ARC: The Buried Life (16 page)

Chapter
10

Unexpected Guests

Jane had not expected to hear anything further from the inspectors, and her nerves had cooled by Wednesday morning, a full twenty-four hours after her clandestine delivery. Nevertheless, her heart skipped a beat when, well into her first load of laundry, she heard a knock at her door. The face on the other side of it, however, replaced Jane’s panic with curiosity.

A large-eyed woman with long lashes and an oval face stood on the steps carrying two worn canvas bags. When Jane opened the door, the woman flashed a row of perfect teeth from between plush and pouty lips and looked around with a kind of half-wild relief.

“You are Jane Lin?”

“Yes…”

The woman smiled wider still. “Wonderful! Can you show me?” she asked, pointing over Jane’s shoulder and into the apartment. She had a vaguely familiar accent with a tripping, peppery cadence.

“I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

“Of course. I am Olivia Saavedra. I saw your ad in the
noticias
yesterday.”

It took another beat for Jane to remember Fredrick’s promise to advertise for a sub-letter. When she did, she was relieved to understand the reason for Ms Saavedra’s visit but perplexed by the speediness of her arrival. Clearly, Fredrick had not understated the recent influx of outsiders. Still, Jane had not expected an answer for at least a week, and she had been counting on the time to get used to the idea.

However, if Ms Saavedra’s easy charm was any sign of her usual disposition, then she seemed promising. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone had seen it yet. Please, come in.” Jane stepped aside for her and took one of the bags. It was heavier than it looked.

“Thank you,” Olivia said. “I saw the notice just this morning. I was staying in a community hostel east of here, and I packed my bags as soon as I saw it.”

“How long have you been in Recoletta?”

“Three weeks,” she said. “I came from Bremmond, where I was living for the last seven years. But I am originally from San León.”

Now Jane recognized the accent. The orphanage in which she lived as a child had stood next to a bakery. The proprietor, a loquacious man the children knew as “Mr Pedro”, spoke with a similar rhythm and gave them sweet rolls to share if they happened to visit after a fresh batch had been baked. If Jane remembered correctly, he had come from Nuevo Laredo, a dusty city to the southwest. For all his talking, though, he had never explained why he had moved.

The women set the bags in the corner of the den. Jane stopped to work out a kink in her spine and finally had a moment to look Olivia over. The first thing Jane noticed, to her mild embarrassment, were the exceptional curves that outlined Olivia’s figure. With her long, dark hair pulled into a smooth ponytail, and her soft, dusky features, she embodied a voluptuous loveliness that Jane found both fascinating and intimidating. As Jane looked at Olivia, Olivia looked around the room with quick, calculating glances.

“It’s not that big, but I can show you around if you’d like.”

“Yes, please.”

Glad to leave the bags in the den, Jane took Olivia around the apartment, showing her the kitchenette, workshop, bathroom, and her bedroom at the end of the hall.

“I’m familiar with Bremmond, but I’m not sure I’ve heard of San León. Where is that?”

“Almost twelve hundred miles southwest of here. It’s just past Ciudad del Mar.”

Though Jane had never traveled there, she knew the name. Bordered by stretches of jungle and desert, Ciudad del Mar occupied a balmy nook on the coast and enjoyed warm temperatures year-round. Now in the first frigid nips of mid-autumn, Jane had to wonder why anyone would forsake that kind of comfort. “What brought you so far north?”

“My family left San León with when I was young. More people than jobs, and my grandfather had cousins in the north. When I was older, I left for Bremmond.”

“For work?” Jane tried to keep her tone conversational, but she found her curiosity growing rather than diminishing.

“For a change of scenery.”

Jane counted three moves, including Olivia’s most recent transition to Recoletta, which was more than most families made in thrice as many generations, and the woman did not yet look thirty. Fighting the urge to intrude further, Jane realized that she was losing.

“And then you came to Recoletta three weeks ago?”

Olivia tilted her head, wincing. “Things in Bremmond have not been so good for the last few years.”

Thinking of the current troubles in Recoletta, Jane wanted to ask more, but she noticed the anxious manner in which Olivia turned away, and she dropped the issue.

Habitual movers were rare. In underground society, they were almost as much of a curiosity as surface-dwellers. Jane guessed that something harder lay beneath Olivia’s easy, carefree smile, like sinew under smooth flesh.

Jane led her back to the kitchenette and offered Olivia a conciliatory cup of tea. “I don’t mean to badger you, it’s just that I’ve never been outside Recoletta. I’d love to hear more about your travels some time. For now, it’s just nice to have company.” Jane stopped short of adding, “Especially these days.”

