Dark Days (14 page)

“That was good thinking,” said Alex. “I'll come by and pick it up later today. If I can listen in on their communication, I can really find out a lot about them. That's huge, Molly.”

“Great,” I said. I turned back to Natalie and asked, “What's my assignment? Are you and I going to split up the ghost stations?”

“No, I'll take all of those,” she said. “I want you to figure out how the Revolutionary War and a history professor fit in to all of this.”

I'm going to be honest. My assignment sounded completely boring. I couldn't help but think that Natalie had given it to me as some sort of punishment. But I didn't complain.

We talked for a little bit more about our assignments, and then Grayson asked Milton the same question that Natalie had asked earlier.

“What experiments are you working on?”

He thought about it for a moment before answering. “In a way it's the same experiment I've been working on for the past hundred years. I'm still trying to identify what it is about Manhattan schist that makes all of this possible. How the minerals within a rock keep the undead from dying.”

Soon it was time for us to go back. Just as when we'd arrived, we left with our guides one at a time. Natalie made sure she was the first to leave. My guess is that she didn't want to continue our conversation, and I can't say that I was disappointed. Even though I knew it was unlikely, part of me was hoping that the problem would just go away.

I was the last to leave, which gave me a few minutes to talk to Mom.

“I was just trying to be cautious,” I told her once we were all alone.

“I know, sweetie,” she replied. “You just have to understand how it sounded to her. She's scared. Her whole world is turned upside down, and now her best friend says that she can't be trusted. It's hard.”

I nodded. “I know.”

There wasn't really anything else to say about it, so she switched topics. “How's the family?” she asked. “What's going on at home?”

“They're great,” I said. “Beth just got a job working in a drama camp this summer. And Dad is, well, he's Dad. He makes it all work out. He told us this great story about when you two were dating and went to the opera.”

Mom laughed. “When he confused
La Traviata
and
Il Trovatore
?”

“That's the one.”

“That was the night that I knew I loved him,” she said.

That comment made me smile. “That's funny, because he said it was the night he knew he loved you, too.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment, and then I said, “They miss you so much. I wish they could see you. Like I've gotten to.”

She thought about this before replying. “I just don't see how that's possible. I don't see how we can bring them into this world and upend their lives that way. I feel bad enough that it's happened to you.”

“I don't feel bad about it at all,” I said. “I feel lucky that we have this to share.”

Dr. Stimola told me that it was time for us to go, so I said good-bye, and a few minutes later he was leading me back through the catacombs, up the spiral staircase, and into his office. All I could think about was Natalie. Even though I already suspected that she was undead, having it confirmed was intense. I felt terrible for her.

When the professor and I entered the lecture hall, I heard the end of his prerecorded talk.

“Which brings us to the red-tailed hawk,” said the voice. “This particular one is named Pale Male. When he was young, he tried to build a nest in a tree in the park but was driven away by a murder of crows. That's right, a group of crows is called a murder. But Pale Male adapted and found a new home on the ledge of a building on Fifth Avenue. He was the first hawk to nest on a building, and with this adaptation he began a dynasty of hawks in Central Park. Today they soar above the park, and like all birds of prey, look for their victims below.”

I had heard the story of Pale Male before when I was with the Junior Birders, but this time it made me think of the undead. Just like the hawks, they were driven away from the good parts of the city and forced to adapt. Pale Male chose the ledge of a building, and they picked the underground. And now they had become like birds of prey, keeping their distance and watching potential victims, waiting for just the right moment to strike. I was reminded of this when the lecture ended and I left the building. As I stepped out onto St. Nicholas Terrace, I saw him standing across the street, watching.

He was a cop, a member of the Dead Squad, and it was obvious that he'd been waiting for me. Checking to make sure I was where my transmitter said I was. Circling above, like a red-tailed hawk looking for prey.

T
he next six weeks reminded me a lot of the training I went through when I first joined Omega. Just like then, I was paired with different teammates on different days. Only now, instead of them teaching me how to break codes and fight zombies, we worked together trying to unravel the mysteries of RUNY. (The other big difference was that now there was an unmistakable sense of tension I had to work through with Natalie as I tried to regain her trust.)

Alex was a total rock star as he figured out the inner workings of the Dead Squad. He used the walkie-talkie I took from Officer Pell and rigged it so that he could hide it in his backpack and listen in on all their communications with a pair of earbuds. He sat in the park every day, and to anyone who happened to notice him, he just looked like a regular teenager listening to music.

“Sometimes I even hear them talking about watching me, while they're watching me,” he told me. “It's surreal.”

After a couple weeks he was able to determine that there were a dozen officers on the squad and that they had two basic jobs. They were either on Omega detail, which meant they followed us around and searched for Milton and Mom, or they were on protection duty guarding Marek.

Alex's favorite place to eavesdrop on them was at Belvedere Castle in the middle of Central Park. It was designed to look like a castle but is actually home to a nature center and the weather service. Alex liked it because the reception on the top floor observation deck was crystal clear.

“It's so good because the Dead Squad is headquartered in the Central Park precinct of the NYPD,” he explained one day when I was with him.

“I wonder why they chose Central Park as their home base?” I asked.

