by Scott Mebus
“Friend of yours?” he asked, nodding toward the corner. “Would ye be lookin’ to stay out a sight?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” Rory answered, crouching down.
Big Mickey winked. “If ye want, I got a room in back where ye can wait fer yer friend in private. It’s where I stay when I don’t want to go home to the missus. Interested?”
Rory didn’t want to say yes. But it was only a matter of time before James spotted him and then it was all over. Safer to wait in this back room until Fritz arrived.
“I’ll take it,” he said. Big Mickey smiled.
“Yer a customer a’ mine, and I always treat me customers right.”
“Mark my words!” James was saying as Rory began to creep toward the back. “It’s only a matter of time before that Munsee killer helps his murderous friends escape and take their revenge on us all!”
The room exploded in argument, and under cover of the din, Big Mickey led Rory and Kiffer quietly behind the bar to a door in the back. Opening it, he stood aside to let them pass. Rory took one last look at James, who stared around the agitated tavern with a satisfied smile before slipping into sanctuary, Tucket by his side. Kiffer held up behind him.
“I’ll wait out here for Fritz,” he told Rory. “And to make sure no one comes back here to bother you. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe and Fritz will be here soon.”
Rory nodded with a smile he did not feel, and stepped back, letting the door close behind him as he turned to take in his new surroundings.
Suprisingly, it seemed like a normal little bedroom, complete with a large red bed sitting in the center, inviting any and all to take a load off and rest for a while. It seemed so comfortable that Rory sat on the edge, intending to test the springs and such while he waited. Gradually his worry faded as, lulled by the soft bedspread, Rory leaned back to enjoy its comforts. He fiddled with the necklace in his pocket, thinking about the woman who made it. What had happened to her? Maybe Soka would find out. Would he ever see Soka again?
He smiled at the thought of the Indian girl’s mocking eyes. He would see her again, he told himself. After the Trap came down, Soka would be so impressed with how he saved the day that she’d go out with him, maybe on a Circle Line cruise or something. She’d never actually been to New York, even though she’d lived her whole life in Central Park, so she’d probably want to do all the touristy things, like the Statue of Liberty and Katz’s Deli. Finally they’d go for a walk along the West Side by the water, holding hands as they gazed across the Hudson at the bright lights of Jersey City. Beyond that, Rory’s imagination dared not go.
Rory grew sleepy as he daydreamed in the big comfy bed. Maybe he’d catch a little shut-eye until Fritz came to get him. It had been a trying day, after all. A little nap wouldn’t hurt. He slowly closed his eyes, surrendering to the power of the plush mattress and luxurious bedspread.
And then whole world went crazy.
First he heard a loud click, which cut through the air like a gunshot. Before he could react, the entire bed dropped down beneath him, sending him tumbling into a dark hole. He plummeted for what felt like years, until he landed roughly on the ground somewhere in the dark. Before he could get his bearings, hands grabbed at him, pulling at him.
“Get ’im, lads,” a rough voice sounded near his ear. “This’ll fetch a nice reward from the captain.”
Rory pulled away, ready to fight. By the dim light streaming in from the trapdoor above, he could make out a small group of sailors, the very ones who had been speaking with Big Mickey at the bar. At their head was the short man with the tattoos, only this time he wasn’t smiling. Before Rory could decide what to do, another pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms to his side. He struggled, but try as he might, he couldn’t break free of the guy’s grip. But just when he thought he was a goner, a bark and howl heralded Tucket’s arrival, leaping into the hole after his master. Sly chuckles were replaced by shrieks and curses as Tucket launched into the group of attackers, scattering them.
“What is that thing?” one of the sailors cried.
“Kill it!” another yelled.
At first Rory feared for the dog, but then he noticed something extremely strange. Tucket had somehow grown, dramatically. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but as Tucket held the sailors at bay with his snapping jaws, it became apparent that the dog had expanded to the size of a small bear. Almost instantly, the doofus dog had transformed into a fearsome protector. The grip holding Rory prisoner disappeared as Tucket fought off the attackers, snarling like a wild animal, and Rory tumbled to the ground. Finally, the sailors cut their losses and ran down the tunnel, disappearing into the dark. Tucket padded over to Rory to check on him, and Rory sat up to give the huge beast a hug.
