Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (19 page)

That put a jump out of the question, so he hopped the gap to the next car.

Again, no sign of Rico.  Because he wasn’t able to get around?

Couldn’t think about that now.  Had to do
something
– and quick, because he was running out of train.  Only two and a half more cars to go.  He heard the doors below slide shut so he dropped to his knees and braced himself for the lurching start.  Looking back he saw Ramon still on his feet and closing fast.  He was trotting atop the car behind, grinning and brandishing his garden-variety black-steel machete.  He hopped the gap between his car and Jack’s–

–just as the train bucked forward.  The sudden move made his leap fall short.  His sneaker made toe contact with the car roof’s rear edge, then slipped off.  His expression turned from fierce grin to shock and fear as he dropped out of sight.

But not for long.  Seconds later, as the train entered the tunnel, he was up again and coming Jack’s way, though this time in a crawl instead of a run. The train picked up speed and the wind carried Ramon’s trucker’s cap away, but he didn’t seem to mind.  Jack continued his own crawl to the forwardmost vent duct on the roof and clung to it.  He was counting on Ramon to keep coming.  And he did.

Ramon and Rico and the rest of Giovanni’s DR crew had been living in
Brooklyn.  Probably never rode the Eighth Avenue line down here.  Didn’t know that it made a sharp left turn to the east toward Sixth Avenue.  Jack remembered many times needing a near-death grip on one of the poles inside to keep from bouncing off other passengers as it made that turn… just… about…

Now
.

The train lurched left and Ramon began to slide right.  Jack had his arms tight around the vent and stayed put.  He could see Ramon’s wide, terrified eyes as he dropped his machete – two down, one to go – and scratched at the filthy, sloping surface in a frantic search for purchase. 

Fat chance, pal.

Jack watched his kicking legs go over the side, heard his terrified wail as his body followed, saw his clawed hands rake the roof all the way to the edge where they caught the lip, leaving Ramon clinging to the side of the train by his fingertips.

Jack fought the wild urge to slide over and kick at those fingertips, dumping Ramon off the train.  He’d bang off the side wall, bounce against the train, get spun around and around until he either fell to the tracks where he’d end up ground meat, or get caught on the outside and be dragged into West 4
th
.  Either way, he’d be eliminated as a threat.

But he held back, remembering how he’d let his rage take over with Rico.  Look where that had put him. 

Instead he imagined the view from inside the car: Ramon’s panicked face pressed against the outside of a window, his prolonged scream drowned in the train noise.  Would anyone look up and see?  Maybe, maybe not.  Would anyone pull the emergency stop cord?  Again, maybe, maybe not, but leaning toward not.  New Yorkers resented anyone or anything that slowed their subway ride.  They might write him off as just another jerk working a variation on subway surfing.  Might even
want
him to fall off.

The train straightened out, but Jack knew it wouldn’t be long before it angled right to enter the West 4
th
Street station, a big nexus point at Sixth Avenue where a half dozen or more subway lines crossed.

The train pulled into the low-ceilinged station and Jack had to stay down if he wanted to keep his head.  As it stopped and the doors opened, he peeked over the right edge of the roof and saw the two DDPers rush out and peel a shaken, weak-kneed Ramon off the side of the car. 

Okay, no getting out that way.

To the left, over the wall, he heard a train approaching.  The uptown tracks were over there.

He rose to standing between a pair of crossbeams and looked over.  Another A train was pulling into the station.  The beams ran above the wall.  If he could get over there… 

Ignoring the oily grime and rat turds, Jack took hold of the beam before him.  His left hand, slick with blood dripping down his arm from his shoulder, slipped.  He wiped it dry on his jacket, then hopped up onto the beam and began to crawl along on his hands and knees.  He couldn’t help but think of gymnasts he’d seen doing cartwheels and flips on something just about this wide.  How the hell did they manage? 

When he reached the wall he came to a vertical support that ran up into the dark.  He had to rise to his feet and swing around it.  A hairy maneuver, especially here.  Falling off the far side would be a disaster – at best he’d lie crippled on the tracks; at worst he’d land on the third rail and get fried by six zillion volts.

He heard a shout behind him and a machine-gun rattle of Spanish.  A look back showed one of the
matóns
on the car roof he’d just left.  This guy still had his head scarf and machete.  He hopped up on the same crossbeam and started crawling Jack’s way.

Okay, no time for caution.  That uptown A would be pulling out in seconds.  Jack did a Wallenda along the next beam, arms out, one foot in front of the other.  The train’s brakes hissed as they released.  It started rolling.

“No, dammit!”

Another vertical beam.  Almost there.  Jack swung recklessly around it and stepped on the horizontal on the far side.  His sneaker landed on something squishy – a fresh rat turd? – and his foot slipped out from under him. 

Oh, shit, he was falling.

