by Barbara Paul
Time for a diversion. “But what if Marian won’t close the case?”
That spoiled Fairchild’s mood; he jumped up and began to pace, agitated. “Then I’ll have to kill you, don’t you see? Goddam stupid woman. I hate letting everything depend on Marian Larch!”
I don’t. “Why do you have to kill me? She’ll never know.”
Fairchild stopped his pacing. “What?”
“If I don’t come back, she’ll assume I’m dead. That will let you decide how long you want to … keep me alive.”
Fairchild looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you so cooperative all of a sudden?”
Holland sighed. “This is my life we’re talking about, remember. Of course I’m going to cooperate. Look, you could even send her one last video—if she doesn’t close the case. I can play a very convincing dead man.”
The suggestion made Fairchild smile. “So then Marian-the-not-so-Magnificent gets to mourn her lover’s death twice? The second time when your body turns up? Oh, I rather like that.” He bent over so his face was level with Holland’s. “What an amusing idea.”
It was the first time since childhood that Holland had had to suppress an urge to spit in someone’s face.
The men they’d talked to at the Transit Authority all agreed that the –14 on the videotape was from a numbering system so old that there were no records of it … and no way of identifying the tunnel in question. But it was a subway tunnel, no doubt about that. One of the men suggested that the number might mean the tunnel was the fourteenth branch off a main line, but that was no help without knowing what the main line was. The only way to locate the tunnel was to go underground and look for it.
The New York City Transit Authority had faced similar problems before—the homeless taking up residence in abandoned subway tunnels, kids who went exploring and got lost, even killers dumping victims they didn’t want found. Most of the abandoned tunnels were no longer used for a reason, the primary one being that they were not safe. A few tunnels still remained that had been dug as aids to the original construction of the subway system, but none of those had been tiled. What they were looking for was a tunnel that once housed an operating line that had since been shut down.
All known accesses to such tunnels had been barricaded, either with cinder-block walls or with hurricane fencing set in cement. But the key word was known; there was no systematic way of tracking the old accesses, as the Transit Authority’s predecessors either hadn’t kept records or did keep records that had vanished over time. And there was another problem: old walls could crumble and fencing could be cut through. Maybe the known accesses were intact, maybe not. The men at the Transit Authority dug up the locations of all such blockedoff accesses they did know about and sent out a team to check for signs that an entryway had been found or forced through one of them. The team was supplemented with detectives and uniformed officers from Midtown South Precinct.
For such an extensive deployment of manpower, Marian had Jim Murtaugh to thank. Not only had he put more Mid-town South personnel on the search than could really be spared, but lord knew how many favors he’d called in to get the Transit Authority to move so quickly. But when she tried to thank him, he wouldn’t let her. “If we can’t protect our own,” he’d said, “we can’t protect anybody.”
Now he was trying to get her to go home and grab some sleep while she could. “How can I sleep?” she protested. “I want to know the very minute they find something!”
“And you will. I’ll call you myself. But it could be a long search. If they find all their known barricades are intact, they’re going to have to search for a new way in. That’s miles of track in the Astor Place area alone.”
She shook her head. “I’ll wait here.”
“No, you will not,” he said bluntly. “Marian, how much sleep have you had in the last few days? You look like hell. Your face is pinched and white, you have purple pouches under your eyes. You’re no good to me if you’re dead on your feet. Go home and sleep. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. That’s an order.”
Marian sighed. “You will call me?”
“The minute I hear.”
“I’ll be only a few blocks away. I’m staying with a friend.”
Marian walked through the blistering heat to the brown-stone on West Thirty-fifth; it was empty when she got there, but Abby had given her a key. Marian didn’t go up to her room with the four-poster bed; instead, she curled up in a comfortable armchair in Abby’s living room and put her cell phone on the table next to the chair. She laid her head down on the broad armrest, about two feet away from the phone.
Sleep, dammit, she told herself. She raised her head to check on the phone.
It was still there.
27
The telephone ringing woke Marian out of a light sleep.
It was Murtaugh. “They found a breached access. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”
Marian’s heart pounded. “I’m right up the street.” She gave him the number.
She stood waiting on the sidewalk in the heat; at least the late afternoon sun was behind her and she didn’t have to peer into the glare for Murtaugh’s car heading west on Thirty-fifth. The captain pulled up to the curb and she climbed in. “Ninth Precinct?” she asked. “Was I right about Astor Place?”
“Ninth Precinct,” Murtaugh confirmed. “I’ve already talked to DiFalco. He’s giving us some help.” The captain smiled. “So long as it’s understood he is in charge of the operation.”
Marian grunted. “That’s DiFalco, all right.”
Captain DiFalco of the Ninth Precinct was Marian’s old nemesis. During the short time she’d served under his command, she’d hated every minute of it. They’d butted heads more than once, and Marian looked upon her transfer to Mid-town South as something of an escape. The less she saw of DiFalco, the better … usually. Today she was grateful for his help.
Murtaugh said, “The access point that was breached isn’t outdoors—it’s inside an IRT tunnel about a half-mile down from Astor Place Station. It’s literally a hole in the wall, where the cement had started crumbling and was helped along by person or persons unknown. The hole opens into an adjacent tunnel, long unused.”