“Good dog,” he muttered. Already Tucket was beginning to shrink again. “That’s a nice little talent you have there. I’m sorry I ever called you a doofus. Forgive me?”
Tucket licked Rory’s face and he laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “This has been one of my crazier mornings, Tucket. And considering the month I’ve had, that’s really saying something.”
Rory glanced up at the hole he had fallen through; it was too far above him to reach. He’d have to find another way to the surface.
Rory climbed to his feet, gazing both ways down the tunnel he’d fallen into as he mused aloud. “There has to be a manhole around here somewhere. I didn’t fall that far. And those sailors have to know an easy way down to get here so fast. I don’t want to wait here like a sitting duck. So I guess I’ll follow where they went. Just don’t forget to supersize if we run into them again!” Tucket stared up at him, his face happily blank as his tail wagged back and forth. Rory said a little prayer to whichever god was listening and began to walk into the darkness.
3
HITCHING A RIDE
Nicholas Stuyvesant gazed down the long alley of lodging houses, shaking his head at the mess in front of him. Built close to the main docks on Pearl Street, near the South Street Seaport, these poorly constructed wooden structures had been thrown up to house the spirits of the sailors on shore leave. So poorly constructed, in fact, that the earthquake had shaken many of them to pieces. Spirits wandered the alley, suddenly homeless, and Nicholas could hear them muttering among themselves at the unfairness of it all. More than once, in defiance of all reason, he heard the Munsees being blamed. Not good.
“What a fiasco.” Alexa van der Donck sighed next to him, her tightly pinned brown hair dusted with white mortar she couldn’t be bothered to brush off. “Each place we visit is worse than the last. I think Mannahatta was hit far harder than Manhattan.”
“Dad was right to be worried,” Nicholas replied heavily. “You just can’t trust everyone on the council.” Peter Stuyvesant, God of Things Were Better in the Old Days, sat on the Council of Twelve, the elected rulers of Mannahatta. Some of the council members maintained that nothing was wrong, that the earthquake had been a minor blip in the life of the city. But Peter decided to send out the Rattle Watch, that band of the children of the gods assembled by Alexa’s late father, Adriaen van der Donck; Peter charged them to see the aftermath for themselves and report back. Nicholas and Alexa headed south, and everywhere they went, they came across angry spirits throwing the blame for the earthquake squarely on the Munsees. Nicholas didn’t need to visit the fortune-teller to know that Kieft likely stood behind the rumors. But why?
“He’s riling them up, that’s what he’s doing,” Alexa said, obviously thinking the same thing. “Reminding everyone about their hate. Of course, it could be the Mayor. He’s the one who really hates the Munsees.”
“I never understood what happened to the Mayor all those years ago,” Nicholas said. “One day Hamilton is best friends with Tackapausha. The next”—he slammed his hands together—“he’s condemning them all to eternity in prison. I never got it.”
“Breaks your heart,” a voice from behind them slurred, startling the two
Rattle Watchers. Nicholas and Alexa whirled to see a spirit leaning against the wall of one of the few buildings still standing on the block. He swayed as he fought to keep his balance. Alexa raised an eyebrow at Nicholas; the stink of booze coming off the sailor threatened to asphyxiate them both.
“It sure does, friend,” Nicholas replied. “You been drinking?”
“Oh yeah,” the drunken man said with a sloppy smile. “I’ve been drunk now, oh, I don’t know. Hundred years? Something like that.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Alexa said, giving Nicholas a look that begged him to move on.
“It’s a shame they all talking about the Munsees this way,” the man continued, his eyes gazing into the distance. “It is disrespectful. It’s not the Munsees’ fault, anyone with brains should see that. Even the Mayor should see that. ’Course, the Mayor never did think clear when it came to the Munsees. Someone should ask Harry Meester; he’d set them straight.”