Olivia brightened again. “And it’s good to be out of the hostels. I would feel safer surrounded by so many people, but too many of the residents are, ah, not the type I like sleeping close to.”

“I understand. Well, I can set you up in the workshop if you’d like. I haven’t had the chance to clear it out, but if you’ll give me a hand, we can pull the worktable and tools into the den.”

Having lifted one of Olivia’s bags, Jane was not surprised at the ease with which Olivia hauled and heaved the table and accessories. With the workroom cleared, Olivia hoisted her luggage into the room while Jane swept the dust lurking in the corners.

“It’s not exactly spacious, but we could fit the sofa in here until you’ve had the chance to find a mattress.”

Olivia pointed at her luggage. “I have some bedding already.”

Jane nodded, relieved to avoid further heavy lifting for the moment. “Oh, and about rent. You haven’t been here long, so we can settle weekly starting this Friday if you need some time to…”

Olivia plunged into one of her bags and pressed the resultant cash into Jane’s hands. “This covers the month, yes?”

Jane counted the bills, trying to hide her astonishment. She wondered where Olivia had acquired that sum of money, and in Recolettan marks, no less. Currency exchanges between cities were notoriously difficult. Still, Jane marveled while looking again at the canvas bags: with her strength, she probably could have worked two factory jobs in her three weeks and earned almost that amount.

Holding the roll of cash, Jane felt suddenly self-conscious and tucked the bills into the folds of her dress. “You seem to know your way around Recoletta, Olivia. What do you do?”

“I’m a maid uptown. There are a few openings for part-time cleaners in the Vineyard.”

Jane hoped, for both their sakes, that the population of the Vineyard did not continue to decline at the rate of the past week. She understood now how Olivia could come by so much cash in a few weeks, but a new mystery replaced the old: how was she finding work in the Vineyard so quickly without connections in town? “I have a few clients in that neighborhood as well,” Jane said. “They’re a rather insular lot, so I’d be happy to ask around and introduce you.”

“Thank you, but I have a full schedule. And not to be rude, but I have an appointment there in an hour. Perhaps you could give me some time to set up here?”

“Of course.” Jane returned to the washing while Olivia unpacked and arranged her travel-ready possessions. With a parting smile, Olivia left Jane to her laundry and her thoughts. Foremost among these were gratefulness at having found someone as capable and easygoing as Olivia, and perplexity at the mysterious woman’s habits and history.

#

Nightfall came as a long-anticipated opportunity for Inspectors Malone and Sundar. Having spent the previous evening and early morning monitoring the former councilor’s residence, they knew the guard rotations and their possible means of entry. Now, clothed once again in their usual black, they were ready to convert observation into action.

The subterranean blocks adjacent to the Hollens mansion maintained a light patrol of plainclothes guards. Malone and Sundar snuck past them with good timing and old-fashioned stealth. In front of the house itself, a guard stood at every corner and in front of every entrance. If Malone’s hypothesis was correct, their constant presence meant that the Council had not yet found what it was looking for inside. That, or this was an elaborate trap to catch a returning killer or clumsy snoop.

Sundar looked at Malone and pointed to a spot on the ground five yards away. A drainage grill set into the street lay just within range of one of the patrols. It provided access to the sewage tunnels of the Vineyard and, more importantly, one of its branches surfaced seventy feet away, two steps from Hollens’s place, in the next block. Just beyond that outlet lay the key to their plan.

In keeping with the grandeur of the Vineyard, the exposed facades of the residences around them were high and heavily decorated, nothing like the window-pocked rock faces that marked more common dwellings. Not wasting a moment, Sundar cast a rope with a soft, weighted knot at one end over a gargoyle perched on the building next to him. He scurried fifteen feet up the wall and into the shadows, making nary a sound as his feet found purchase in the relief work and sills. The wide, soaring construction of the tunnels in the Vineyard created more visibility for someone watching from the right position, and with the skylights overhead darkened, that position was suitably obscured for the inspectors’ purposes. Now perched on a shadowed ledge, he edged to the corner of the building and peered around, the Hollens residence and squad of guards clearly visible.

At the base of the building, Malone waited for his signal. After a few moments, she saw Sundar flash his open palm, and she hurried to the grating with a heavy key. Sequestered from the offices of the Municipal Police, the key provided access to all of the sewage tunnels and gratings of the Vineyard. With a turn of the key, the grill slid easily into its recess, and she found a series of rungs descending to the sewers.

Malone produced a small hand lantern that provided just enough light for her to follow the narrow walkway rising above the mire. Remembering the schematics, she followed the main channel for about fifty feet and turned into the fourth access tunnel on her left. She could see a bluish glow from the grating above her head, and she knew that she must have reached the point just below the house.