“Then that’s it,” Marian said.
“Not quite. There’s a whole slew of other tunnels branching off from there—we’ll have to search all of them.”
“Hmm. The team that’s supposed to be tailing Fairchild—have they picked him up again?”
“No.”
“Then he could be in there right now.”
“He probably is.”
That could be dicey. Fairchild would be able to see the flashlights of approaching searchers and duck away into the darkness. Marian wasn’t nearly so concerned with catching Fairchild as she was with finding Holland. But she wanted to find him alive; Fairchild could easily put a bullet into his prisoner before making his escape.
Murtaugh read her mind. “We know the place Holland is being held is lighted—the tapes showed a few lanterns sitting on the ground. We’ll instruct the searchers to douse their flashlights as soon as they see another light source down there.”
“I’m going to join one of the search teams.”
“There are plenty of searchers. You don’t need—”
“I’m going to search.”
Murtaugh said no more.
Astor Place was crowded with men from the Transit Authority as well as cops. Marian spotted Perlmutter and others from Midtown South as well as detectives from the Ninth Precinct. Captain DiFalco was giving instructions in a loud, self-important voice. Passengers scurrying by threw him curious glances but didn’t stop to see what was going on.
Gloria Sanchez detached herself from the crowd around DiFalco and came straight to Marian. She threw her arms around her and gave her a big hug. “God, I’m sorry, Marian,” she said. “What you musta been goin’ through! But don’t you worry—we find him.”
“Yes,” Marian said, grateful for the
hug. “We’ll find him.”
“I been tryin’ to call you—both your place and Holland’s. I didn’t know about Holland until today.”
“Oh … I’ve been staying with Abby James.”
Gloria’s eyebrows went up. “I thought she was in California. For that movie.”
“She was. But they kicked her out.” Marian moved over to hear what DiFalco was saying.
Gloria stared after her. “They kicked her out of California?”
“This little gizmo,” DiFalco was saying, holding up a black plastic object about half the size of a remote control, “sends out a beacon signal. Everybody carries one. Everybody.” DiFalco caught sight of Murtaugh and nodded an abrupt acknowledgment. “To activate it, just push this button here.” He demonstrated. There was no audible sound; only the pulsing of a green light the size of a pinhead showed the instrument was working. “We’re not using walkie-talkies because we need a silent approach. Walkies don’t work too good down there anyway.”
A man from the Transit Authority was passing out the beacons and flashlights as well. Marian took one of each; Gloria joined her and did the same.
DiFalco said, “The signal will show up on this tracking device.” He looked around. “Sanchez, you got the tracker.”
“Gee, thanks, Captain.” She took the tracking box and slung the strap over her shoulder.
“If you spot the victim or the perp, start your beacon immediately. Sanchez’s team will follow your signal and act as backup. Don’t use the beacon if you get lost.” He smiled sourly. “Don’t get lost. Stick with your teams, all of you.”
“I’m going with your team,” Marian said to Gloria. Gloria nodded.
Murtaugh spoke up. “May I add one thing?” He emphasized the necessity of stealth. “The minute you see a stationary light in there, turn off your flashlights. And move quietly—don’t make a sound. We mustn’t give this perp any advance warning at all. It could prove fatal to his prisoner.”
“And start your beacons the minute you spot them,” DiFalco added, needing to have the last word. “All right, people, you all know which tunnel you’re taking. Let’s move.”
The searchers started filing through a service door that led to the walkway along the main tunnel. DiFalco stepped over and placed himself directly in front of Marian, forcing her to stop.
“Captain?”
“How’re you holding up, Larch?”
“Well enough, thanks.”
“It’s been a while since we first worked with Holland, back when he was still FBI. A lot of things have changed since then.” He grinned nastily. “Your lover boy has got himself in real deep shit this time, hasn’t he?”
Three voices spoke at once.
“That’s enough of that, DiFalco,” Murtaugh said sharply.
“You’re an asshole, DiFalco,” Marian said tiredly.
Gloria Sanchez cussed him out in Spanish.
The two women pushed on by, leaving Murtaugh to deal with DiFalco.
The walkway along the tunnel was narrow, forcing the searchers to move in single file. A low guardrail protected against that false step that could send them tumbling to the tracks eight or ten feet below. The tunnel lights marking the approach to the station cast just enough illumination to make the flashlights unnecessary but not enough to do away with shadow. It was hot and close. The line slowed down as they reached the hole in the tunnel wall.
The hole was on the ground level, necessitating that the searchers crawl through one at a time. Marian dropped to her hands and knees and followed Gloria Sanchez in … and found herself in a darkness so heavy it was almost tactile.
The beams of the searchers’ flashlights cut through the dark like Darth Vader lightsabres. One light caught the tunnel ceiling. “Keep ’em down,” somebody growled.
Marian played her own light across the tracks below and to the opposite wall. No tiling in this tunnel, but that meant nothing; only the areas of the subway stops were tiled. No service walkway on the other side of the tracks. And unlike the walkway in the main tunnel they’d just left, the one they were standing on now had no guardrail.