“Is that you?” Nicholas asked, humoring the drunk. He was surprised to see the man throw up his hands in fright.
“Oh no! Not me! Don’t go tellin’ people I’m Harry Meester! Harry’s problems are his own and I won’t stand you making them mine!”
“Sorry,” Alexa said, calming the drunk down. “It’s okay. You’re not Harry Meester, don’t worry. Nobody thinks that. In fact . . . that name sounds familiar . . .” She stared off into space, trying to remember.
“You’re humoring me,” the man said, closing his eyes wearily. “You think Alberto is just a harmless drunk. But I know things. I’ve been following you for two hours trying to work up the courage to tell you what I know. If the world’s shaking itself to pieces, somebody’s gotta say something to make it right.”
“Like what, Alberto?” Alexa asked gently.
“I already said! If you want to know the truth about the Trap, the real truth, you gotta ask Harry Meester.”
A crash sounded behind them, and Nicholas and Alexa spun to see one of the last standing lodging houses collapse in on itself, sending up a shower of dust and mortar. When they turned back to Aberto, he was gone. And try as they might, they couldn’t find the drunken man again.
It didn’t take long for Rory to realize that he’d made a bad decision. The light from the trapdoor faded behind him and soon he couldn’t really see at all. If there was a manhole, he could easily have passed by it unknowing. Somehow, he kept from bouncing into the invisible walls, but who knew how long that would last. The farther he walked the closer he came to becoming truly lost, but onward he trudged, telling himself that the way up was practically in front of him. But soon the truth could be denied no longer and Rory had to admit he was lost.
He should have waited by the open trapdoor, he chastised himself. He should turn around now, before he was lost for good, doomed to wander beneath the streets of Manhattan forever. He had to turn back, he decided, and spun in place to do just that. But before he could move, he felt a rumble in the air. Something was coming, something big.
Gradually he noticed that the dark had lightened and he could see where he was. He stood in a long tunnel, lined with metal and rock. Rails ran along the ground on either side of him down the length of the tunnel, though no third rail as far as he could tell. How old were these rails? The light brightened further and Rory realized with a sinking stomach the source of the rumbling. A train was coming, and he had nowhere to go.
Tucket began to bark as Rory spun in a panic looking for a place where he could wedge himself, but there wasn’t enough room on either side to hold him while the train passed. He had no place to hide. Tucket jumped in front of him, barking at the oncoming train. Out of time, Rory braced himself, throwing it up to higher powers as the wheels began to shriek as if someone had pulled the emergency lever and the subway train was fighting itself to come to a stop. It slid along the rails, sending bright sparks in every direction as it headed right at them, its headlights growing brighter and brighter until Rory was blinded. The squeal of metal on metal coupled with Tucket’s barking blended into a deafening racket, until he could neither see nor hear. This was it, he thought. It ended here.
And then the squealing cut off, leaving only Tucket’s barking. The lights of the train had stopped maybe two feet away. Rory let out a long breath of air.
“Hello, there!” a voice called out. “Are you dead? If so . . . well . . . sorry!”
Rory cleared his throat, putting a hand on Tucket’s neck to calm him; the dog quieted, though a growl still rattled his jaws.
“I’m not dead, thanks,” Rory said.
“Excellent!” the voice returned. “Then we owe you a ride!”
Rory stepped to the side to get out of the reach of those blinding lights and took a good look at the train that had almost killed him. Oddly enough, there seemed to be only one car; Rory had never heard of a subway train so short. It was tough to tell in the darkness of the tunnel, but the train appeared to be built from wood and riveted steel with a rounded roof that made it seem more like an old trolley than one of the subway trains Rory knew. A small terrace, enclosed by a metal railing, jutted out from the front. On the terrace stood an unassuming man in a nineteenth-century suit and top hat, a small mustache resting impishly atop his thin mouth. His open face appeared delighted to find Rory in front of him. He smiled.
“Why, you’re just a boy!” he exclaimed. “Please, come aboard. It’s the least we can do.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Rory asked warily.