“It took a little research to figure out,” he told me. “But it turns out the Central Park precinct house is made entirely out of Manhattan schist. That way they can be on duty and recharge at the same time.”

It was the perfect place for a squad of zombies to work.

Sometimes I joined Alex up on the observation deck and the two of us would plug in and listen together. Usually I could only understand about half of what was being said, because they used a mix of regular English, police terminology, and code words. Like this exchange we overheard:

“Advise, what is Coyote's 10-20?”

“CPW and 70.”

It didn't make any sense to me, but Alex leaned over and whispered, “Natalie must be walking home.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Coyote's 10-20, that mean's Coyote's location,” he said. “Natalie is Coyote, and CPW and 70 is Central Park West and West Seventieth. My guess is she's walking home.”

“Natalie is
Coyote
?” I said. “We have code names?”

At first he smiled, but then he cringed and muttered, “Well, yeah.”

“What's my code name?” I asked.

“It's not important,” he said. “The names don't have any real meaning. They're just randomly assigned words. Nothing special.”

“What is it?” I demanded.

He hesitated before finally giving in. “Gopher.”

“
Gopher?
Are you serious?” It took everything I had not to scream at the top of my lungs. “Why am I Gopher?”

“Gophers are really good at digging and tunneling,” he said. “You're really good at going underground and finding your way through tunnels. I think it's meant as a compliment.”

“A compliment? A gopher is a
rodent
. With huge teeth!” Instinctively I reached up and felt my two front teeth. “Are my teeth oversized?”

“Of course not,” he said. “They're perfectly-sized.”

“Natalie's Coyote, which is majestic, and I'm Gopher, which is . . . the opposite of majestic. I think I want to file a complaint. What's your code name?”

“You don't want to know,” he said.

“Oh, I
want
to know.”

He tried not to smile as he said it. “Wolverine.”

“Totally unfair. That is the coolest code name in the world.”

“Isn't it? I think because I'm such a good fighter.” He let out a little growl and did what I can only suspect is a wolverine fighting motion with his hands. (Or should I say paws?)

I know it's ridiculous, but I was offended. I would have kept going on about it, but another transmission caught our attention.

“Advise, what is Eagle's 10-20?”

“Who's Eagle?” I asked. “So help me if that's Grayson's code name . . .”

“No, Eagle is Marek.”

Over the radio we heard the response,
“He's home at M42.”

Alex and I both turned and looked at each other at the same time.

“Did he say
home
and
M42
?” I asked.

“He sure did.”

This was huge. M42 is a secret bunker located deep below Grand Central Terminal. It was once a CIA safe house but had been taken over by the Unlucky 13. It's where Marek's doctors rebuilt him, and if we heard right, it was also now where Marek lived.

“It makes sense, considering his health,” Alex said. “They have everything set up there for treatments and transplants. His doctors can monitor him.”

Not once since Omega began in the early 1900s had we been able to identify an actual home for Marek. It had always been a mystery. But now we thought we had, and after a week of follow up Alex was able to confirm that we were right.

While Alex was having great success with his research into the Dead Squad, Grayson was having a more difficult time learning about the Empire State Tungsten Company. Unfortunately, there was no walkie-talkie-like piece of equipment to help him. He did have Zeus, the most amazing computer I've ever seen, but so far every time he thought he might be on the verge of a breakthrough, he ran into a dead end.

Before I could be any help to him, he had to give me a crash course on the importance of tungsten. He explained that it's a hard metal used in lightbulbs and X-ray machines.

“Does Marek have anything to do with either lightbulbs or X-rays?” I asked.

“Not that I can find,” he replied. “But the truth is, I can't find out much about the company, either. They seem to buy a lot of tungsten, but there isn't any record of what they do with it once they get it.”

Grayson is out of control smart and great at solving puzzles, and I don't think I had ever seen him so frustrated. Once, he told me he'd spent an entire week working on it without figuring out a single new piece of information. Then one day he asked me to meet him at Leonardo's, a pizza place in Midtown. We ordered a couple slices and ate them as we walked up Lexington Avenue.

“Very good,” he said after his first bite. “Sweet and tangy sauce, good firm crust.”

Grayson considers himself a pizza expert and is in constant search of the perfect slice. After he took a few more bites, he jotted down some ratings in a little notebook he always carries. Later these would be entered into his pizza database for further referencing. He's designing an app called Perfect Pizza π, but says it's still too early in the development stage for him to share any details with the rest of us.

“Is that why we came here?” I asked. “So you could try out a new slice?”

“No, the slice is my reward for finally making a breakthrough. We're here because of this . . .”

We'd reached the corner of Forty-second and Lex, and he pointed up at the Chrysler Building, which was across the street from where we were standing.

“. . . and this.”

He pointed to Grand Central Terminal, which was a block away.

“You and Alex discovered that our good friend Marek Blackwell lives deep below Grand Central.”

“Right.”

“And I was able to identify the headquarters of the elusive Empire State Tungsten Company right there on the fifth floor of the Chrysler Building.”

“Interesting,” I said. “So you can put Marek within a block of the company.”

Grayson smiled. “I can do better than that. After searching through the endless records of companies that own other companies that own other companies, I have finally discovered who actually owns the Empire State Tungsten Company.”