Creepers (14 page)

Corelli sat back down and lit a cigarette. "Now, shall we talk, or do we play some more pussyfoot?"

"I'll have your badge for this, Corelli," Dolchik sputtered. "Breaking into my office, invading my private files--"

"They aren't private, goddammit, they're the property of everyone in this city who's ever ridden the subway." Frank slammed his fist down on the desk.

"Jesus, a goddamned knight on a white charger, a one-man savior of the subway." Dolchik sadly shook his head.

"What's your stake in this, Stan?" Corelli asked to keep the subject alive.

"I have no stake in anything!"

"You've been keeping a file on these disappearances. That means something."

"I keep files on a lot of things," Dolchik countered. "Look for yourself. You seem to know where everything in my office is." .For a second the muscles along his jaw fluttered with suppressed rage.

"I suppose I deserve that," Corelli said with mock humility, "but this goes far beyond my feelings about you, or vice versa. The fact is, there has been a string of disappearances going back well over a year, and you've been monitoring them all."

"This is bullshit, Corelli." Dolchik pushed his chair back as if the interview were over.

"Sit down, fat-ass," Frank hissed, momentarily losing control of himself.

"I'll have your badge for this," Dolchik threatened, but he resumed his place nevertheless. "I've seen punks like you come and go. You're a dime a dozen, turning the subway into your own private Coliseum so you can do battle with the age-old forces of evil. Well, this is the twentieth century and you're doing nothing more than interfering with things that are none of your business." He snatched the remains of a dead cigar from an ashtray, lit it, and blew the filthy smoke directly into Corelli's face.

"Either answer me straight about the file or I take my photostats of your report--along with a report of my own--to the mayor, then to every newspaper editor in town."

Dolchik paled at the suggestion. "What do you want to know?"

"What's the connection? What links them all together?"

"I don't know if there is one." Dolchik shrugged. "Honest, Frank, I've kept the file, not knowing if it meant anything or not. You know how it is: it's a big city, too big. Even the government is out of control. How often do you put two and two together and actually get four?"

"Once is enough," Frank countered. "And it looks to me like that file is that once."

"So I put some random reports together. Hell, Frank, you know this office gets more shit dropping into it than the hole in an outhouse. Some of it gets filed, most of it gets thrown away. The missing-persons reports happened to get filed."

"And stashed away in a locked file cabinet?"

"It wasn't locked until yesterday; you know that." Dolchik shook his head. "You've got it all wrong. Jesus, you ain't gonna leave me any secrets, are you?" He squashed the smoldering butt into an ashtray and pulled himself from his chair, exhaling loudly with the exaggerated exertion. A second later he opened the file drawer and reached deep into it and produced a pint bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch. "With the fucking lushes around here, this little baby wouldn't stand a chance if it weren't locked up. Want a hit?"

"No, thanks." Dolchik was lying through his teeth about the file.

"Guess I'll pass, too, then." He returned the bottle and found his place again. "Does that explain the locked drawer good enough for you?"

"It's an explanation." Corelli tried to remember if there'd been a bottle in the drawer when he'd opened it. Dammit, he couldn't remember. The Scotch was a good excuse--too good. Either Dolchik was telling the truth or he was turning out to be one cagey sonofabitch. The first explanation was highly unlikely--and the second scared the shit out of Corelli.

"You know, Frank, you are the most suspicious cop I've ever seen. What possible reason would I have for hiding those reports? If I'd hidden them."

"Maybe you'd begun to see something in the pattern of disappearances that scared you."

Dolchik laughed too loudly, too brashly. "Scared me? If I don't get scared every day watching the hoodlums who make this subway their home, how's a bunch of reports gonna do it?" He choked on the laugh, cleared his throat, then dropped the congenial facade. "Besides, a missing-persons report like the one on that Comstock dame don't mean shit. Who's to say she really disappeared? I've never cross-checked with the NYPD to see if they stayed disappeared upstairs," he scoffed, using verbal shorthand for the world of the city outside the subway. "And you can't trust the word of token-booth clerks. Most of them can't count beyond ten, anyway. And they're usually the ones who report these quote missing persons unquote."