Upon reaching the end of the tunnel, she would have identified the water main and followed it down to where it punched into the domicile’s reservoir. Ducking into an adjacent crawlspace, she would have centered herself underneath the grating that directed runoff from the basement into the sewers. Between her crowbar, her lock pick set, and the master key for the sewers, she was confident that some combination of the resources would get her from one side of the grating to the other and then from the basement to the cellar. However, all of her elaborate planning became worthless once she saw the heavy alloy gate separating her from the crawlspace below.

The schematics were five years old, so she reasoned that the gate must have been a recent construction. The gate was moored to the rock face of the sewer tunnel, and a boxy, fist-size lock kept it shut. When the master key failed, Malone examined the lock under the light of her hand lantern. She rummaged in her pocket and found a few unofficial tools of the trade. Setting her light in the piping overhead, she focused on the lock and went to work. After a few practiced maneuvers, she heard a soft click, which she took as a signal of quick success. When she heard a gassy hiss, she knew she’d been wrong.

Malone just had time to jump back from the gate when she began to smell heavy fumes. She stumbled back along the tunnel, dimly aware of the dull splashing of her boots in the sewage. Her vision had already begun to blur, something in her throat was constricting, and her knees were starting to buckle.

When she reached the grate by which she had entered the tunnels, she leapt up the rungs and clung to the grill, sucking at the fresh air through the bars, no longer mindful of stealth or silence. Over the pounding of her heart, she could not hear the footsteps of patrols or the distant whisper of the gas. She did, however, hear a shout from the direction of the domicile. Seconds later, Sundar’s coat swished in the corner of her vision as he took off at top speed, and she nearly fell from the ladder as two guards thundered over the grill, chasing after him. Weakly, she turned her key in the lock and peered into the street as the grate slid open above her.

She didn’t know what had happened, but for the moment, there was not a soul present in the street. Climbing out of the sewer, she quickly skirted the adjacent building where Sundar had been roosting and looked around the corner.

Malone could hardly believe her luck. The east end of the house was completely deserted, but she knew this opportunity would not last long. Though her legs still felt like pudding, she sprinted to the side of the house under one of the circular windows. Peeking inside, she saw only darkness, and she rotated the window open and slipped inside.

Malone landed on soft carpet and crouched low. Outlines of a desk and chairs suggested that she had dropped into a study. She felt her way along the floor and crept catlike toward the door where she could see a faint glow from further down the hall. Waiting just at the edge, she produced a matte-surfaced mirror to check around the corner. When Malone saw no one, she stepped into the hall, flexing the feeling back into her legs.

She recalled studying the house plans with Sundar and began reconstructing the blueprints in her mind. She had just stepped out of a small office, and the hallway in front of her looked narrow and unimportant. To her right and around the corner, she could see more light, and she guessed this way must lead to the main hall. If she was correct, then to her left she should find a small stairway in an arched recess leading to the bottom levels of the domicile.

She followed the dimly lit hallway to the left, reaching a darkened nook with a circular staircase. Out of the corner of her eye, Malone saw a spark of light and ducked against the hall. Her blood froze as her eyes traced the faint outline of a guard leaning against the wall in the stairway, just on the other side of the arch. She felt a surge of panic as his hand dropped to his side, and, sure that he had seen her, she prepared to spring at him. To her surprise, he turned his head away and inhaled deeply, an orange point hovering like a firefly in front of his face. Her mind raced as she weighed her chances of incapacitating him and completing her mission before someone sounded the alarm. As she prepared to move, she heard a voice calling from a lower level in the stairway.

“Oy, Marrek, is that you again?”

The man with the firefly only sighed.

“For the love of – put that damn thing out! How many times do I have to tell you, you can’t smoke in here! If the captain catches you, he’ll have your head.”

“Captain’s not here,” drawled Marrek.

“Well, it won’t be long, I can smell that thing a mile away.” He paused. Malone heard the other man ascending the staircase, his boots producing a metallic clunk on the steps. Timing her footfalls with his, she crept into the room to her left.

“You done your rounds yet?”

“I’ll get to it,” Marrek said.

“No, you’ll stand here puffing that twig and I’ll take the heat when Captain finds out that nobody’s walking this level.”

There was another pause, and Malone knew that Marrek must have shrugged.

The second guard stormed down the hall and Malone heard a long silence broken only by Marrek’s relaxed breathing. She could smell the bitter odor of smoke from his cigarette. After a few moments, she heard the other guard returning, his pace quickened.

“Dammit, Shen and Rivas are gone.”

“So? You know how those two are.”

“I know there’s no one watching the east side of the house, which means you and me have to search!”

Marrek muttered an expletive.

