Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (4 page)

Pippa wanted to ask just how long that had been, but Heidi continued on:

“Right now … we’re leaving Washington, D.C. We should be in New York in less than an hour.”

Washington … New York … Denver?
Things are happening so quickly
! “Then what?” Pippa asked, surprised by Heidi’s willingness to share information.

“Get you freshened up, for one thing. Out of those dirty, damp clothes.”

Pippa, doing her best to look nonchalant, waited for her to continue.

“Just know, I will be keeping you close to me.” Heidi’s expression changed to one of concern. She leaned forward, bringing her face in close. She reached up and with the back of her hand gently stroked Pippa’s cheek. “Dear … try to escape, or contact SIFTR … and I’ll be forced to kill you. Plus, I have another surprise for you before I’d do that—something that will make you wish I had killed you first.”

It was late afternoon before Gustavo drove us back in the electric garden cart to the Lockkeeper’s House.

“Get the tools.”

“Okay,” I said, hopping out of the cart. I collected both shovels and a five-gallon bucket full of hand tools, while Gustavo unlocked the front door to the house. He swung the door inward and held it open for me. It was dark inside and smelled just like you’d expect a garden shack to smell—soil; weed-eater-type chemicals; manure. The space was now open, but probably wasn’t like this back in the 1800s. At least eight metal support beams were strategically placed to prop up thick wooden crossbeams along the span of the ceiling. The entire space was virtually filled—two wheelbarrows; a pallet of stacked potting soil; mowers; grass-edgers; trimmers; and every other kind of garden tool imaginable. At opposite ends of the space, brick fireplaces were positioned—each blackened from years of soot accumulation.

Gustavo took the shovels from me, hanging them up on a rack on the wall that also held a collection of other long-handled tools. It was then, when his back was turned away, that I needled him. Courtesy of Baltimore, I injected a tiny, but potent amount of narcotics into the nape of his exposed neck. My injection delivery method was via a small thimble-like sleeve worn over my forefinger. He staggered, struggling to reach around his neck with his hand, but dropped mid-motion. I caught him as he fell and lowered him to the floor. I had about ten minutes before he’d start to reawaken.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d find here that the other agent hadn’t. There seemed to be nothing unusual around. It seemed logical that there must be some kind of access panel leading down below. I moved the two wheelbarrows aside—nothing there. I pushed against the stack of potting soil but the pallet didn’t budge. I next hurried to the fireplace on the right—pushed and pulled at virtually every brick. I crossed the open space and repeated the same procedure on the other fireplace. Gustavo’s leg twitched.

I scanned the space one more time, looking for the one thing I might have missed. Gustavo’s other leg moved. Out of desperation I gazed up at the ceiling.
There!
A trapdoor. I saw a cord hanging down, and in three strides I was beneath the door and pulling on the cord. Similar to an attic access panel in a home, the trapdoor opened, partially lowering an attached, expandable ladder. I inspected the mechanism and unlatched the bottom part of the ladder—sliding it the rest of the way down to the floor. Gustavo coughed and turned onto his side.

Up the ladder I went and was surprised to discover an upper area set up as an office. Three ancient-looking wooden desks and chairs, plus several file cabinets placed along the back wall, occupied the whole second floor. I didn’t linger—I knew exactly where I needed to go. Across to the bricked fireplace wall on the right, I found the nearly imperceptible seam—a space not more than a sixteenth of an inch gap, where the brick chimney met the brick wall. I followed the seam upward and found where it continued on, running within the mortar and across the chimney, about a foot over my head. I pulled on the chimney—it held steadfast. I stood back and looked at the bricks for something out of the ordinary. Low, and along the left side, was a discolored darker red brick. I knelt down, and as I gave it a push, it receded inward. I heard an audible click and a seven-foot-by-four-foot chimney section swung open on internal hinges. Pulling it ajar, just wide enough to peer inside, I could see metal ladder rungs leading downward. I stepped back and used both hands to push the chimney section back into place. The one recessed brick popped back out.

By the time I reached Gustavo, he was trying to sit up. I placed a hand on his shoulder and held him steady. “Hold on there, man. You took a bit of a fall.”

