customers. The rest were left to neglect. Access to the system was restricted and scattered throughout the city, mostly via manhole, but here and there you’d find a building that had a freight elevator connected to the tunnels.
Donovan knew this because one of his first assignments as a uniformed cop was to patrol certain accessible sections of the tunnels to make sure no trespassers were skulking around.
It didn’t surprise him that the trail from the Suburban led down here. He was convinced that Gunderson and his crew had used the tunnels to avoid capture after the Northland First amp; Trust robbery.
The ladder descended into the blackest darkness Donovan had ever known. Dropping to the ground, he silently cursed as he sank ankle deep into icy water.
Scavengers had long ago stripped the tunnel system clean, taking the much needed reciprocating pumps along with them. Without the pumps, rain and river water had seeped into several of the drifts and remained there, stagnating.
The water sloshed, echoing through the darkness, as Donovan turned and took his flashlight out, flicked it on.
He was in middle of a grand union, a three-way intersection of tunnels. The tunnels were no more than seven feet high, probably less than that in width, and made of nonrein-forced concrete.
The question was, which one to take?
His shoes sucked mud as he moved. Lifting a foot out of the water, he shone his light on it, wondering if this was where Gunderson had picked up the mud on his work boots. Could he have been making preparations down here before he grabbed Jessie?
The mud might explain the boot prints on the bus-but what about the fertilizer? Where had it come from?
Maybe A.J. had been right, maybe Gunderson had been cooking up a combustible, and Donovan wondered if he should take Al Cleveland’s warning a little more seriously. Like the train yard, this place might be booby- trapped.
Yet, as he moved forward, fanning the narrow beam of his flashlight over the seamless tunnel walls, he felt no threat. Except for the mud and the water and the missing trolley wire that had been stripped away by scavengers, the place seemed undisturbed. He doubted much had changed down here since the system was abandoned. And despite Gunderson’s love of explosives, the idea of a booby trap just didn’t feel right.
Not here, at least.
So what, then, was this all about? Why had the scent from Jessie’s sweater led him here? Gunderson had told him that she was buried somewhere. Had he been speaking only figuratively? If so, forty feet below street level would certainly qualify.
But what about the oxygen tanks? The air down here was cool and a bit musty, but plentiful enough to keep someone alive. So why had Gunderson warned that Jessie would soon be gasping for breath?
It didn’t make sense.
As Donovan stood there, trying to puzzle it out, the slosh of the murky water gradually subsided and he thought he heard a sound.
He stood perfectly still. Listened.
Yes.
It was faint and muffled, coming from somewhere far off. It sounded like…
Like someone crying.
Donovan’s heart kicked up a notch. Jessie?
He wanted to move, to spring into action, but the noise of the splashing water would make it impossible to determine which direction the sound was coming from.
He shone his light toward the two adjoining drifts, wishing he had the dogs down here to pick up Jessie’s scent. Listening intently, he tried to trace the source of the sound and finally settled on the tunnel to his left, knowing he could double back if he had to.
He pressed forward, traveling several yards into it, feeling the floor beneath him angle downward. He sank deeper into the water as he progressed, until it was nearly at waist level. The crying grew louder with each step.
It was Jessie. He was sure of it.
Who else could it be?
The burial, the oxygen tanks, were a lie. Gunderson had been playing him, that’s all. Instead of putting her into the ground, he’d left Jessie alone down here-cold, frightened, and unable to find her way out in the dark.
The crying was still muffled, but he was close enough to recognize her voice.
“Jessie!” he shouted, sweeping the flashlight beam wildly.
The crying continued unabated.
“Jessie, it’s me! It’s Dad! Can you hear me?”
No answer. Just the crying.
Donovan tried to pick up speed, but the water was like a living force, slowing him down. He half expected something dark and malevolent to reach up and grab his legs.
Then all at once he was at the end of the tunnel, blocked by a concrete bulkhead. The bulkhead housed a steel door that looked like something from a German U-boat. Doors like this had been placed in the drifts that dipped under the river. A safety precaution in case of a collapse.
The crying came from beyond the door.
“Jessie, can you hear me?”
No response.
“Jessie?”
She was probably in shock. Possibly drugged.
“Hang on, kiddo. I’ll have you out of there in a heartbeat.”
Clenching the slender barrel of the flashlight between his teeth, Donovan gripped the wheel mounted in the center of the door and — Al Cleveland’s warning flashed through his mind again:
Booby-trapped.
What if the thing was booby-trapped?
He froze, stopping just short of turning the wheel. Grabbing the flashlight, he shone it along the seam of the door, looking for telltale wires.
Nothing.
The lower half of the door was submerged in at least three feet of water. Popping the flashlight between his teeth again, he crouched, sinking to his shoulders, a pungent stench filling his nostrils as he ran his hands along the seam.
No wires. No molded bits of plastique. No signs of anything unusual. Satisfied, he stood up, his clothes now plastered to his skin, the chilly air enveloping him.
Jessie’s sobs continued unbroken.
“I’m coming, kiddo, I’m coming.”
Donovan shivered. There was a chance that Gunderson had rigged the other side of the door, but he decided to trust his initial instincts.
He grabbed hold of the wheel.
It groaned as he spun it three-quarters of a turn, then a latch clicked and the seal was broken.
So far so good.
He pulled on the door and the water around him began to swirl, shifting toward the adjoining tunnel, where it remained at waist level.
Jessie’s sobs were much clearer now. Very close.
He shone the Maglite into the darkness. “Jessie?”
Still no response.
As he crossed the threshold, his left foot got caught on something solid and he stumbled, plunging face-first into the murky liquid. Momentarily seized by panic, he did a quick half twist, then found the floor and stood up, drenched now from head to toe.
Sonofabitch.
