Although the storm drains weren't connected to the sewer system, and although the concrete conduits were relatively dry after weeks of no precipitation, Ted occasionally got a whiff of a dark, rotten odor that, depending on its intensity, sometimes made him grimace and sometimes made him gag. He wished Andy would hurry back with the circuit board that was needed to finish the repair job.
He put down a pair of needle-nose pliers, cupped his hands over his mouth, and blew warm air into them. He leaned past the work lights in order to see beyond the glare and into the unilluminated length of the tunnel.
A flashlight bobbled in the darkness, coming this way. It was Andy, at last.
But why was he running?
Andy Carnes came out of the gloom, breathing fast. He was in his early twenties, about twenty years younger than Ted; they had been working together only a week.
Andy was a beachboy type with white-blond hair and a healthy complexion and freckles that were like waterspots on warm, dry sand. He would have looked more at home in Miami or California; in New York, he seemed misplaced. Now, however, he was so pale that, by contrast, his freckles looked like dark holes in his face. His eyes were wild. He was trembling.
“What's wrong?” Ted asked.
“Back there,” Andy said shakily. “In the branch tunnel. Just this side of the manhole.”
“Something there? What?”
Andy glanced back. “They didn't follow me. Thank God. I was afraid they were after me.”
Ted Gernsby frowned. “What're you talking about?”
Andy started to speak, hesitated, shook his head. Looking sheepish, yet still frightened, he said, “You wouldn't believe it. Not in a million years. I don't believe it, and I'm the one who saw it!”
Impatient, Ted unclipped his own flashlight from the tool belt around his waist. He started back toward the branch drain.
“Wait!” Andy said. “It might be… dangerous to go back there.”
“
“Eyes.” Andy shivered. “That's what I saw first. A lot of eyes shining in the dark, there inside the mouth of the branch line.”
“Is that all? Listen, you saw a few rats. Nothing to worry about. When you've been on this job a while, you'll get used to them.”
“Not rats,” Andy said adamantly. “Rats have red eyes, don't they? These were white. Or… sort of silvery. Silvery-white eyes. Very bright. It wasn't that they reflected my flashlight. No. I didn't even have the flash on them when I first spotted them. They
“What?” Ted demanded. “You still haven't told me what you saw.”
In a tremulous voice, Andy told him.
It was the craziest story Ted had ever heard, but he listened without comment, and although he was sure it couldn't be true, he felt a quiver of fear pass through him. Then, in spite of Andy's protests, he went back to the branch tunnel to have a look for himself. He didn't find anything at all, let alone the monsters he'd heard described. He even went into the tributary for a short distance, probing with the beam of his flashlight. Nothing.
He returned to the work site.
Andy was waiting in the pool of light cast by the big lamps. He eyed the surrounding darkness with suspicion. He was still pale.
“Nothing there,” Ted said.
“A minute ago, there was.”
Ted switched off his flashlight, snapped it onto his tool belt. He jammed his hands into the fur-lined pockets of his quilted jacket.
He said, “This is the first time you've been sub-street with me.”
“So?”
“Ever been in a place like this before?”
Andy said, “You mean in a sewer?”
“It's not a sewer. Storm drain. You ever been underground? ”
“No. What's that got to do with it?”
“Ever been in a crowded theater and suddenly felt… closed in?”
“I'm not claustrophobic,” Andy said defensively.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, you know. I've seen it happen before. A guy is a little uncomfortable in small rooms, elevators, crowded places, though not so uncomfortable that you'd say he was claustrophobic. Then he comes down here on a repair job for the first time, and he starts feeling cramped up, starts to shake, gets short of breath, feels the walls closing in, starts hearing things, imagining things. If that's the case with you, don't worry about it. Doesn't mean you'll be fired or anything like that. Hell, no! They'll just make sure they don't give you another underground assignment; that's all.”
“I saw those things, Ted.”
“Nothing's there.”
“I
X
Down the hall from the late Dominick Carramazza's hotel suite, the next room was large and pleasant, with a queen-size bed, a writing desk, a bureau, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. The color scheme was coral with turquoise accents.
Burt Wicke, the occupant, was in his late forties. He was about six feet tall, and at one time he'd been solid and strong, but now all the hard meat of him was sheathed with fat. His shoulders were big but round, and his chest was big, and his gut overhung his belt, and as he sat on the edge of the bed, his slacks were stretched tight around his hammy thighs. Jack found it hard to tell if Wicke had ever been good-looking. Too much rich food, too much booze, too many cigarettes, too much of everything had left him with a face that looked partly melted. His eyes protruded just a bit and were bloodshot. In that coral and turquoise room, Wicke looked like a toad on a birthday cake.
His voice was a surprise, higher pitched than Jack expected. He had figured Burt Wicke to be slow-moving, slow-talking, a weary and sedentary man, but Wicke spoke with considerable nervous energy He couldn't sit still, either. He got up from the bed, paced the room sat down in a chair, bolted up almost at once, paced, all; the while talking, answering questions — and complaining. He was a non-stop complainer.
“This won't take long, will it? I've already had to cancel one business meeting. If this takes long, I'll have to cancel another.”
“It shouldn't take long,” Jack said.
“I had breakfast here in the room. Not a very good breakfast. The orange juice was too warm, and the coffee wasn't warm enough. I asked for my eggs over well, and they came sunny-side up. You'd think a hotel like this, a hotel with this reputation, a hotel this expensive, would be able to give you a decent room service breakfast. Anyway, I shaved and got dressed. I was standing in the bathroom, combing my hair, when I heard somebody shouting. Then screaming. I stepped out of the bathroom and listened, and I was pretty sure it was all coming from next door there. More than one voice.”
“What were they shouting?” Rebecca asked.
“Sounded surprised, startled. Scared. Real scared.”
“No, what I mean is — do you remember any words they shouted?”
“No words.”
“Or maybe names.”
“They weren't shouting words or names; nothing like that.”
“What were they shouting?”