“Watch your footing,” Gloria called out. “And no talkin’ from now on.”
The search team started moving to the right. The beams cast by other teams’ flashlights showed to the left, following to other branching tunnels. Last in line, Marian felt disoriented and kept her eyes fixed on the small pool of light in front of her feet. I’d probably flunk a sensory-deprivation test, she thought unhappily. She had to keep her hand touching the wall to her right, a second point of reference in addition to the light at her feet.
When she’d gotten a little more used to walking with so little visibility ahead of her, she raised her head to see the dots of light cast by the other team members’ flashlights. She’d fallen a little behind; Marian hastened to pick up her pace.
The service walkway was covered with a fine grit. Among the footprints left by the searchers ahead of her, Marian thought she could make out track marks. Something on wheels had come this way? Something narrow enough to fit on the walkway?
Marian turned her flashlight on her watch and was surprised to find they’d been walking only fifteen minutes. It seemed longer.
The next time she looked up, all the other searchers’ lights had disappeared. Marian felt a stab of panic in spite of knowing that the tunnel had probably just curved. She raised her flashlight and shone it along the wall, confirming the curve. Then her heart jumped: there was something else. Inset into the wall a few feet was the unbarricaded entrance to another tunnel.
No, not a tunnel proper, but a set of iron stairs leading down to another tunnel. The Transit Authority had provided locations to all the known barricaded access points; they might not even be aware this opening was here. As quickly as she could, Marian made her way around the curve in the tunnel they’d been following; ahead of her, the other searchers’ lights were small dots in the distance. She started to call out Gloria’s name but stopped herself in time; silent approach.
Shit. They’d all been doing what she had done, keeping their lights on where they were walking; they’d missed the other entrance completely. This one must be one of the shorter branching tunnels, but it would be enough to separate Marian from the other searchers. By the time she checked it out, they’d be too far ahead for her to catch up and she’d have to return to the station. But she couldn’t just leave this new tunnel unexamined.
Nervously, she stepped onto the iron steps. At the bottom when she’d reached the tunnel proper, Marian realized this was no minor branch that could be checked out quickly. She needed help. Well, Gloria and her team would just have to backtrack.
She reached in her pocket and activated the beacon.
Fairchild was angry. “Do you take me for a fool? Do I look like a fool?”
“Of course not,” Holland replied mildly. He sat on the mattress, watching his captor pacing back and forth. “You asked me what the problem was, and I told you.”
“I am not unlocking the manacles.”
“I don’t expect you to. I do expect you to understand.”
Fairchild laughed derisively. “Oh, I understand. I understand you’re trying to con me into setting you free.”
Holland played the sulking child again. “You aren’t even trying to understand.”
“Oh, don’t be like that!”
“It’s all right for you—you have the upper hand. But it’s different from where I sit. This isn’t just a game for me.”
“A game? You think I’m playing a game?”
“A bondage game, yes. Normally when two people play at master-and-slave, they both know at the end of the game the cuffs are coming off and everyone goes home happy. But I don’t know that. This is more than a game—it’s real. These manacles are real. That chain is real. How can you expect me to believe you won’t kill me at eleven o’clock?”
“Because I say I won’t.”
“You could change your mind again.”<
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Fairchild bared his teeth in feral imitation of a smile. “Yes, I can change my mind again. And again. And again. And you can’t do a damned thing about it.”
Holland tried another tack. “What if our positions were reversed? What if I was the one running this show and you were the one chained to the wall? What if I talked casually about killing you if I didn’t hear something on the eleven o’clock news I wanted to hear?”
“It wasn’t casual,” Fairchild said harshly.
“But can you imagine yourself in my position? Would knowing you might have only a few more hours to live make you believe whatever I told you?”
Fairchild sighed. “No, I suppose not. But if Lieutenant Bitch doesn’t come through at eleven o’clock, you get to play dead for the video camera. Maybe that will convince you.”
“Unless you change your mind again.”
Without warning Fairchild lashed out a kick that caught Holland in the ribs. “I decide when I feel like deciding! And I’m beginning to wonder if you’re worth the trouble.”
Holland was bent over in pain; he’d overplayed his hand. He’d meant to lead Fairchild into thinking more about what it would be like, having his own pet slave for a while longer. But the man was so volatile, so changeable … what would work now?
The Nixon approach. “If you get rid of me,” he gasped, “who will you have to kick around then?”
The silence grew so long that Holland was beginning to think he’d made another mistake. But then Fairchild laughed, softly and indulgently. “There’s no end to your arrogance, is there?” he asked rhetorically. “It’s one of the things that makes you so intriguing. Here you are, only inches from death—and you’re still baiting me. Oh, I’ve caught myself a wild one here!” He laughed again.
Holland picked up his cue and snarled. “So glad you are amused.”
“Oh, you’re very entertaining. I wonder what other tricks you know.” Fairchild knelt down behind Holland and began massaging his neck. “I’ve never come across anyone quite like you before. I think it’s going to be fun, playing with you.”