The Orion Plan (9 page)

But then he remembered the happiness he'd felt last night, after he'd found the sphere but before the teenagers showed up.
That
was real, that feeling of hope. Joe stared again at the mud underneath his crushed box, but instead of thinking about the satellite he pictured his reward for finding it, a fat stack of hundred dollar bills. He deserved that money. And if he left the park now, someone else might grab the sphere and get the reward. Those teenagers knew where it was, and they'd probably told all their friends about it. There was a good chance they'd come back tonight.

Joe turned away from the clearing and scanned the ground under the oak trees. If you looked carefully you could find all kinds of useful junk in the weeds. After half a minute he found a pile of half-charred wooden planks. Someone had tried to make a bonfire on the hillside, but the wood hadn't burned so well, probably because it was too damp. Most of the planks were charred at only one end. Joe picked up four of them and returned to the clearing. Then he threw one of the planks on the ground and stepped on it. He wasn't going to risk what happened to Dorothy. Although the spike might've been just a hallucination, he was determined to keep his feet off the mud.

He threw two more planks on the ground and used them as stepping-stones. When he reached the spot where Dorothy had stood, he poked his last plank in the mud. He shoved the burnt end a couple of inches into the ground and made a deep gouge. Then he made another. He was looking for the black spike. He made a dozen gouges, crisscrossing the area. But he didn't find anything. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Still, he didn't want to take any chances, so he threw his last plank on the ground in front of him and stepped on it to approach the mud pile.

Joe grasped the cardboard box and pushed it aside. Then he stared at the mound, trying to remember exactly where he'd buried the satellite. He assumed the thing had cooled down by now. He doubted he'd be able to carry it very far, not in his condition, so he planned to wrench the sphere out of the mud and roll it down the hillside. He wasn't sure about the next step, though. Should he take the satellite to a science museum? Or maybe to the headquarters of the company that built it?

The simplest option would be to alert the police, who could get in touch with NASA or whatever government agency had launched the thing. But Joe didn't trust the Inwood cops. They loved to harass the park's homeless people, shooing them off the benches and away from the soccer fields. The worst one was a big redheaded cop named Patton. He liked to poke Joe with his nightstick and threaten to arrest him. He said he had friends who were prison guards on Rikers Island and someday soon he was going to send Joe their way. The guy was a real bastard, stupid and cruel. If Joe told him about the satellite, Officer Patton would either laugh in his face or try to snag the reward for himself.

Joe glanced to the left and right. He was alone on the hillside. The sun had just set and the woods were darkening. When he was certain that no one else was nearby, he bent over and picked up the plank that was closest to the one he stood on. Then he started using it as a shovel, digging into the mound.

He scraped away the top layer of mud. Luckily, the ground wasn't hard. Joe had finished building the mound just twelve hours before, so it was still as soft as putty. After less than a minute the end of his plank banged against the satellite. The jolt made him a little uneasy in his stomach, and the feeling intensified after he shoveled away enough mud to expose the top of the sphere. Even in the fading daylight it gleamed like a jewel, blacker than onyx. But he kept digging. After another few minutes he'd uncovered the upper half of the thing.

Now it looked the same as it had when he'd stumbled upon it the night before. Joe's chest ached from all the bending and shoveling, but he plunged the plank into the ground again, scooping out the packed dirt around the satellite. He could endure the pain because the sphere was his salvation. It was going to give him enough money to get his old life back. Once he had the reward in his hands, he'd say goodbye to Inwood and return to Riverdale. He'd find a landlord willing to rent an apartment to someone with no references but lots of cash. Then he'd hire a lawyer and try to recover his medical license. Almost anything was possible if you had enough money. He might even be able to persuade his ex-wife to forgive him.

After ten more minutes he'd shoveled almost to the bottom of the satellite, making a deep circular trench around the thing. It was ready to come loose. He just needed to apply a little elbow grease to pry it out of the ground. Joe lowered the burnt end of the plank into the trench and wedged it into the mud below the sphere. Then he pushed down on the other end of the plank, trying to lever the satellite upward. But it didn't budge. He pushed down harder, leaning all his weight on the plank. The pain was so bad it felt like his chest was on fire, but he didn't let up.

