passed a woman and her young daughter coming down the steps. It was one of the moments that you don’t think about. He was moving in one direction and she in the other; their eyes locked on each other’s for an instant, and then the contact was broken. Peake rushed up the steps to the street and started running south down Lexington Avenue. Before he had gotten more than ten yards away from the subway exit, he heard the woman’s screams.
It was dark outside. There were few pedestrians on the sidewalks, and the few that Peake passed as he ran toward 51st Street and the next subway station paid him no attention. In New York City, especially at night, few natives were adventuresome enough to want to know the business of someone running awkwardly past them.
He was still feeling that peculiar high that he always felt after a night out with his knife. Those feelings, coupled with the vision of the slimy creatures he had seen on his subway car, were creating a new mix, a new chemistry, within the demented pit of his mind, a seething cauldron of power fantasies and nightmares. He rushed past the intersections and the blocks passed in a blur of sameness until he came to the stairs down into the subway at 51st Street.
Rushing down the stairs, he leaped over the turnstiles and headed for the platform, feeling a new power infusing his body, as if he were entering his natural element, the world of the night, the artificial night of the eyeless things.
A train was coming just as he reached the platform, still clutching his stained blade to his chest beneath his coat. There were other people waiting for the train, but his mind was running at many times normal speed and their images registered as mere blurs. The South Ferry train thrust itself into the station, opening its doors, and Peake felt an elation, a mind-tripping high that was almost uncontrollable as he boarded.
He smiled at the people around him. They were so stupid! Like cows, really. How could they know what lurked all about them down here, down in the world of Melvin Peake. The train rocketed along toward the Battery as Peake moved to a vacant seat by the windows. He was no longer bothered by the reflective glare; his vision was clear and unobstructed. Beyond the glass, staring in at the unsuspecting travelers, were the faces of beings he had never imagined, unspeakable visions of madness made flesh, slithering about the car’s exterior. The things fascinated Peake, and he watched them as they began to drop away from the car as it slid into the next station, scurrying into the shadows of the tunnel. He did not fear them, because he knew them. In a way, they were his brothers.
This thought struck him as odd and he began laughing out loud, without thought of those who sat around him. The train was pulling into the station at Grand Central, and several people stood up to depart. Everyone else did their best to ignore the strange character who was laughing loudly at nothing. The train stopped and opened its doors, and the exchange of bodies began.
Peake’s laughter trailed off as he looked up and saw his father walking into the train. Feeling the power and the light-headedness of his recent revelations, he jumped up to confront the zombie he had dispatched only minutes before.
Just as the train closed its doors and started to slide away from the platform, Peake blocked his victim’s path and pulled out his Cutco knife.
CHAPTER 14
PROVENZA
He was sitting in a dingy car between the 23rd Street and 28th Street stations, arms folded, feet stretched out, looking like a disinterested, veteran rider. His head was bent close to his chest and he gave the appearance of sleeping or dozing to anyone who cared to look at him. But John was keenly aware of what was going on around him. An overweight black woman and her two teenage daughters were sitting directly across from him; to his right was an old man reading a folded-up copy of Screw; a couple of olive-skinned kids hung on the pole by the door, talking and laughing.
Casually, John checked his watch and saw that it was almost 10 P.M. Time to call Bill Schleiser. They had set up a system, which seemed like it was going to work just fine. Each team of decoys riding a particular line checked in with a partner on every hour and half hour. On the hour, you called the guy north of you; on the half, you called the guy to the south. Schleiser was working the Lexington line north of 51st Street.
The train was pulling into 28th Street, and Provenza got up from his seat, moved to the doors, and slipped out as soon as they opened. Only three other people departed and they were quick to move off the platform, through the turnstiles, and up to the street. John leaned against a tiled wall and pulled his two-way radio from an inside pocket. He pushed the hailing button for a second or two, then began the familiar litany: “Bill, this is John. Provenza to Schleiser, come in …” He repeated the whole procedure a couple of times. No response.
He could feel something hard and tight growing in his throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He tried once more and heard only a hissing silence from the speaker. The contingency plan in this case was to call the precinct, which he did, calmly reporting that he had failed to raise contact with Schleiser. Then he switched frequencies and tuned in to the Grand Central tower room—the dispatching and controlling authority for all trains on the Lexington line. All transmissions were monitored by the Transit Police.
“Tower, this is Provenza, from Operation Decoy. Provenza to Tower, come in please.”
His speaker crackled with surprising clarity. “We read you, Provenza, where are you?”
