Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (25 page)

About 30 steps later, I reached the ground. A hallway faded into blackness in front of me. The ceiling was strung with light bulbs in yellow plastic cages. There was no obvious switch to turn them on. Two steps later, the bulbs brightened with a whirr of electric current. The hall ended 40 feet in front of me at a gray door with a chrome knob.

The knob turned easily, and the door opened into a dark, cramped space. I felt my way forward and quickly found another doorknob. Turning this one got me into a larger dark space. I found a light switch on the wall to my right, and when I flicked it on, I discovered I’d come out of a closet. The room I was standing in was empty, and there was a door to my left. I lingered on the threshold peering out onto a hallway that had the telltale white walls and sporadic lighting of Eighty-Eight East End Avenue. The hall ended in a T. I decided to go left because it was as good as going right, but before venturing beyond my doorway, I turned to study it.

There was nothing that would distinguish it from any other door in any hall. I took a pen out of my shoulder bag and made the smallest of blue marks by the middle hinge. Then I started left. I reached the hallway at the end of the first hall and realized I didn’t have a plan. Should I try every door? Should I wait for Mulberry to arrive and then try every door?

I was suddenly paralyzed with indecision, and that turned into fear faster than squirrels copulate. I broke out in a sweat. As the fear was hitting its peak, and all I could hear was the rushing of the blood through my veins, a door behind me opened and voices and footsteps echoed.

The halls I could see were empty. The acoustics made it impossible to tell where the footsteps were coming from. I went to take a step and stopped, my foot hanging in the air. They would hear me. There was a door only a few feet away, and I wracked my brain over how to get to it without making a sound. Then again, maybe they already knew I was here. If there were sensors to close the hatch and turn the lights on, why wouldn’t those same sensors notify someone in a room somewhere filled with security monitors that an intruder had entered the building? Maybe it didn’t matter if I made any noise.

“Christ, you’re such an idiot,” a man’s voice said. “Betting on the Mets is like betting on the fat guy in an eating contest.”

“You just can’t understand that the Mets are the greatest team in the world,” said another man. I pictured potbellies and easy laughter. I took as soft a step as I knew how. The slightest of taps echoed through the hall. I took another quiet step and was standing in front of the door. “If you refuse to acknowledge the greatness of the Yankees, there’s no help for you.”

I wrapped my sweaty palm around the knob. It opened nice and quiet. I went in and closed the door behind me. Leaning against it, trying not to breathe or let my heart beat, I listened. Through the door, I could still hear the muffled voices of the men. I was pretty sure they were getting closer. Light leaked in under the door and lit my sneakers. I took two steps back, just in case they were looking under doors for shoes. Their shadows passed by, blocking the light for a second. “Alright, I’ll bet you $500.”

“You know what?  Make it a thou—” The rest was muffled. Their voices gone, I peeked out the door. What was I doing down here? I shook my head trying to physically remove my doubt. I started trying doorknobs. The first room was filled with, as far as I could tell, a tenant’s storage. A milk crate of vinyl records sat next to a turntable. A puffy, black-leather couch covered in plastic was pushed up against the far wall. A glass coffee table with chrome legs was next to the couch. Two wet suits spilled out of an open box. A married man’s bachelor’s belongings, I guessed.

The next room held sealed wooden crates. “Fragile” was stenciled in red across them. I tapped on the crate closest to me. A hollow echo told me it was empty. So were the next and the one after that. I tried opening one, but it was as sealed as it appeared. “Strange,” I told the empty room. By one of the crates, I found a flashlight. “The Expedition 1900 Aluminum Limited Edition L.E.D.” was inscribed into the handle. When I turned it on, a burst of light filled the room. The beam was wide and exceptionally strong. I took that baby with me.