Then the plank cracked. Joe had to lean backward to stop himself from falling face-first into the mud.
Jesus, what's wrong? How much does this thing weigh?

He clutched his side, cursing under his breath. When the pain finally eased he picked up the cracked plank and peered into the trench he'd dug. It was tough to see anything in the fading light, but after a few seconds he noticed something glinting in the deepest part of the trench. He bent over to get a closer look. A thick column of black metal jutted downward from the bottom of the sphere, anchoring it to the ground.

Joe shook his head in frustration. He thrust the plank into the trench again and dug into the mud at the bottom, trying to see how deep the column went. It looked like a black pipe, at least three inches in diameter, and made from the same material as the rest of the satellite. He scraped away the mud around the column, exposing more of it, but instead of uncovering its bottom end he saw several thinner pipes branching off from it. They angled downward from the central column, delving deeper into the ground, like metallic roots.

As he stared into the trench Joe's frustration turned to disbelief. How the hell did all those pipes get down there? Did they automatically extend from the bottom of the satellite sometime after it landed? And why would they do that? What was the point?

Then he thought of the spike again. He started to shiver, even though the temperature in the park was still in the nineties. He didn't bother to fill in the trench. He just reached for his cardboard box and rested it on top of the sphere.
The damn thing is spreading underground. It's putting out feelers.

The woods were dark now. Joe looked behind him at the planks he'd laid out as stepping-stones. He turned around and jumped from one plank to the next, careful not to step on the mud. Then he ran down the hill, away from the clearing.

*   *   *

He bolted out of the park. At first Joe didn't know where to go. His mind was so full of panic he could hardly think. He raced along Payson Avenue, the street that separated Inwood Hill Park from the rest of the neighborhood, and then headed for Broadway, which was busy and brightly lit. Dozens of people gawked at him as he came charging down the sidewalk, a crazy homeless dude sprinting past the drugstores and bodegas. Some of the people laughed. Others scowled and shouted. Joe ignored them all.

He passed a car wash, a supermarket, and a hardware store. Then he stopped and leaned against a brick wall, his ribs aching as he tried to catch his breath. After a few seconds he looked up and saw a sign on the wall:
NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, INWOOD BRANCH
. Although he hadn't consciously decided to come here, his instincts had led him to the right place.

Back in April, when the weather was still chilly, Joe had spent several afternoons at the Inwood library to keep warm. He knew the library's computer room was open to the public. If one of the computers happened to be free now he could search the Internet. There was bound to be some information online about the missing satellite. With a little luck he could find out who'd launched the thing, and maybe even get a phone number. Then he'd be just a step away from collecting his reward.

But there was a problem. It was after 8:00
P.M.
and the library was closed.

Joe placed his hands on his knees and doubled over, dizzy and nauseous. All he needed was a little computer time, just ten minutes! It was the kind of thing he'd always taken for granted in the old days, before he lost his job and started living on the streets. Back when he worked at St. Luke's Hospital he could've searched the Web on the computer in his office, or on his MacBook or iPad or iPhone. Now, though, he had nothing. He was completely cut off. The people on the sidewalk detoured around him, edging toward the curb.

Then he heard a siren. He looked down Broadway and saw a police cruiser a couple of blocks away, its blue lights flashing. Joe's knees trembled under his hands. He was so frightened he almost threw up. But he managed to stand up straight and walk past the library, away from the cruiser. He tried to look casual, as if nothing was wrong.

The car slowed as it caught up to him. Joe glanced sideways and got a shock: the guy in the passenger seat was Officer Patton. Worse, the redheaded bastard was looking out the car's window and eyeing Joe suspiciously. Patton pointed his nightstick at him and said something to the car's driver. But he didn't say anything to Joe, didn't make his usual threats about Rikers and his prison-guard friends. After a few seconds the cruiser accelerated and sped toward Dyckman Street.

