over. Since most scrap processors required a driver’s license for each transaction, Paul had obtained two phony licenses. When he sold scrap, he did it under the aliases of Mike Heimbuch or Jeff Lombardo. He’d practiced signing their names on sheets of paper until both signatures looked different from each other—and nothing like his real signature.
Since the economy’s downturn, he’d had to scavenge more metal than ever. Prices for copper, lead, and zinc had plummeted to levels lower than those during the Great Depression. Paul had come to Philadelphia because he’d heard that the pickings were good, and he hoped he could make up for the lower prices with a higher take. He’d never been to the city before, so he’d just driven aimlessly until he found a location that looked promising. The deeper into the city he went, the worse the neighborhoods became. Paul locked the doors and stared straight ahead, not wanting to attract attention.
Now, as he gazed out at the decrepit old Victorian home across from him, he wondered if he should scout around for another location. Surely this place had been picked clean already. It looked positively ancient—older and bigger than any of the row homes located farther up the block. He studied it for a moment longer and decided that he should at least take a closer look.
Paul got out of the van and quietly closed the door behind him. He glanced up and down the street, making sure nobody was watching him. Farther up the block, he saw a group of people gathered on a porch step, but he couldn’t tell if they were looking in his direction or not. Near them, on the other side of the street, a lone hooker leaned against a brick wall, adjusting her skirt. Otherwise, the street was deserted. No cars or pedestrians. Paul turned his gaze skyward. The clouds were still covering the moon. He was pretty sure that even if the group on the porch steps was looking his way, they wouldn’t be able to see him. It was dark.
He made his way to the rear of the van, opened the door, and pulled a large toolbox toward himself. Inside were various items that he used from time to time: flashlights, wire cutters, metal shearers, bolt cutters, crowbars, a tool belt, screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, chisels, leather gloves, and a small, handheld acetylene torch. He slipped on the gloves and flexed his hands. Then he grabbed a flashlight and a flathead screwdriver. His intention was to quickly check the house. If it looked promising, he’d return to the van and retrieve the tools for the job.
Paul approached the house cautiously, alert for any sign that squatters or other undesirables inhabited it. The structure was silent. He tiptoed up the sagging porch. The boards groaned beneath his feet. He reached out and tried the door. It was locked. He rattled the brass knob, surprised at its resilience, and made a note to pry it off later. While not as in demand as copper, brass still fetched a good market price.
Paul moved around to the side of the house, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the coast was still clear. When he got out of sight of the street, he approached one of the first-floor windows and peered inside. It was pitch black. He turned on the flashlight and shined it into the window. The light reflected back to him. It took Paul a moment to realize that the glass had been painted black. A quick check verified that the rest of the windows on this side of the house had also been painted over. Shaking his head, he listened one more time. The house was still quiet. Paul pulled out the screwdriver and rapped the corner of one pane. The glass cracked, but did not shatter— exactly what he’d hoped would happen. Using the screwdriver, he pried the triangular wedge of glass loose from the window, then shined his light inside, peering into the hole.
He saw nothing but brick.
Now he was intrigued. If someone had taken the trouble to prevent entry in that manner, then there was a possibility that the building had remained free of squatters or looters. There was no telling what he might find inside.
He moved on to a second window and repeated the process. Behind it, he found another brick wall, but the masonry was a different color and texture. Paul assumed that it had been built at a different time than the previous wall.
He walked around the house and found a back door. It, too, was locked and just as sturdy as the other. Paul had no doubt that he could break either door down, but doing so would make a lot of noise and might attract unwanted attention. Instead, he decided to see if the place had a basement, and if so, if there was outside access—storm doors or even just a set of stairs. He searched for several minutes, and while he determined that the building did indeed have a basement, there was no access from out here. There was, however, a nearby manhole cover. Paul wondered if the tunnel led into the cellar somehow. That happened sometimes in these old houses.
He returned to the van and fetched a thin but strong cable. Then he went back to the manhole cover. He threaded the cable through the lid, braced himself, then lifted the cover, grunting with exertion. Pain coursed through his lower back, and the tendons stood out on his neck, but the manhole cover moved. An inch. Then two. Finally, he moved it out of the way, revealing the hole. He let the cover drop on the ground with a muffled clang.
Sweat dribbled down his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand. Manhole covers were always a bitch—but they were also worth good money. He’d have to load this one into the van before he was done.
Paul picked up his flashlight and shined the beam down into the shaft. A rusty iron ladder had been built into the side. It was dark at the bottom. He heard the sound of trickling water. A noxious stench wafted up from the tunnel. Paul winced, turning his head aside. He smelled sewage, obviously, but there was something else, as well. Something he couldn’t identify.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. “I came this far. Might as well check it out.”
He returned to the van and put on the tool belt, adjusting it to fit around his prodigious belly. He equipped himself with a variety of tools—the portable acetylene torch, bolt cutters, crowbar, screwdrivers, and other items. There was no telling what he might need once he got inside, and he didn’t feel like running back and forth to the van. Satisfied, he returned to the hole. Then, tucking the flashlight under his arm, Paul started down the ladder and disappeared from sight.
EIGHT
Javier clamped his hand over Kerri’s mouth before she could scream again. She squirmed against him, her mouth hot on his palm, and let loose with a string of muffled squeals. Javier squeezed her tighter, and Kerri’s hands flailed, slapping at him. He barely noticed. Instead, he stared wide eyed at Heather, who had just emerged from a room to their right. Her expression of astonishment matched his own.
“Javier?”
“Heather! Holy shit, where have you been? Are you okay?”
Kerri went slack. Javier released her and embraced Heather, hugging his girlfriend tight.
“Are you okay?” he repeated. “When you took off like that . . .”
“I’m fine . . . now.” Sighing, Heather slumped against him. “Feel like I’m going to throw up. That’s probably the adrenaline.”
He stroked her hair. “Are you sure? You cut your foot.”
“It stopped bleeding, but it still hurts. I lost my shoes. I’m a little banged up, but nothing serious. I was so worried that you guys were . . . that he’d gotten you.”
Javier squeezed her tighter. “We got away. So did Brett.”
“Where is he?” Heather glanced around, looking for him.
“We don’t know. Kerri saw him take off in the other direction. We’re guessing that thing went after him.”
“Oh my God. I hope he’s okay. And Steph, too.”
Neither Javier or Kerri responded.
Heather’s eyes grew wide. “Steph’s okay, right? She got away, too?”
“She’s dead,” Javier said. “That . . . big guy got her.”
“Steph . . .”
Something scratched behind the walls—light, feathery scuffling noises. Heather and Kerri both jumped, startled by the sound.
“Just a rat,” Javier whispered. “Ignore it.”
Heather wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then brushed tears from her eyes. Javier watched her, cracking a slow smile.
“What’s so funny?” she asked. “How can you be smiling, with everything that’s happened?”