While searching my third room, an apparent dumping ground for old lobby furniture, it occurred to me that I should be looking for closets. The tunnel that William Franklin showed me originated in a closet, as had my entrance, so maybe other tunnels started in closets. There was no closet in the bachelor’s room or the wooden-crate room. The third room had a closet, but it was empty, and no amount of tapping on the back wall revealed a secret passageway. I looked at the paisley couches piled around me. There was no way I would ever find anything using this method. I sat down on a couch. A puff of dust rose around me. It stung my eyes and made me sneeze. I had to resist the urge to start crying.

“What am I doing here?” I whispered to the paisley. I got no response and got angry. “Someone is killing people and getting away with it, and I’m the only one who cares.” My voice was rising, but I didn’t care who heard. I punched a cushion, and dust flew back at me. “Stupid dust,” I coughed. “What is wrong with this world? Dammit.” I stood up and paced. “You know it shouldn’t be up to people like me to deal with this. The police should be down here looking for tunnels. Why aren’t they looking for them? Oh, because some old man likes to get his rocks off in a kinky way. So stupid. This whole thing is so fucking stupid.” I threw myself back onto the couch. I dropped my new super flashlight on the ground and covered my face.

Frustrated I threw my hands aside and lay looking up at the ceiling. Directly above me was a fire sprinkler-head. I sat up and looked around. There were three, all linked to the same pipe. I stood on the couch and reached for the closest one. I pushed up, I pulled left, then right, I pulled down. Nothing. I moved one of the chairs under the next one and tried again, but nothing. The third sprinkler brought the same results. I went back to the first and tried twisting it. The couch began to sink. I sat down quickly. The couch was definitely being lowered into the ground; a whole section of the floor was dropping into darkness.

A Tiny Room

The trap door clinked and clanked down into a small room with a very low ceiling. Standing up, I scanned for an exit. A single exposed bulb flicked and then glowed steadily from a socket in the ceiling. I stepped off the platform, and it immediately began to thunk and click and rise. I watched it go. As the floor from above became the ceiling again with a sickening click, I reminded myself that there was a way out of this room.Even though there was no obvious exit, that didn’t mean there wasn’t one—unless this was a trap to catch nosy dog-walkers who wandered around in basements they weren’t supposed to be in. I wrestled with fear for a couple of minutes, staring blankly at the long column that rose out of the floor and supported the platform. Made of dark metal it appeared to be smeared with oil. Maybe they would release gas into the room to knock me out, I thought. “Shut up,” I told myself. “Take a deep breath, and find the exit. OK. Good idea.”

I moved around the tight space, running my hands over the concrete walls, trying to find anything that could be a lever or pressure point. I knocked on the walls and stamped on the floor but heard only solid thunks. Panic rose again, but I pushed it down. There had to be a way out. This place was just a foyer to something bigger. It had to be. I went over the whole room once. Then again. And again. After about a half an hour, the room was becoming stuffy. There was no air coming from anywhere. “I'm going to die here. No you’re not. Shut up. Don’t be dramatic. Don’t be dramatic. I’m in a fucking coffin. Shut up. OK. OK. You’re going to be OK.”

I sat down on the floor and concentrated on calming myself down. Deep breaths in…and out…and in…and out. I took a yoga class once on one of my I’m-going-to-get-in-shape kicks, and the instructor taught us some breathing techniques that I tried to remember. The teacher was this elastic, dark-haired beauty who kept saying, “Good. That’s good, guys,” Even when she was demonstrating something, she would tell us we were doing great. In…and out…and in…and out.

I opened my eyes to the small, dark room. “I’m going to get out of here,” I told it. I stood up and walked the perimeter again. There had to be something. I looked at where the column entered the floor. I touched it. My fingers came back covered in oil. Someone had to oil it. Oil didn’t just get on columns by itself, right? A machine like this had to be maintained. There was no point in having a complicated platform-lowering machine unless it led somewhere. I put my hand back on the column. I felt around the base. There was a slight draft. I breathed in deeply. There was a way out. I just had to find it.