Joe relaxed a little but kept walking. When you're living on the streets, the best way to avoid trouble was to always keep moving. He'd crisscrossed Inwood so many times during his daily wanderings that he could draw a map of the neighborhood from memory. In his mind's eye he could picture every street corner and storefront between the Hudson and Harlem rivers. And as he crossed West 204th Street, still trembling from his close call with Patton, he remembered one of those storefronts. A new copy shop had opened a month ago on Tenth Avenue, and inside the shop was a computer that customers could pay to use. Joe was sure of this because the shop's owner had put a sign above the window:
SUPER-FAST INTERNET $5 PER HOUR
.

He turned right at the next corner and headed for Tenth Avenue. Halfway down the block he ducked into an alleyway and took off his left sneaker. Tucked inside his tube sock was his ten dollar bill, folded in half and damp with sweat. He unfolded the bill and flapped it around to dry it. Joe hated the idea of spending the money at the copy shop. All he could think about were the forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor he could buy instead. But he told himself it was an investment.
Just think of the reward. You're gonna spend a few dollars now, but in a day or two you'll get thousands.

Five minutes later he arrived at the copy shop. To his immense relief, it was still open. He peered through the window under the
SUPER-FAST INTERNET
sign and saw no customers inside. At the front of the shop was a self-service copy machine and next to it was the computer, an old Hewlett-Packard PC. A counter ran across the middle of the store, and beyond it were the bigger copy machines that did the customized jobs. The manager of the store—a twenty-something bearded guy—sat behind the counter, reading the
New York Post
. He had pierced eyebrows and tattooed forearms and wore a black T-shirt.

Joe was glad the shop wasn't busy. He wouldn't have to worry about offending any other customers. Holding the ten dollar bill in his right hand, he opened the glass door and stepped inside.

The bearded guy looked up from his newspaper. He started to smile, but then his face wrinkled in surprise. “What do you want?”

This reaction was typical. Very few stores in Manhattan welcomed the homeless. And Joe was sympathetic. He knew he smelled awful. He knew it better than anyone. He raised his hand and waved the ten dollar bill, offering it as a kind of consolation prize. “I have money. I want to use your computer.”

The manager narrowed his eyes. “You want to use the computer?” His voice was slow and full of contempt. “You're joking, right?”

“I have money.” Joe waved the bill again. “Ten dollars, see?”

The guy shook his head. “Sorry, the computer's broken.” He put a mock-apologetic look on his face.

Joe looked at the computer. Its screen saver displayed a swirl of undulating colors. Then he turned back to the manager. “It doesn't look broken to me.” He stepped toward the chair in front of the computer and pulled it out. “Let me give it a try.”

The guy closed his newspaper and stood up. He held out both hands like a traffic cop at an intersection. “Whoa, get away from there. I said it's broken.”

Joe ignored him and sat down in the chair. He pressed the space key on the computer's keyboard. The undulating colors disappeared and the screen showed the usual Windows icons against a blue background. “Seems to be working fine.” He rose from the chair and placed his ten dollar bill on the counter. “I'll take an hour of Internet time, please.”

The guy frowned at the bill as if it were a piece of dog shit. Then he turned toward the wall, bent over and pulled an electrical plug out of its socket. The PC let out a squeak and its screen went black.

Joe clenched and unclenched his hands. “Why did you do that? Turn it back on.”

The manager pointed at the door. “It's time for you to leave.”

“Look, this isn't fair.” Joe leaned across the counter. “My money is as good as anyone else's. I have a right to—”

“If you don't get out of here, I'm calling the cops.” The guy pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “I'm not gonna sit here while you stink up the place.” He punctuated the sentence by flicking Joe's ten dollar bill off the counter. It fluttered to the floor.

Joe felt a surge of anger. This guy was even worse than the teenagers who'd attacked him. They were just stupid kids, but this asshole was old enough to know better. He should know that terrible things could happen to anyone. That it was easy, hideously easy, to become a drunk. But the guy was too arrogant and thickheaded to see it. Joe leaned a little farther across the counter. He wanted to tear the fucker's head off.