The Empress's Tomb (5 page)

I was about to shake my head when I finally figured it out. “It's quiet,” I said. “I don't hear the rats anymore.”

“Exactly,” said Kiki. “That was the first rat I've seen in a while. Kind of makes you wonder where they've gone, doesn't it?”

•     •     •

The last uncharted tunnel of the Shadow City snaked beneath Manhattan's Lower East Side. Its crumbling brick
walls were less impressive than the high, arched passages found elsewhere in the city, and at times, it felt as if we were strolling down the hallway of an abandoned penitentiary. I took measurements and scribbled notes as Kiki investigated the rooms we passed. Most were empty, though we discovered one storeroom stocked with enough barrels of pickled oysters to have fed a small town for a year (though I suspect most townsfolk would have preferred to starve). To our disappointment, none of the chambers appeared to have an exit to the surface. When the tunnel came to a dead end at a plain wooden door, I silently worried that our final exploration had been a dud.

In the cavelike room beyond, we found ten rickety cots lined up in a row and a large wardrobe set against the far wall. Nine of the beds were made—the sheets and woolen blankets crisply folded and tucked beneath the mattresses. The tenth bed, however, was rumpled, and its sheets lay in a lump in the center of the mattress.

“Who's been sleeping in
my
bed?” I joked, but Kiki had her ear pressed against the wall beside the wardrobe and wasn't paying attention. I picked up an old book that lay on a bedside table. The title page read
A Canadian Woman's Guide to Housekeeping.
I thumbed through the book, pausing to skim chapters that offered handy instructions for making your own burlap panties and cooking a nutritious moose stew.

“Hey,” Kiki called. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what? Are the rats back?”

“No. Sounds like water,” she said. “Help me move this wardrobe.”

Together, we pushed the heavy piece of furniture away from the wall. Behind it was a narrow tunnel just high enough to crawl through. It led up to the surface at a steep angle. The roar of rushing water filled the void.

“Just as I suspected,” said Kiki.

“Looks dangerous,” I said, pointing to a pair of boards on the roof of the tunnel that were bulging with the weight of the earth above. “I don't think we should check it out until Luz can have a look. It might be ready to collapse.”

“That's all right. I'm pretty sure I know where
this
tunnel goes. It's an escape route to the river. But you're not getting out of climbing up
that
one.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. There, above our heads, was a circular opening carved into the earth—an exit from the Shadow City.

We found a ladder in one of the storerooms and dragged it back to the final chamber. Inside the hole, a series of metal rungs led to a trapdoor high above. Although most exits from the tunnels looked the same, you never knew where you might emerge. You could find yourself interrupting a mafia dinner party, gazing in wonder at the jewels stored in a secret vault, or staring into the eyes of a smuggler's pit bull. When Kiki's head hit the trapdoor, she listened carefully before pushing it open and hoisting herself into the darkness.

“You're not going to believe this,” she whispered.

I pulled myself out of the hole and followed her
spotlight as it circled an enormous room. The walls were painted with murals of ancient buildings and palmspeckled landscapes. Neat rows of wooden pews lined the floor. At the front of the room stood a two-story ark made of wood and gold, which was decorated with a pair of weeping lions.

“It's beautiful,” Kiki whispered.

“I think I know where we are.”

“Looks like a temple.”

“It's the Bialystoker Synagogue,” I informed her, wishing Mr. Dedly were there to get a taste of my expertise. “A hundred and fifty years ago, it was known as the Willet Street Church. I've heard rumors that it once was a stop on the Underground Railroad, but nobody's been able to prove it. Until now.”

“So that's what the beds are all about?”

“Yep, before the Civil War, somebody must have been hiding escaped slaves in the Shadow City and smuggling them out to boats in the river at night.”

“How about that,” marveled Kiki. “Our last unexplored tunnel, and we finally discover that somebody put the Shadow City to good use. My faith in humankind has been restored.”

“Do you have any idea how important this is? This trapdoor, that room, the ten little beds—they're all a part of American history. There's nothing like them anywhere.”

“That's why it's a shame no one will ever know about them but us.” Though it was too dark to see, I could hear the warning in Kiki's voice.

As we climbed down to the room below, my heart was still pounding with excitement, and a thousand thoughts bounced around in my brain. What if the discoverer of King Tut's tomb had sealed it up and let the desert reclaim it? What if the explorer who found the Lost City of Machu Picchu had left it hidden in the clouds?

“Kiki, sit down for a second. We've got to talk about this,” I said.

Eyebrow arched, Kiki settled on the side of the rumpled bed. Suddenly, her brow creased. She patted the sheet beside her.

“Save the lecture for later. There's something in the bed,” she said, carefully unknotting the sheet. A small clay figure fell onto the mattress. It was a woman wearing ancient Chinese armor and riding a fat black horse. There was no doubt it was far older than anything else we'd found inside the Shadow City.

“Were stops on the Underground Railroad usually decorated with ancient Chinese art?” asked Kiki.

“Probably not,” I admitted.

“There goes your ghost theory. Somebody's been down here. So I guess that leaves one question.” Kiki gave me a wicked grin.

“What?” I asked.

“Who wants to look under the bed?”

Concerned that your private space might be invaded but don't have the money for armed guards or laser beams? No need to fret—there are dozens of options available to you. The following cheap and effective security devices will not only signal an unauthorized entry, many will also
scare the pants off an intruder (which can be quite amusing if you're watching the scene through binoculars).

These small, inexpensive magnetic devices are designed to issue an earsplitting alarm whenever a door or window is opened. They can be found at any hardware store and are also handy for drawers, jewelry boxes, coffins—or anything you can think of that opens and shuts. (Be forewarned: A determined intruder may go online for tips that will help her disable these gadgets.)