Another walk around the room. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all rough concrete. I ran my hands along the uneven surfaces. I closed my eyes and put both hands on a wall. I pushed. Nothing. I pushed harder, still nothing. I went to the next wall and tried it again. Nothing. The third wall I pushed moved back with a lurch. I snapped my eyes opened. A breeze hit my face and I filled my lungs with the air. It smelled of mold, dirt, and damp. I pushed harder. The whole wall moved back another foot. A string of bulbs illuminated a long hall that ended in what looked like elevator doors.

There is Only One Residence in the Park

I walked down the hall, constantly turning back to see that my wall was still open. I reached the doors and pushed an unmarked button next to them. The doors opened. Inside was a silver room that had to be an elevator. I stepped in. There was no panel of buttons, but after the doors slid shut, I felt it move up. Moments later I was standing at the entrance to a study. A large, dark, wooden desk faced me. On the walls,  paintings of Revolutionary War battles hung. Ships cannoned each other in the dark night, illuminated by orange bursts of ammunition. I stepped into the room, the elevator doors closed behind me, then two bookcases moved to cover the doors.

I walked to the window. A manicured lawn dotted with statues, and in the distance, Hell’s Gate. As far as I could tell, the building was in the park. So I wasn’t in Eighty-Eight East End anymore. But what building was in the park? There is only one building in the park—Gracie Mother-fucking Mansion. The door opened behind me, and the mayor of New York City walked into the room.

He stared stock-still, the door open behind him, one foot in the room, one out. He looked shorter than on TV, but there was no mistaking his stocky frame, his thinning blond hair and his famous blue eyes. “Books move,” I said and pointed at the bookcases hiding the entrance to the elevator. His eyebrows moved together to form a confused expression. “The books move,” I tried again and pointed enthusiastically at the shelves. His eyebrows got closer.

“There’s an elevator,” I managed. His face broke into the most wonderful, charming smile, and I suddenly wished I had a baby so that he could kiss it.

“I don’t know how you got in here,” he laughed a conspiratorial laugh, “or why, but I like you.” He nodded, agreeing with himself.

“I voted for you.”

“Thank you.” He looked genuine when he said it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was breaking into your house. There’s an elevator behind those books.” He walked over to his desk and opened a drawer, then closed it.

“I don’t know about that.” He laughed again. “But one thing I do know is that you are very creative.” Two security men—huge, hulking men in dark, ill-fitting suits—burst through the door. They didn’t pause; they didn't talk; they rushed me. I hit the ground hard. One was on my chest, and I could barely breathe. The other pointed a gun at me.

“Don’t move!” the one on my chest yelled in my face. His breath huffed and puffed onto my cheeks. I gasped for air.

“You’re under arrest,” the one with the gun told me. I gasped for breath.

“Don’t hurt her,” I heard the mayor say. I squeaked. I saw spots. “You’re crushing her.”

“Sir, we need to evacuate you,” I heard a woman’s voice say.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just a confused girl.”

“Don't move.”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Dammit, she can’t breathe.”

“Sir, we need to evacuate you.”

“Get off her.”

“Sir. I must insist.”

“Get off her.” The large man was suddenly off me, and I coughed, desperate for air. I felt bruised and unable to breathe. “Are you OK?” Those famous blue eyes searched my face. He was down on his knees, holding my shoulders. “You’re going to be OK. Breathe slowly. Slow.” I tried to take my time, but panic seized my lungs and I couldn’t breathe. “You got the wind knocked out of you. It will pass,” he told me, but it was not the blow that was constricting my breath. It was fear. I knew that hot breath. I recognized the man who had bowled me over. He was that faceless, hulking figure who barreled off the train away from me, and now I was on the floor in front of him without my breath. “Slowly,” Kurt Jessup told me again, “slowly.” The big man watched me watch him. Did he know I knew who he was? Gasp. “Slowly.” Jessup massaged my shoulder. Gasp. And what about this guy? He was the big man’s boss, Gasp. He had to be involved. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The mayor stood up and offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me off the floor. A woman with a pinched face and an expensive red suit stood next to the desk, trying to hide her indignation. The mayor turned to his bodyguards.