"Yeah, maybe you're right," Corelli agreed in his most polished and obsequious voice. Dolchik was busting his ass to put him off the scent; it might be better to let him believe he'd done just that. "Maybe I've been letting my imagination run away with me."

"Glad to see you've come around to my way of thinking," Dolchik said cheerfully. "It's about time we began to see eye to eye on some things, Frank." He plucked a fresh cigar from his top drawer, bit off the end, and lit up. "We've got enough trouble down in this hellhole without fighting among ourselves, what say?"

"The frustration's just got to me. I've been acting like a real asshole, I guess."

"Forget it," the captain said magnanimously. "We're all entitled to our share of mistakes."

"I just thought I might be onto something. You know how it is," Corelli said meekly.

"Hell, the next thing you know, you'll be telling me the creepers are coming to get us." Dolchik cackled with laughter.

Corelli smiled at the idea, too. The creepers were subway legend. There were many stories of the wild band of misfits and monsters who haunted the tracks and tunnels of the subway late at night. But so far no one had ever caught one, or even seen one and been able to prove it. No, the creepers were fantasy concocted to while away the long hours underground doing a thankless job. And until the myth was proved real, there was no point discussing them seriously at all.

Dolchik walked to the office door. The interview was over. He waited for Corelli to join him, but he remained where he was, his back to the door. "One more thing, Captain; I need a couple of days..."

"Sure, take them. Get away for a while, shake off the grime of the subway." Dolchik sounded almost relieved at the thought of having Corelli out from under his feet "But just take a couple of days--today and tomorrow. Saturday morning I want you here full-time. No more shit No more disappearances. No more nothing. You got that?"

"It's ringing clear as a bell." Corelli got up lazily and sauntered to the door. "You're all right, Dolchik."

"That and a token will get you a ride on the subway," he said uneasily. "Now, get the fuck out of here, and for Christ's sake, don't tell the other guys what a pussy I've been with you or they'll all be in here telling me they've seen ghosts they want to investigate."

Five minutes later Dolchik watched Corelli chat with a couple of the men, go to his desk to get his wallet and briefcase, then leave. Dolchik waited five minutes more before picking up the phone, just to be sure he wouldn't be interrupted. He dialed and waited. Calling this number was familiar, almost routine. The enormity of the task he and the others were about to embark on no longer scared him. And liaising between the underworld of the subway and the glittering heights of the most exclusive and clandestine government circles no longer intimidated him. Stan Dolchik was task-force commander for this operation, and as such, that made him one helluva special guy.

"It's Dolchik . . ." He lowered his voice when the phone was answered. "I gave him the bottle-of-Scotch bullshit, but I don't think he bought it." He took a long, deep breath. "It looks like we're in trouble. Something's got to be done about Frank Corelli--fast."

Corelli made up a list of things to do before the afternoon was over. He had the uneasy feeling that time was running out Not the two days Dolchik had allotted him, but the leeway that someone else--the unknown quantity, the "big boys"--controlled. He'd called Dr. Geary at New York Mercy to ask a few more questions (and to drop Dolchik's name) and was told that the doctor was gone for the day. It was possible, of course, but Frank suspected he'd never be able to reach the good doctor again. New York Mercy was a big hospital, with big defenses to protect its own--if need be.

In fact, New York Mercy Hospital itself seemed to be taking on an ominous importance in the case. The TA report on Lester Baker stated that he'd been admitted to Columbia Presbyterian on 168th Street. Yet, when Corelli visited there not more than an hour after leaving Dolchik, the nurse on duty said Baker had been dismissed, sent home. Corelli questioned her, and finally, after a few threats of official reprisals, she'd admitted that Baker had been transferred, not dismissed. Transferred to New York Mercy.