John thought he detected a note of strain in the male voice, but he was not sure. “The 28th Street station on the Lex line, and—”
“You’d better get moving then, we got trouble!”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” John felt a gnawing in his gut and the hardness in his throat trying to cut off his air. He had felt it, he knew something was wrong.
“We’ve got your man, the Slasher. He’s on a southbound Number 6 train, just pulled out of Grand Central.”
“What? Did they catch him?”
“Christ, no!” said the voice on the radio. In the background, Provenza could hear a chorus of voices, some of them shouting. “He cut up some of the passengers, and everybody in the car panicked. The motorman stopped the train in the tunnel and radioed in to Command Center just a minute ago.”
“What’re we doing about it?” Provenza tried to remain calm; he could hear the approaching roar of a northbound train.
“Transit police have just entered the tunnel at Grand Ce
ntral. We put in a call to the precinct, and they’re responding ASAP.”
Provenza’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer. A train was pulling into his station. “Listen: a train just pulled in, where I am. Can you get the motorman on the radio and tell him I’m coming aboard and to let me into the cab? I gotta get up there as soon as I can!”
“Can do, Lieutenant. I’ll contact Command Center right now. Good luck.”
Provenza flipped off the radio and stuffed it into his pocket just as the train came to a stop. He ran along the platform, pushing past departing passengers, all the way up to the front cab. Dashing into the car, he moved to the motorman’s door and pounded on it.
It opened quickly and a white-faced young man of perhaps twenty-five looked at him with wide eyes. “You … you the police sergeant?”
“You got it,” said John, pulling the cab door closed. “How fast can you get me to Grand Central?”
“Couple of minutes, but I got one train in front of me. Tower’s getting it passed through to 51st Street.”
“Okay, let’s go!”
The motorman pressed down on his control lever and the train glided out of the station, gathering speed. The open maw of the tunnel was emphasized by the white headlight of the front car. Little blue lights on the support girders winked by like the posts of a picket fence as the train accelerated. The semaphore lights flashed green until they reached the 33rd Street station. John caught a glimpse of a few lonely figures near the edge of the platform, their faces intent on the speeding train. The motorman sounded his horn as he rattled through the station at full tilt, and people started jumping back, catching a blast of air as the dark shape hurtled by them.
“Probably scared the shit out of them!” yelled the motorman.
“They’ll live,” cried John, watching the track ahead of them. He noticed that the semaphore lights were yellow now as they flicked past in the darkness, and he asked the motorman what that meant.
“The train ahead of me is just clearing Grand Central. I should be slowing down just in case … just in case I don’t have an open track!”
The tunnel curved off to the right in a gradual arc, and the train seemed to be traveling slightly uphill. The next set of semaphores was green.
“It’s okay now!” shouted the motorman. “Grand Central coming up!”
“What’s the quickest way I can get into the southbound tunnel?” asked Provenza.
“When you get out, go down the front here, onto the tracks—watch out for the third rail on your right—and go about ten yards up from the end of the station. There’s a hatch, a door, that’ll take you through.”
A brightness appeared in the tunnel, and the motorman eased off on his lever. The train began to slow down, and Provenza reached underneath his jacket, unholstering his .38, as the girders of the station whipped past and the train came to a screeching stop. The motorman unlatched the front door and helped him down, shouting good luck in a voice that John felt was very unconvincing.
The air of the tunnel was cool and damp and the light from the train’s headlight cast harsh shadows. He stepped into a trough between the rails and walked forward cautiously, scanning the spaces in between the tunnel girders, looking for the access door. He had been told that the trough had saved a few guys’ lives. If you were caught in the path of an oncoming train, you were supposed to dive down into that depression; theoretically, you were low enough to let the train pass right over you. It sounded great, but Provenza was in no hurry to try it.
Then he saw the hatchway and stepped closer to it, being careful to avoid the third rail, which was concealed beneath an overhanging wooden ledge, a kicker as it was called, that you could step up on and be safe. Rather than do even that, Provenza carefully climbed over it onto a narrow, recessed ledge in front of the door. Just as he reached for the latch, something brushed against his leg, and he staggered back, his muscles jerking reflexively.
Jesus Christ! For an instant he teetered between tumbling backward toward the electrified rail and moving toward the door. With his free hand, he grabbed for a girder and held on, so that he could look down. Out of the blackness by his feet something dug its claws into his leg, sending nerve shocks all the way up his spine.
Kicking out, he saw dimly that it was a cat—a big fucking cat! It hissed at him, baring its teeth and lashing out with its claws again. It was lean and stringy-looking, and its fur was matted in thick oily shocks. When he kicked at it again, it turned and scrabbled off into the blackness. John drew a deep breath and exhaled as his heart raced. Christ, that had shook him!