“We are losing precious minutes, Alfred!” a heavily accented voice yelled out form within the car. “Either bring the boy aboard or run him over, but we have a schedule to keep!”
Alfred shrugged apologetically with a little smile. “I bet I can guess which you’d rather.”
Rory didn’t wait to take the bet. He climbed aboard, lifting Tucket up behind him. The man held out his hand for Rory to shake, which Rory did.
“Alfred Beach,” the man said, pumping Rory’s arm with enthusiasm.
“Rory,” Rory replied, than winced inwardly. So much for secrecy.
“Wonderful to meet you, Rory,” Alfred said warmly. “Welcome aboard!”
Alfred opened the door for Rory and Tucket, inviting them into the train. Rory let his dog in before following, still distracted by his near-death experience. Once inside, however, he couldn’t keep his eyes from widening as he gazed around in wonder.
It was as if he’d stepped back a century. The seats were made of wicker and they smelled like musty lawn furniture left under a house all winter long. Everything was wood: the doors at either end of the car, the trim that lined the walls, even the frames surrounding the windows, windows that easily lifted open as if they looked out on someone’s backyard rather than the pitch black of a tunnel deep underground. Straps made of cloth hung in loops from the ceiling, ready to give commuters something to cling to as the train roughly rattled its way along the rails. Advertisements lined the panels between the windows and the ceiling, touting strange products from another age: long-forgotten soda pop and hair-restoring ointment and ancient cameras sold for ridiculously cheap prices.
“Is this the first subway car ever built or something?” Rory guessed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not quite the first,” Alfred replied, pleased at his reaction. “Someday you will have to see the first subway car I built. If you think this is something, then that beauty will knock your socks off.”
“What are you two yammering about?” the heavily accented voice demanded. A man detached himself from the corner of the subway car, striding over to meet Rory. This man was dressed completely differently from Alfred Beach; in fact, he appeared to be wearing a light suit of armor, which clanged as he walked. His bushy beard hid most of his face, but his large nose stuck out prominently and his eyes were fierce. “We’re wasting time.”
“Giovanni, this is Rory,” Alfred said to the man in armor before turning back to Rory. “Rory, you have the extreme good fortune to be in the presence of the famed
Giovanni da Verrazano, explorer and adventurer . . .”
“I go where no man has gone before!” Gionanni exclaimed proudly. Rory snorted at the Star Trek reference, but judging from his face, the explorer meant what he said.
“Nice to meet you,” Rory said. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“It was not my idea!” Giovanni told him. “We are on a schedule! But Grace must have heard the barking of your dog, so you owe your life to her.”
“Who’s Grace?” Rory asked, glancing around. “Your conductor?”
Alfred laughed. “You could say that. Have a seat, you don’t want to fall. Grace, shall we?”
The train lurched forward and Rory stumbled, dropping into a wicker seat. Tucket curled up beneath his feet, apparently certain that the threat of imminent death was over for the time being. Alfred and Giovanni sat across from him, the former smiling at him while the latter glared.
“I’m sorry I knocked you off schedule,” Rory said, hoping to appease the angry Italian in front of him.
Alfred chuckled. “I wouldn’t call it a schedule. We’re simply exploring some new tunnels, trying to find our way down.”
“There is indeed a schedule!” Giovanni insisted. “Soon the other explorers will tire of the ocean and the sky and they will come down here in search of new discoveries. Our window is short to find new lands and give them names that will last forever. You are the train man, Alfred. Leave the exploring to me.”
“Of course,” Alfred said, placating him. “But we can’t take this poor boy down into the depths with us. We have time for one stop before we forge ahead with our journey down.”
Giovanni reluctantly grunted his assent. Alfred gestured for Rory to take a seat, which he did, and the subway car gradually picked up speed as it raced into the dark.
Alfred made small talk as they traveled, but soon Rory noticed that Giovanni was giving him a strange look. Finally, the explorer leaned forward, his eyes searching. “Do I know you, boy? Have we met?”