the bourbon-and-buttermilk voice. But the far door had opened and Agent Pendergast was standing just within, his slim, unmistakable figure silhouetted by the soft light of the room beyond.
Hayward stepped inside and Pendergast shut the door behind her. Though the room was not especially large, its high ceiling gave it a sense of formal grandeur. Hayward looked around curiously. Three of the walls were painted a deep rose, edged above and below in black molding. Light came from behind what appeared to be wafer- thin pieces of agate, framed in scallop-shaped bronze fixtures set well above eye level. The fourth wall was covered in black marble. Across the entire face of the marble, a thin sheet of water fell like a stream of glass from ceiling to floor, gurgling silently into the grill that ran along its base. A few small leather sofas were placed about the room, their bases hidden by the thick nap of the carpet. The only decoration consisted of a few paintings and several twisted plants, scattered here and there on lacquer tables. The room was fastidiously clean, without a smudge or a particle of dust. Though she knew there must be other doors leading into the interior of the apartment, their outlines were too well concealed for her to make them out.
“Sit anywhere, Sergeant Hayward,” Pendergast said. “May I offer you refreshment of some kind?”
“No thanks,” Hayward replied, selecting the seat closest to the door and letting the soft black leather creep luxuriously up around her. She stared at the painting on the nearest wall, an impressionist landscape of haystacks and pink-tinged sunlight that seemed somehow familiar. “Nice place. Though the building’s kind of weird.”
“We tenants would prefer to call it eccentric,” Pendergast said. “But many would have agreed with you over the years, I suppose. The Dakota, so named because when it was built in 1884, this part of town seemed as remote as Indian Territory. Still, it has a solidity, a kind of permanence, that I like. Built on bedrock, walls almost thirty inches thick at ground level. But you didn’t come here to listen to a lecture on architecture. Actually, I’m grateful you came at all.”
“You kidding?” Hayward asked. “And pass up a chance to tour Agent Pendergast’s crib? You’re kind of a legend among the rank and file these days. As if you didn’t know.”
“How reassuring,” Pendergast replied, slipping into a chair. “But this is the extent of the tour, I’m afraid. I rarely entertain visitors. Still, it seemed the best place for our chat.”
“And why’s that?” Hayward asked as she looked around. Then her eyes lighted on the closest of the lacquered tables. “Hey!” she pointed. “That’s a bonsai plant. A miniature tree. My
“
“Nine
“Not really. Bonsai is one of my passions. It is an art that is never finished. And I find its blend of natural and artificial aesthetics intoxicating.” He crossed one leg over the other, his black-suited form almost invisible against the dark leather, and waved one hand dismissively. “But stop encouraging me. A moment ago, you asked why I thought this the best place to talk. It’s because I wish to learn more about the underground homeless.”
Hayward was silent.
“You’ve worked with them,” Pendergast continued. “You’ve
“Nobody else thinks so.”
“If they gave the matter any thought, they would. In any case, I can understand why you’re sensitive about your thesis. And it seemed to me you might be more comfortable discussing it off duty, someplace far away from headquarters or the station house.”
The man had a point, Hayward thought. This strange, soothing room, with its quiet waterfall and stark beauty, seemed about as far from headquarters as the moon. Sitting back in the intoxicating softness of the chair, she felt her natural wariness draining away. She thought about taking off her bulky gun belt but decided she was too comfortable to move.
“I’ve been down twice,” Pendergast said. “The first time merely to test my disguise and do some simple reconnaissance, and the second time to find Mephisto, the homeless leader. But when I found him, I discovered I’d underestimated a couple of things. The depth of his convictions. And the size of his following.”
“Nobody knows, exactly, how many live below ground,” Hayward said. “The only thing you can be sure of is the number’s bigger than you expect. As for Mephisto, he’s probably the most famous mayor down there. His community’s the biggest. Actually, I heard it’s several communities: a core community of troubled Vietnam vets and sixties relics, with others joining after the headless murders started. The deeper tunnels below Central Park are crawling with him and his pals.”
“What surprised me was the variety I encountered,” Pendergast went on. “I expected to find one flawed personality type predominating, perhaps two. But instead I found an entire cross section of humanity.”
“Not all homeless go below,” Hayward said. “But the ones afraid of the shelters, the ones that hate the soup kitchens and subway gratings, the loners, the cult freaks—they tend to go down. First to the subway tunnels. Then farther. Believe me, there’re lots of places to hide.”
Pendergast nodded. “Even on my first trip, I was astonished at the vastness. I felt like Lewis and Clark, setting out to explore unmapped territory.”
“You don’t know the half of it. There’s two thousand miles of abandoned or half-dug tunnels, and another five thousand miles still in use. Underground chambers, sealed up and forgotten.” Hayward shrugged. “And you hear stories. Like about bomb shelters, secretly built by the Pentagon in the fifties to protect Wall Street types. Some of them are still stocked with running water, electricity, canned food. Engine rooms filled with abandoned machinery, ancient sewers made from wooden pipes. An entire freakin’ lost world.”
Pendergast sat forward in his chair. “Sergeant Hayward,” he said quietly. “Have you heard of the Devil’s Attic?”
Hayward nodded. “Yeah. I’ve heard of it.”
“Can you tell me where it is, or how I can locate it?”
