Setrakian said, “You sent the virus somewhere else?”
“He’s going to destroy it. Pete will err on the side of caution—I know him too well.” Eph looked at the televisions for sale along the wall.
They found one that did. It wasn’t long before the story rolled around.
They showed Eph’s photograph from his CDC identification card. Then a blurry snippet of his encounter with Redfern, and one of the two look-alikes carrying a body bag from the hospital room. It said that Dr. Ephraim Goodweather was being sought as “a person of interest” in the disappearance of the corpses of the Flight 753 airline passengers.
Eph stood motionless. He thought of Kelly watching this. Of Zack.
“Those bastards,” he hissed.
Setrakian switched off the television. “The only good news about this is that they still consider you a threat. That means there is still time. Still hope. A chance.”
Nora said, “You sound like you have a plan.”
“Not a plan. A strategy.”
Eph said, “Tell us.”
“Vampires have their own laws, both savage and ancient. One such commandment that endures is that a vampire cannot cross moving water. Not without human assistance.”
Nora shook her head. “Why not?”
“The reason perhaps lies in their very creation, so long ago. The lore has existed in every known culture on the planet, for all time. Mesopotamians, Ancient Greeks and Egyptians, Hebrews, the Romans. Old as I am, I am not old enough to know. But the prohibition holds even today. Giving us something of an advantage here. Do you know, what is New York City?”
Nora got it right away. “An island.”
“An archipelago. We are surrounded on all sides by water right now. The airline passengers, they went to morgues in all five boroughs?”
“No,” said Nora. “Only four. Not Staten Island.”
“Four, then. Queens and Brooklyn are both separated from the mainland, by the East River and the Long Island Sound respectively. The Bronx is the only borough connected to the United States.”
Eph said, “If only we could seal off the bridges. Set up fire lines north of the Bronx, east of Queens at Nassau…”
“Wishful thinking at this point,” said Setrakian. “But, can you see, we do not have to destroy every one of them individually. They are all of one mind, operating in a hive mentality. Controlled by a single intelligence. Who is very likely landlocked somewhere here in Manhattan.”
“The Master,” said Eph.
“The one who came over in the belly of the airplane. The owner of the missing coffin.”
Nora said, “How do you know he’s not back near the airport? If he can’t cross the East River on his own.”
Setrakian smiled flatly. “I feel very confident that he did not journey all the way to America to hide out in Queens.” He opened the rear door, the steps leading to his basement armory. “What we have to do now is hunt him down.”
Liberty Street, the World Trade Center Site
VASILIY FET, the exterminator with the New York City Bureau of Pest Control, stood at the construction fence above the great “bathtub” foundation at the site of the former World Trade Center complex. He had left his handcart in his van, parked over on West Street, in a Port Authority lot with the other construction vehicles. In one hand he carried rodenticide and light tunnel gear in a red-and-black Puma sport bag. In his other he held his trusty length of rebar, found at a job site once, a one-meter-long steel rod perfect for probing rat burrows and pushing bait inside—and occasionally beating back aggressive or panicked vermin.
He stood between the Jersey barriers and the construction fence at the corner of Church and Liberty, among the orange-and-white caution barrels along the wide pedestrian walkway. People walked past, striding toward the temporary subway entrance at the other end of the block. There was a sense of new hope in the air here, warm, like the abundant sunshine that blessed this destroyed part of the city. The new buildings were starting to go up now, after years of planning and excavation, and it was as though this terrible black bruise was finally starting to heal.
Only Fet noticed the oily smears discoloring the vertical edges of the curb. The droppings around the parking barriers. The gnaw marks scoring the lid of the corner garbage can. Telltale signs of surface rat presence.
One of the sandhogs took him down the haul road and into the basin. He pulled up at the foot of the structure that would become the new underground WTC PATH station, with five tracks and three underground platforms. For now, the silver trains entered through daylight and open air as they made their way along the bottom of the bathtub toward the temporary platforms.
Vasiliy stepped out of the pickup, down among the concrete footings, looking up seven stories to the street above him. He was in the pit where the towers had fallen. It was enough to take his breath away.
Vasiliy said, “This is a holy place.”
The sandhog had a bushy, gray-flecked mustache, and wore a loose flannel shirt over a tucked-in flannel shirt—both heavy with soil and sweat—and blue jeans with muddy gloves tucked into the belt. His hard hat was covered with stickers. “I always thought so,” he said. “Recently I’m not so sure.”
Fet looked at him. “Because of the rats?”
“There’s that, sure. Gushing out of the tunnels the past few days, like we’ve struck rat oil. But that’s fallen off now.” He shook his head, looking up at the slurry wall erected beneath Vesey Street, seventy sheer feet of concrete studded with tiebacks.
Fet said, “Then what?”
The guy shrugged. Sandhogs are a proud lot. They built New York City, its subways and sewers, every tunnel, pier, skyscraper, and bridge foundation. Every glass of clean water comes out of the tap thanks to a sandhog. A family job, different generations working together on the same sites. Dirty work done right. So the guy was reluctant to sound reluctant. “Everyone’s in kind of a funk. We had two guys walk off, disappear. Clocked in for a shift, went down into the tunnels, but never clocked out. We’re twenty-four/seven here, but nobody wants night shifts anymore. Nobody wants to be underground. And these are young guys, my daredevils.”
Fet looked ahead to the tunnel openings where the subterranean structures would be joined beneath Church Street. “So no new construction these past few days? Breaking new ground?”
“Not since we got the basin hollowed out.”
“And all this started with the rats?”
“Around then. Something’s come over this place, just in the past few days.” The sandhog shrugged, shaking it off. He had a plain white hard hat for Vasiliy. “And I thought I had a dirty job. What makes someone want to become a rat catcher anyway?”
Vasiliy put on the hat, feeling the wind change near the mouth of the underground passage. “I guess I’m addicted to the glamour.”
The sandhog looked at Vasiliy’s boots, his Puma bag, the steel rod. “Done this before?”
“Gotta go where the vermin are. There’s a lot of city under this city.”
“Tell me about it. You got a flashlight, I hope? Some bread crumbs?”
“Think I’m good.”
Vasiliy shook the sandhog’s hand, then started inside.
The tunnel was clean at first, where it had been shored up. He followed it out of the sunlight, yellow lights strung every ten or so yards, marking his way. He was under where the original concourse had been located. This big burrow would, when all was said and done, connect the new PATH station to the WTC transportation hub located between towers two and three, a half block away. Other feed tunnels connected to city water, power, and