He unlatched the door and moved through it into a small tunnel that extended about ten feet to another door, lowering his head to avoid a single naked bulb in the center of the passageway. He had heard stories of big scavenging cats taking up residence in the subways, but he hadn’t believed it—not until now when he’d seen one try to take his leg off. They must be tough little bastards.
Opening the door at the other end of the passageway, he stepped into a cacophony of sound. There was a huge crowd surging up near the edge of the platform, being held back by T. A. police. Looking south in the tunnel he could see the tail end of the train sitting in the semidarkness. There were NYPD uniformed cops escorting a line of people up the tracks. Others stood along the tracks with their weapons drawn.
“Hey, buddy!” one of them yelled as Provenza approached. “Let’s go! Nobody’s allowed down here now!” John flashed his gold badge quickly; it was a practiced move and he performed it with fluid grace. “Lieutenant Provenza from the decoy operation. What’s going down?”
The cop sighed and shook his head. “All fucked up. We think it’s the Slasher, all right. The motorman’s still locked in his cab, but he radioed back what happened: soon as the train was pullin’ out, this guy jumps up and stabs another guy. People started to scatter, and he went for a few more of ‘em. It must have been pretty crazy in there!”
“Then what? Did they get him yet?”
“Uh-uh. He’s got some kid, says he’ll cut his head off if we don’t let him go.”
“Yeah, right, we’ll let him go all right. Who’s in charge here?”
“Lieutenant Antulov. He’s down by the last car.” Provenza thanked the cop, and moved on down the tracks, looking for Jim Antulov. He was a career cop who was nearing retirement, a hard-ass of the old school, but a good cop. John glimpsed the distinctive shock of gray hair and the barrel chest of Antulov by the side of the rear car, where he was talking to a uniformed cop and Juan Dellacruz, one of Provenza’s partners on the decoy operation.
“Provenza!” said Antulov. “Where you been?”
“I was on the northbound. Called in when I couldn’t get Schleiser.”
Antulov shook his head and spit into the darkness. “You won’t be getting him, John … that bastard with the knife caught him at the 59th Street station.”
Provenza’s whole body jerked lightly as the words hit him. Just one pulse of fear and loathing, but it was enough to make his stomach feel like it was turning over. “Is he dead?”
“Is he ever,” said Lieutenant Antulov. “Cut his throat.”
“Christ … Let’s get the son-of-a-bitch! What’re we waiting for?”
“We’ve got a SWAT team coming in and I’ve got recon people up by the front of the train. The guy has cut up three more people in his car. Everybody else except the motorman and the kid is off the train. The motorman is radioing info to the transit police, and we’re monitoring the channel. Last report, the guy was sitting calmly on one of the seats with his knife at the kid’s throat.”
“What’re we going to do?” Provenza looked from Antulov to the others.
There was a commotion back on the platform and shouts from the crowd and the T.A. police. A swath was opened in their midst and the khaki uniforms and field hats of the SWAT boys could be seen as they jumped down off the platform. They carried modified M-16’s with infrared scopes. Provenza counted seven men as they filed
off the platform and approached the rear of the train.
“Lieutenant Antulov,” said the ranking member of the team, whose name, McCauley, was stenciled across his breast pocket. “I’m Sergeant McCauley. Any suggestions how you want to handle this?”
Antulov nodded. “Get three guys on each side of the train, as close as you can, keeping a clear line of sight. Then you go down the center of the train with a decoy, either you, Provenza, or Dellacruz, I don’t care. Let’s see if we can divert his attention long enough so that one of your boys can pick him off.”
“What about the kid?” asked McCauley.
Antulov shrugged. “We’re trying to save him, but we’ve got no guarantee that the nut won’t cut him at any moment. This is no negotiating session, remember that.”
McCauley assembled his team and gave them their instructions, and they moved off into the tunnel alongside the train. “I’ll go in,” said Provenza. “If it’s okay with Dellacruz, I mean.”
Juan Dellacruz shrugged. “You or me, I don’t care.”
“All right, McCauley, take Provenza with you and work your way forward. Get the bastard’s attention. We’ll only need a second or two, just until somebody can get a shot off. Everybody stay in contact on the two-ways. Let’s go!”
John and the SWAT sergeant climbed aboard the last car. It was cold and sterile as they walked forward, and he had the feeling that he was trespassing, going somewhere he didn’t belong. He had never seen the subway trains like this—silent, empty.
The Slasher was in the sixth and front car. When Provenza and the sergeant reached the fifth car, they radioed in. Antulov contacted the motorman in his cab and instructed him to yell out to the Slasher that everything had been agreed to, and that they were going to let him go.
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