know you can’t be here.”
“Ain’t nothing worth doing,” said Morty again. “Ain’t nothing worth doing in the whole wide world.” He kept uselessly shuffling through the papers with his bandaged hands.
“Here,” said Nippen, taking his arm. “Come on, Morty, get up.”
“Hold on,” said Garvey. He took out his notebook. “You’ve been in the tunnels? Have you been in here all day?”
Morty would not answer, still looking away.
“Were you, Morty?” asked Nippen.
Morty nodded reluctantly.
“Did you see anything?” Garvey asked. “Hear anything?”
“Hear all kinds of things,” said Morty.
“Like what?”
“Like trains. And pipes. And machines in the walls. Machines that speak to each other with light. Winking at each other. Blinking songs to one another. And crying. Always crying.”
“Crying?”
“Yuh,” said Morty, nodding. “Everything real unhappy down here. Crying.”
“All right,” said Garvey slowly, waiting.
“And everything sand,” added Morty.
“What?”
“Everything sand. Minutes. Seconds. Tears. Yesterday.”
“Everything’s sand?”
He nodded. “We come in. Stumble about. Holding bit of sand to our chest,” he said. One bandage-wrapped hand formed a cup against his breast. “Fall through our fingers all the time, all the time. We don’t even know. We don’t even know. We all dying and we don’t even know. But ain’t nothing last. Ain’t nothing last forever.” Then he peered up into Garvey’s face and said, “Watchman. The watchman way down low, down below the city, he coming. He got his hand clutched on things, too. Not sand. Seeds.” He leaned forward. “You know what they are?”
“No.”
“They’re tomorrow. More seconds. More futures. He giving them to us. He coming for us. He tries to tell us but we don’t listen. We can’t.”
“So you didn’t see anything?” said Garvey. He flipped his notebook shut.
Morty began rocking back and forth, shaking his head.
“Nothing at all?”
Morty stopped rocking and stared at him. “There are islands down here.”
“Islands?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen them. Islands, lost in the dark. Islands and buildings made of metal, floating around. All abandoned, lost in the dark in between the walls. They speak to each other. Speak to each other as they float. Flick lights on at each other. I hear it, the lights in my head. But sometimes the watchman makes them say other things.”
“Does he?”
“Yeah.”
“What does he make them say?”
Morty shook his head. He clasped his knees together and began rocking back and forth again.
“What does he say, Morty?” asked Nippen.
Morty said, “I am a messenger, sent from afar. You must listen to me. You must listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“I am a messenger, sent from afar. You must listen to me. You must listen.”
“Jesus,” said Garvey. He turned around and began to walk away.
“Sorry,” said Nippen after him. “He gets like this.”
“I am a messenger, sent from afar. You must listen to me. I am a messenger. I am a messenger. I am…”
Garvey hopped back into the trolley tunnel and smoked a cigarette as he waited. Another guttering moan rolled through the tunnels, tapering off into the sound of distant thudding, which soon faded. He wondered what it was. Perhaps the whole city had shifted above, one block moving centimeters over, almost tectonically. He found it hard to believe he could climb a nearby rung and find the normal world still there. The city and this winding, nocturnal labyrinth could not possibly exist together, separated only by a few feet of stone.
Nippen eventually climbed out, then picked up the earpiece set in the wall and bellowed into the tube, “Hey, Charlie? Charlie? It’s Jeff here. Listen, Morty’s in maintenance tunnel”-he stopped to check-“AC-1983 again. Yeah, yeah, I know. He almost got shot by a detective just now. No, you don’t, there be a lot of paperwork if we had to get rid of a goddamn body. Yeah. Yeah. Have a good one.” He hung up and returned to Garvey. “Sorry, again,” he said. “Morty’s like that. He comes down here to listen to all the noises. He thinks he hears voices in them.”
“Really,” said Garvey.
“Yeah. But he’s harmless. Just your average street crazy.”
They began walking down the trolley tunnel again, still waving the torches over the walls and the rails. Soon they saw a string of small, pearly lights far down along the tunnel wall, unmoving. It was disturbing, like seeing only one star in a black night sky.
“That’s the last platform,” said Nippen. “You can just barely see the lamps. It’s farther away than you think. Some people walk for hours, thinking a platform’s just ahead. It’s like that.”
With a sinking heart Garvey continued toward the lights. He’d spent nearly two hours in the dusty tunnels and found no more than a trash can and a homeless man, neither of which seemed to carry much importance for his case. It felt like it was his job to catch the murders that couldn’t possibly file.
“Sometimes I think Morty might not be wrong,” said Nippen at his side.
“About what?”
“About the voices. The voices in the tunnels. I mean, sure, it’s just sounds and all, but if you spend enough time down here it does sound like they’re saying something. What, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just been down here too long,” he said as Garvey climbed up to the platform. He looked off into the tunnels, thinking, then smiled up at Garvey. “Maybe if you spend every day in the tunnels you imagine things.”
“Maybe,” said Garvey.
“Is that it for you? You done here?”
“I sure hope so.” Garvey took off his tin hat and handed it to Nippen. “Thanks,” he said. Then he walked away, smoothing his hair down as he did so, and left the little man leaning up against the platform.
“You have a good afternoon, Detective,” said Nippen. His voice echoed throughout the empty station.
“Goodbye, Mr. Nippen,” said Garvey.
“And good luck with your case!” he called, and laughed.
It was not until much later in the day that any of Garvey’s efforts were rewarded. He sent the trash can uptown to the Department, vaguely mentioning it might be evidence, and then began walking the blocks near all the previous stations the trolley had stopped at. It was dreary work, and he was not entirely sure what he was looking for. Just seeing if there was something nearby that those people on the trolley had been doing, some indication of who they were and why they’d been there.
He was deep in the Shanties in one of the poorest sections of town when he saw it. A sign hanging on the front of a bar, made of old, weathered wood; yet painted on the sign itself was a white hammer set on a black bell, and below that were words telling passersby it was the Third Ring Pub.
Garvey took out his sketch of his John Doe’s tattoo and held it up. It matched perfectly.
It was about as far from an upscale place as he could imagine. It stank of old beer even from the street and the door had been broken in numerous times, the innards of its heavy lock exposed in the shattered wood. Garvey braced himself, then pushed the door open and walked in.
The ceiling was low and the splintered wooden floor was covered in sawdust. Garvey began to take measure of his surroundings, but before he could he realized the quiet susurrus of bar talk had died the moment he walked in. He looked around. The corners were packed with men in overalls and threadbare canvas pants, all of them standing up to look at him. Their forearms thick and scarred and their faces bright red with drink and years of work.