Gustavo’s eyes cleared and he looked up at me. “I don’t know what happened … I was putting the tools—”

“It’s all right. Probably only a mild heatstroke.” I handed him an opened water bottle. “Drink some of this … hydrate.”

He drank up and was soon looking better. “We need to empty the rest of the cart.” He tried to stand.

“No … you need to go on home, Gustavo. Take it easy. I can finish up here. I’ve already emptied the rest of the tools and pipes out of the cart. I’ll put it all away. Take the cart.”

“No. You’re not authorized. You don’t have keys.”

I knew Gustavo was feeling pretty sick—nauseous—a temporary effect of the drug. Soon, he’d be dealing with relentless diarrhea. He suddenly passed gas and his eyes opened wide.

“Perhaps you’re right. I don’t feel so good.” He put a hand on his stomach and slowly got to his feet. “I need to go. Okay … here, take these. Lock up as soon as you’re done. Be here six in the morning, along with my keys.” He half-walked, half-shuffled to the entrance. He murmured, “Shit shit shit …”

I heard the little electric motor on his cart turn over, then soon fade away into the distance.

I spent the next few minutes bringing in the rest of the garden tools and sections of PVC pipe. I closed and locked the Lockkeeper’s House front door from the inside. At some point, someone outside watching might notice I hadn’t come back out. How long I’d be in here depended on what I’d find at the bottom of the metal rung ladder.

Within thirty seconds, I was climbing up the trapdoor ladder and heading toward the brick chimney wall. I used the toe on my boot to depress the brick. The mechanism clicked and I swung the chimney section out and away. Moving inside the wall, I saw a swaying string hanging from somewhere above me. I gave it a tug and an exposed lightbulb came alive. Dim light illuminated a thousand cobwebs all around the narrow space. I descended several rungs, then spotted a brass handle; pulling the chimney section inward, I closed it. Something small and crawly dropped onto my cheek and I brushed it away. Down the rungs I went—soon I was passing what looked to be a roughly chiseled out section of foundation. The vertical shaft I was descending was also made of brick, but moist and blackened with decades of mold. At forty feet down, the single bulb’s light, hanging high above, was barely reaching me. Feeling cool air rising up from below, I looked down but could see nothing but blackness. In the ten seconds I’d hesitated, four large spiders settled onto the back of my left hand, then three on my right.
Hacklemesh Weavers
—sometimes called
Black Lace Weavers
—they like crawling around in dark, moist places, in most upper east coast states. I figured there was a nest of the damn things close by me. I blew them off my hands and continued climbing downward.

* * *

I had to slow down my descent as complete darkness enveloped me. Nagging concerns for Pippa’s welfare were heavily intruding into my thoughts. This new venture was taking far too long—I was giving it too much energy and time. Whoever had Pippa could be torturing her this very second. Hell, she might already be dead.

I probably missed a light switch to a second light source somewhere along the way down. By the time I reached the bottom of the narrow shaft, I figured I’d descended about one hundred and fifty feet. Maybe even more. Several times I’d debated if I should re-ascend, go back into the house above, and look for a flashlight. But now, somewhere below me, there was a light source—I could just make out dimmed lighting coming off from my left and right. Soon, I was standing on worn cobblestones, in an area I figured was constructed several centuries earlier.

In the dim light I noticed movement off to my left—a shape—roughly the size of a loaf of bread; a loaf of bread with a head and four legs. Bar none, it was the largest rat I’d ever seen—King Kong of rats. It lumbered forward within the passageway as I headed off in the opposite direction. The passageway was roughly ten feet wide by ten feet high. The cobblestones were now submerged, lying beneath several inches of water; my leather boots were drenched as I slogged forward. The good news was the light ahead made for much better visibility. I slowed my pace as I approached what looked to be some kind of expansive construction zone. Then everything opened up—into a cavern of sorts—beneath bright construction spotlights. Several large dump trucks, along with other mining-type vehicles, sat idle. I stayed low and walked between the vehicles, noticing the ground was now solid rock beneath my soggy boots. A wall of rock loomed in front of me. Sitting half-in half-out of the wall was a spectacular, immense, twenty-five-foot-tall boring machine. I climbed up onto a nearby ten-foot mound of rock and dirt, and looked around me. There were tunnels in the distance … a whole network of tunnels were down here. A single-wide construction trailer sat nearby, its single door wide open. Dressed in khakis, a button-down shirt, with a hardhat on his head, a man’s silhouetted, backlit-form filled the open doorway. In his hand was a gun—one that was pointed directly at me.