Believe it or not, for little more than the price of two movie tickets, you can purchase your own motion alert system. Place the sensor in just the right spot and wait for someone to sneak into your room while you're immersed in your favorite kung fu film. The sensor will send a signal to your portable receiver, which will alert you with a piercing alarm or flashing lights. (Motion detectors can also work well for ghost hunting.)

The previous two items are great for protecting your belongings when you're not far away—but what if you suspect someone's snooping around when you're not at home? Unless you're rich or have a talent for installing electronic security systems, I recommend a simple voice-activated tape recorder, which will start recording at the sound of movement. You won't catch your snoop red-handed, but at least you'll have some hard evidence that a break-in has occurred.

If you're running low on cash—or you need an alarm in short order—a trip wire may be your best bet. Take some fishing line and stretch it across an entryway or well-trafficked area. (Make sure it's about a foot above the floor.) Anchor one end of the line to a piece of furniture and attach the other end to a small plastic cup. Fill the cup with some water and place it on top of a newspaper. If the newspaper's wet—or missing—when you get home, you'll know someone's been in your room. (Warning: This trick may work only once.)

If you're good with your hands and you want an alarm that will make lots of noise, a quick online search will lead you to instructions for making a wide variety of alarms with supplies that might already be in your garage.

At eight o'clock the next morning, I shuffled into the Atalanta School for Girls, a private academy on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and found the hallowed halls buzzing with a thousand whispered conversations.

“She's almost entirely plastic, you know.”

“Forget jail. If the police ever call my house, I'll end up sleeping in a box on First Avenue.”

“Guess who had dinner with you-know-who's boyfriend on Saturday?”

“The President was at our house this weekend, and he said …”

Though many of my wealthy schoolmates couldn't tell time without a digital clock, they all excelled at one subject—gossip. At least once every year, usually in the aftermath of a vicious rumor that had sent a student into hiding, one of our teachers would take it upon herself to warn us that gossip is mean, petty, and a waste of our time. While I'm inclined to agree with the first part, the
second couldn't be further from the truth. Gossip is merely information that's been cleverly packaged, and it can be a powerful tool if you know how to use it. Revolutions have started with a single whisper. A little idle chatter can bankrupt a movie star. And any good detective will tell you that one careless comment can uncover a crime.

When dealing with gossip, the trick is keeping your mouth shut. Swapping stories is like skinny-dipping in the Hudson River. It seems like great fun until you wake up in the morning with a nasty rash in all the wrong places. I've found that it's best to watch (and listen) from a distance and resist the urge to jump in.

Since school had resumed, I'd taken to lingering in the hallways, pretending to go about my business while I snapped up the snippets of information that flew through the air. For weeks, the hottest topic had been Kiki's cousin, Sidonia Galatzina, whom everyone at Atalanta knew as the Princess. Rich, royal, and thoroughly evil, the Princess had ruled our school for years before she finally succumbed to scandal. In June, four of her closest friends had been arrested on kidnapping charges, and the Princess had disappeared before the police could ask any questions. Some, like the authorities, believed the Princess had been a victim herself. I was one of the few who knew that the pretty girl with the jet-black hair and golden eyes had masterminded the entire affair.

It seemed that everyone at Atalanta had a theory about the Princess's whereabouts. In September, I'd eavesdropped on two juniors who had managed to convince each other that Sidonia was living in an Alpine
castle, secretly betrothed to Prince Uder of Lichtenstein. (Kiki had a good laugh at that one.) Later, I heard that Dylan Handworthy had spotted the Princess in a Japanese ad for toilet bowl cleaner. (Though the model was only a look-alike, color copies of the ad were quickly posted in every bathroom stall in the school.) But the most promising theory was never made public. Alex Upton insisted she'd run into the Princess while touring the Hermitage's Rubens Room in St. Petersburg, Russia. I wasn't particularly interested when Alex bragged that Sidonia had introduced her companion as Oleg Volkov, a Russian gangster believed to be one of the ten richest men in the world. What caught my attention was the date. If Alex was telling the truth, the Princess and her mother were still in St. Petersburg as late as August—a full month after the Irregulars had lost track of them.

I had been shadowing Alex for over a week, hoping for more information. But that morning, I was too exhausted for detective work. It was only by chance that I happened to pass by as she chatted with a friend outside the biology lab.

“Squirrels don't
attack
people,” her friend insisted. I stopped and pretended to shuffle through my notebook, dying to inform them that one quick Internet search would prove that squirrels are indeed prone to violence against humans.

“I'm just
telling
you what I heard,” said Alex. “I don't care if you
believe
it.”

A third girl joined the group. “Believe what?”

“One of the scholarship students says she got attacked by squirrels yesterday.”

“Squirrels?” repeated the newcomer in disbelief.

“That's what
I
said,” the second girl sneered, feeling more confident now that backup had arrived.

“No, it's just that my brother's friend had a squirrel steal his iPod yesterday,” said the third girl.

“See?” Alex looked triumphant.

“Yeah, he'd just come from some exhibit at the museum and he was walking home through Central Park when a squirrel dropped out of a tree and landed on his head. Then it grabbed his iPod and took off for the bushes.”

“How could a squirrel pick up an iPod?” asked the skeptic.

“He said it wasn't an ordinary squirrel. It was huge—like two feet long. He tried to tell a policeman, but the guy just laughed and told him to say no to drugs. Hey, what's that smell?”

“What smell?”

“You're telling me you can't smell that? It's like a Porta Potti at a chili cook-off.”

It took one quick whiff to confirm that there was, indeed, a hint of sewage in the air. As the odor grew stronger, it began to drift through the school. Hundreds of noses were pinched in disgust, and the halls rang with a chorus of
“Ewww!”