“Dr. Frock—” she whispered, unable to continue.
She felt a gentle hand touch her elbow. It was trembling with emotion.
“Let me think for a moment,” Frock said. “Just for a moment, please. How could this be? To think this pathetic collection of bones—that we’ve studied, picked at, disassembled—could be Gregory…” His voice broke. A beam of light shone through the window and highlighted the hand as it slipped from her elbow.
Margo stood motionless, closing her eyes now against the light, feeling the oxygen stream in and out of her lungs. Eventually, she felt able to turn away from the window. But not toward the examining table—she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to face the contents of that table again. Instead, she turned toward Frock. He was there behind her, motionless, his eyes dry and far away.
“We’d better call D’Agosta,” she said.
For a long time, Frock did not speak. Then, silently, nodded his assent.
PART TWO
CUI CI SONO
DEI MOSTRI
For obvious reasons, no reliable census of Manhattan’s underground population exists. However, the Rushing- Bunten study of 1994 indicates that 2,750 persons live in just the small area bordered by Penn Station on the southwest and Grand Central Terminal on the northeast, with the population rising to 4,500 during the winter months. In this writer’s experience, such a number seems conservative.
Similarly, there is no accurate record of the births and deaths that take place in the communities beneath New York. However, given the disproportionate number of drug abusers, criminals, ex-convicts, mentally handicapped, and mentally unstable people who gravitate to the world below the surface, it is clear that the environment can be an extremely difficult and dangerous one. People have given many reasons for retreating from society into the darkness of the railroad tunnels and other subterranean spaces: privacy, security, a deep alienation from society. It has been estimated that, once a person goes underground, the average life expectancy is approximately twenty-two months.
L. Hayward,
(forthcoming)
WEST 63RD STREET stretched toward the Hudson, the procession of magnificent co-ops yielding gradually to manicured brownstones. D’Agosta walked resolutely, keeping his eyes down, feeling acutely self-conscious. The shabby, fragrant form of Pendergast shuffled along just in front of him.
“Hell of a way to spend my afternoon off,” D’Agosta muttered.
Though he found himself itching in many remote places, he decided not to scratch. Scratching meant touching the ancient, greasy London Fog raincoat he wore, or the filthy Kmart plaid polyester shirt, or the shiny, threadbare trousers. He wondered where Pendergast had gotten all this stuff.
On top of all that, the dirt and grease on his face were real, not something out of a makeup tin. Even his shoes were disgusting. But when he’d balked, Pendergast had said simply, “Vincent, your life depends on it.”
He hadn’t even been allowed to carry his gun or shield. “You don’t want to know,” Pendergast had said, “what they’ll do to you if they find a badge.” In fact, D’Agosta thought morosely, this whole expedition was a direct violation of departmental regulations.
Glancing up briefly, he spotted a woman approaching, spotless in a crisp summer dress and high heels, walking a Chihuahua. She stopped abruptly, stepping to the side and averting her eyes with a distasteful look. As Pendergast passed by, the dog suddenly lunged forward, erupting with a shrill volley of squeaky barks. Pendergast shuffled aside, and the dog redoubled its hysterical efforts, tugging against the leash.
Despite his discomfort, or perhaps because of it, D’Agosta found himself growing annoyed at the look of loathing on the woman’s face.
The woman shrank backwards. “You revolting man,” she shrieked at D’Agosta. “Stay away from him, Petit Chou!”
Pendergast grabbed D’Agosta and pulled him around the corner onto Columbus Avenue. “Are you mad?” he said under his breath. As they hurried on, D’Agosta could hear the woman calling, “Help! Those men threatened me!”
Pendergast dashed southward, D’Agosta struggling to keep up. Moving into the shadow of a large driveway halfway down the block, Pendergast knelt quickly above the steel plates set into the sidewalk that marked an emergency subway exit. Using a small hooked tool, he levered up the plates, then ushered D’Agosta down the iron stairs beneath. Closing them behind him, Pendergast followed D’Agosta into the darkness. At the bottom were two sets of train tracks, dimly illuminated. Crossing the tracks, they reached an archway leading to another descending set of stairs, which they took two steps at a time.
On the lowest step, Pendergast stopped. D’Agosta came to a halt beside him in the pitch blackness, fighting for breath. After a few moments, Pendergast switched on a penlight, chuckling. “ ‘Have a nice day’… Vincent, what could you have been thinking?”
“Just trying to be friendly,” D’Agosta said truculently.
“You could have sunk our little expedition before it left the dock. Remember, you’re here simply to complete my disguise. The only way I’m certain to see Mephisto is if I pose as the leader of another community. And I’d never travel without an aide-de-camp.” He gestured with his penlight into a narrow side tunnel. “That way leads east, into his territory.”
D’Agosta nodded.