At the last second he kicked out against the upright with his other foot, allowing him to belly-flop onto the slowly moving roof of the uptown A.  The air whooshed out of him on impact.

He gasped, struggling for a breath.  Christ, that hurt.

Still fighting for air, he managed to turn onto his side and watch the DDPer go into a half crouch, ready to jump, then change his mind.  As the train picked up speed, Jack waved, then rolled onto his back, temporarily wiped out.

The rest of the story waits here:
Dark City

199
3

FEAR CITY

The final book of the Early Years Trilogy.
  Drexler and the Order are encouraging a cadre of Islamists to bring jihad to America but are suddenly backpedaling when they announce that they want to blow up the World Trade Towers.  No!  Anything but that!  They have good reason, but we won’t learn it until
Ground Zero
.

This one proved a challenge.  It’s a year and a half after Dark City and things are changing.  Disney is moving onto 42
nd
Street, Times Square is starting a facelift, and Jack can’t get his fix-it business going.  Everybody thinks he’s a hit man.  He’s not.  He’s a repairman – of situations, not appliances.

Everything in the novel has to point toward the 1993 WTC bombing.  I worked out a timeline for the bombers’ activity and it definitely didn’t work for me.  These guys had no sense of pacing.  So I had to compress 8 weeks of activity into 11 days. I mean, come on, guys, where’s your sense of urgency?

I think I have some of the best dialogue I’ve ever written in this book.  So instead of an opening scene, I’m going to present snippets of dialogue and character bits from throughout the novel.

FEAR CITY

(s
nippets)

"I want to find whoever did this, Abe."

"I will help you."

"And after I find them I want to take a long time killing them."

"That I will leave to you."

“You followed her all the way into Westchester County,” Abe said, “and all you got was a license plate number?”

“You sound like a T-shirt slogan.”

But where to eat?

Apparently Cristin already had an idea. “I found a cool little French place on East Sixty-first called Le Pistou.”

Jack made a face. “Really? What’s choice number two?”

“But you like French.”

“I do.” He could eat just about anything, even snails. “But I don’t know if I could eat at a place called Piss Stew.”

“It’s vegetable soup.”

H
e held up his hands. “Stop. You’re only making it worse.”

“What do I call you, laddie?” the boss man in the swivel chair said as the van lurched into motion.

What the hell had he stumbled into?

Jack said, “How about telling me what this is all about.”

The boss held up Jack’s pistol. “Look, it’s a wee Glock. What’d you do, leave it out in the rain?” He checked the breech, then dropped it on the carpeted floor. “That’s not a pistol.” He reached into his coat and removed a big 1911 .45. “
This
is a pistol.”

Jack couldn’t resist. “Okay, so you’ve seen
Crocodile Dundee
. Good for you.”

One of the guys up front snickered.

Burkes pointed to a draped form on the floor. “Another friend?”

Jack nodded.

Burkes wandered over to where the driver sprawled with the three arrow shafts jutting toward the ceiling from the eyes and mouth of his blood-coated face.

“And this, I take it, was not a friend.” He showed Jack a tight, grim smile. “Had a wee bit of a temper tantrum, did we?”

“Yeah. A wee.”

Burkes stood over the driver’s body. “And what’s his part in our drama?”

Jack hadn’t mentioned the key fob when he’d called. He pulled out the driver’s keys and handed them over.

“I found this in his pocket.”

Burkes gave him a questioning look as he took the keys. He turned the fob over and stared. Then he looked up at Jack, his lips working but making no sound.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

The unspeakable was… unspeakable.

Burkes averted his eyes as he handed back the keys. “Here. It’s giving me the boak.”  He took a couple of deep breaths, then kicked the driver’s body so hard it came off the ground.

“Cunt!”

Jack parked before a two-story brick colonial that looked pretty much like every other house in Forest Hills. A little sign out front read:

DR. ADÈLE MOREAU

APPOINTMENT ONLY

Dr. Moreau? Really?

Burkes exited by the side of the van and walked up to the front door. A tall thin woman
with odd-colored hair answered his knock; she carried a little dog in her arms. She pointed to the garage, then closed the door.

Could she be the torturer known as
La Chirurgienne
?

La Chirurgienne said, “
Voila
. No need for lifting and turning. All parts of him are accessible.”

“Want us to strip him before we go?” Rob said.

“Not necessary. I find proximity to a naked human, how shall we say, distasteful. I can cut away to expose whatever area I wish to explore.”

Explore…Jack shuddered at the way she said that.

Burkes stepped closer and jabbed a finger at her. “You will make up for that by performing
IV
on a second captive –
gratis
.”

La Chirurgienne blinked in surprise, obviously unused to people getting in her face like Burkes. But she didn’t look terribly put off by the idea.

“Very well.” She smiled and walked away. “I shall await his arrival.”

“‘IV’?” Jack said. “Like a needle? Like death from lethal injection? He deserves more than
–”