A blaring car horn snapped Corelli back to reality. He nodded good-naturedly at the red-faced driver of the car he'd almost hit, then stepped on the gas. Minutes later, after swerving in and out of traffic, he was in front of New York Mercy Hospital on upper Fifth Avenue. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and was surprised to see how firmly his jaw was set. Well, what did he expect, after all? A week ago he'd been just another transit cop slogging through the sewer of the subway system, dealing with the crime and the mundane pettiness of the riders. But today he was up to his neck in something he just couldn't pinpoint. Something was going on around him, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that the cover-up surrounding it was very well-orchestrated. The missing persons. The kidnapping of Lisa Hill. Ted Slade's death. The attack on Lester Baker. And Dolchik's threats. They were all tied together, but what the hell did it all mean?

Talking personally to Lester Baker should clear up a few things. Thank God he was still alive. The clerk at the hospital information desk was a woman in her late forties. She was pinch-faced, bespectacled, and wore her shock of yellow hair--the color of banana skins--in a tight bun. As Corelli approached, she examined his handsome face, then surreptitiously slid her glasses from her nose; they fell to her ample bosom, bounced once, then rested in place.

"May I help you?" Her voice was surprisingly deep and rich.

"A friend of mine is a patient here and I've forgotten his room number."

"Happens all the time," she said cheerfully. "If you'll just give me the name..."

"Baker. Lester Baker."

"I'll check." She rescued her glasses and slapped them into place, then nipped through the card catalog. A minute later she was still looking.

"Trouble?" Corelli asked helpfully. Either she was a real dunce or she was stalling for time.

"I can't seem to find the name." The confidence in her voice was lost.

"It's Baker. B-a-k-e-r." Something was wrong. She was obviously stalling, trying to decide what to do next. A slight flush had risen in her cheeks.

"I don't see the name Lester Baker," she repeated nervously. "But if you'll wait, I'll check the master file...in the office." The flush had washed over her neck and cheeks. She looked a little frightened, too.

"That's very thoughtful," Corelli said. He quickly scanned the lobby for the exits. The only security guards looked bored and listless; there'd be no problem getting by them--if he had to get out in a hurry.

"I'll be right back, so don't go away," she chirped. "Oh, one more thing: may I please have your name?"

"Why?"

"Well, if I find your Mr. Baker...I'm sure he'd want to know you're here." Her voice faltered and broke.

"Sure." Corelli smiled widely. "It's Duck. Donald Duck."

The receptionist's eyes widened, and she blushed deeper. Without another word she turned and headed toward the back office. The minute her back was turned, Frank walked quickly to the front door and left.

While Corelli talked with the receptionist, six floors above them in a private room in the geriatric wing of the hospital, Lester Baker lay in bed, drifting lazily between consciousness and sleep. Fifteen minutes earlier he'd received an injection for pain. The nurse complained he wasn't due for more medication, but Lester was a good actor. In the end, she gave him a hefty dose of Demerol and made him promise not to give her away. The pain from his wounds wasn't so bad, he reflected, and the drug sure felt good. And it was legal...and free!

Lester's private room was quiet and warm. With the Venetian bunds turned against the early-afternoon sun, he felt like a caterpillar dozing in the safety of his tent high in the trees. In the hall outside his room, muted voice and call bells punctuated his languor with a syncopated irregularity. Lester had seen the policeman watching him from the empty room adjacent to his, but he didn't care. After what he'd told them last night, he was a star witness. The cop was just to protect him from those things. That made sense--as much sense as anything had since the attack started.

Sure they were protecting him from those monsters. What other reason? Why else was he locked away from everyone alone, without being told where he was or how long he'd have to stay? Shit, spray-painting subways wasn't so bad a crime he had to be treated like a prisoner of war. No, it was all because of those things. Through the Demerol haze, Lester's mind spiraled backward to last night. He fought to drag himself back into the present, but it was no good. The familiar terrifying images of all his friends being slaughtered took over and skimmed over the surface of his consciousness.