“Give me that!” Malone heard the second guard snatch the cigarette and grind it against the metal railing. “Keep your mind on the job. Start at the other end of the hall and search every cabinet and closet. I’ll take this side.”

Marrek’s heavy footsteps plodded down the hall, and Malone realized with dismay that the second guard was coming around the corner. She groped the wall behind her, searching for someplace to hide. She scrambled around a hefty block of furniture just as the lights came on. The second guard was checking each corner of the room with mechanical precision and slowly making his way toward her. Recessing herself further into her nook, Malone backed into a wooden panel with a small knob protruding. Carefully, she turned and lifted the panel by the knob, hoping the hinges wouldn’t squeak. A narrow, vertical shaft rose a couple levels above her head and plummeted a few more to what looked like a bin of whipped cream. She had found the laundry chute.

The guard took a detour into the connecting bathroom, buying Malone precious seconds. Crawling into the chute, she braced herself with her feet against the smooth stone and eased the panel shut as the guard’s boots came into view. With a final glance at the pile of linens below her, she bent her knees and dropped feet-first down the chute.

Malone landed in the sheets, and shock waves reverberated through her bones. Submerged in laundry for the moment, she took the opportunity to gather her thoughts.

By any sensible estimate, she had just dropped into the laundry room. It did not connect directly with the cellar, but both sections occupied the same level in Hollens’s domicile. In order to walk to the cellar, however, she would have to leave the laundry room, follow a basement level hall, ascend one floor, and follow another hallway (which, if she knew anything, contained a guard or two). Fortunately, she knew of another way.

Climbing out of the linen bin, Malone paced to the far wall. Instead of marble and wood paneling, these walls were of plain stone block, free of embellishment. Positioned in the wall just above her head was a grill covering the laundry room’s air vent. Malone wedged it open and vaulted inside. One consequence of life underground was that vents and shafts riddled most buildings like termite trails, making clandestine travel possible for someone who did not mind a squeeze. All the same, she was beginning to feel like a sewer rat.

Malone continued straight down the shaft, counting the side tunnels as she passed them. Finally, she took a right and, as she expected, found herself face to face with another grating. Peering beyond it, she saw nothing (and no one) but a few rows of barrels lit by torches. She crawled out, her descent eased by a stack of crates just under the grill.

“In the cellar, behind the wine.” Malone knew she was searching for something, but she did not know exactly what. Luckily, the cellar was only three rows deep and six yards wide. She took a torch from its sconce and began examining the bottles and barrels, row by row.

The first row was filled with barrels of spiced rum and ale. In the second row, she found only bottles of spirits and imports labeled in strange scripts. When she reached the third row, she had a feeling she was much closer to her goal.

Wines, from sherries to chardonnays, lined the third and final row, which rested against the wall. Malone began the painstaking task of examining them all, bottle by bottle. The corks protruded from their recesses like dozens of buttons, all aligned in neat rows and columns. Once she saw the cork marked with an A, she knew she was moving in the right direction.

It was easy to miss in the middle of a grid of bottles forty wide and twenty tall, but the emblazoned A stared back at her, a dark mark in the flickering torchlight. She examined the corks surrounding her new discovery, and each one bore another letter following standard alphabetical progression. At random, she selected the N bottle and pulled it out of the shelf. The label was plain and white, and a dark fluid sloshed beneath the green glass. She removed bottle F and saw much of the same thing. As she slid the two bottles back into their slots, however, she heard a click as something fell into place. Gingerly testing the C bottle, she felt it recess deeper under pressure. She needed a password.

Malone thought back to her final conversation with Hollens in the washroom. “The writing’s on the wall, Malone.” It was on the bottles, too, but something he had said must have been a clue about the password. She needed something true and concrete.

She considered what she knew about Hollens, facts and rumors alike. He had never been the subject of much scandal or speculation, unlike others in his circle. For a politician, he was remarkably clean. Never married, a family history of public service, citizenship in Recoletta dating back more than a dozen generations, and of course, head of the Directorate of Preservation.

Malone thought back to her covert visit to the directorate with Sundar, recalling the hundreds of texts and manuscripts that would never see the light of day and the carefully selected scholars who analyzed them. She remembered meeting Dr Hask, studious and smug in the comfort of her office. And Hollens had asked about her office. As she played back the scene in her mind, the answer became clear. Deciphered truth, writing on the wall. Veritas.

Hoping the connection was as good as it sounded, she spelled “VERITAS”, pushing the marked bottles in order deeper into their recesses. A barely audible thump followed each bottle in the sequence, elevating Malone’s hopes. After the seventh, silence.

Malone waited with bated breath, listening for the telltale click or alarm. Recalling the trap in the sewers, her insides gave a little wrench at the thought of what might happen if she had failed.