“Move … twitch … and you’re dead.”

Before answering, I began probing his mind. He’d been warned earlier this morning to stay alert. They’d gone to great lengths to make this underground site, and others like it, inaccessible to outsiders. He’d been armed and told to stay vigilant for anyone showing up not authorized to be there. He was some kind of Civil Engineer—and by the guttural inflections in his speech, German. I continued to read the myriad of images flashing through his consciousness and was surprised to see that Heidi Goertz was one of them.

“Are you deaf? Get down from there … slowly.”

“Ich bin hier um Sie zu warnen,”
I’m here to warn you,
I said, hoping my German was convincing.

“Worüber redest du?”
What are you talking about?
he asked.

I switched over to English: “I’m the man watching up top … the National Mall.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he replied back, speaking English.

“Then you can call Mrs. Goertz … I’m sure she won’t mind if you disturb her during her busy day.”

He hesitated. I’d struck a chord using her name. He was seriously afraid of that woman. “What is it you want? Why are you here?”

“Lower the gun. There’s been a sighting … a man seen entering the sewer system. Where’s your security? Don’t tell me you’re the only one here?”

His gun lowered to his side. Looking around, realizing now he was the only one still at the site, he said, “We don’t work on Sundays … you should know that. What did you say your name was?”

“I meant your security. Are you daft? Of course I know things are shut down on Sundays … but trespassers don’t give a shit what day it is.”

“Security is making their rounds. They just left …” he looked at his watch, “twenty minutes ago.”

I mentally suggested to him that he put his gun away. He hesitated, then raised it up again. “Why not just contact me by radio? Why come all the way down here?”

I let out a long breath, looking annoyed. “Do I look like I have a radio on me? You think I carry it around for everyone to see? I’m a fucking gardener.” I was now getting more useful information from his mind. He definitely didn’t trust me—suspected something amiss—and mentally was running through all the access points I could have used. This underground system, whatever it was, was vast. Something referred to as the
Hydrospan
.

“Let me take a look at your engineering drawings. I’ll show you where the—”

“Stay right there!”

Halfway down the mound I stopped and held up my hands. My mind flashed to Pippa. I didn’t have time for delays.

“Shoot me, then. Just be prepared for what Heidi will do to you.” I put my arms down, walked the rest of the way off the mound, up the steps, and onto the platform he was standing on. I moved past him and entered the construction office. In his mind, his thoughts noted I smelled like shit.

The confined office space was taken up with a desk. A large computer was running, its screen displaying multi-colored CAD-type drawings. A close-by drafting table was littered with giant, schematic-type engineering drawings. Countless other paper rolls were piled around the office.

“Show me … where are we here?” I asked, standing at the table.

I noticed the gun was now tucked into the back of his pants as he moved to my side. He used a marker to circle one small section on the plans. What I was looking at was the largest civil engineering feat in the history of the United States … perhaps the world. Billions … maybe trillions of dollars of investment must have been requisitioned for this kind of enterprise to succeed. More importantly, its magnitude and scope could not have gone unnoticed. At a minimum, city water and electrical utilities would be alerted to such a vast undertaking. Even though the construction site was a hundred fifty to two hundred feet down, this underground venture couldn’t have gone undetected, which meant high-placed government officials had some kind of involvement.

“Wie heißt du?”
What is your name
, I asked.

“Moritz. Zeigen Sie mir, wo er entdeckt wurde.”
Show me where he was spotted.

I tried to make heads or tails of the plans in front of me—thousands of intricate lines and symbols, which, for the most part, made no sense. The tiny text was written in German. Then I spotted FDR Gedenkstätte, the
FDR Memorial.