The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) (14 page)

Chapter 19

November 29, 10:04 a.m.

Forty-Second Street and Park Avenue

Ozan wiped the blade on an antiseptic tissue and slipped the knife back into his ankle sheath. The time he’d spent sharpening it had paid off—it had slid between the man’s ribs with an ease he’d learned to appreciate. Clean and fast.

Happiness radiated from the hand that had done the job into his entire body. His favorite sensation after a successful kill. He’d never taken anyone down in such a public spot before. He’d wanted to wait, known that he should wait, until the man was somewhere private, but in the end he couldn’t resist. The blade had needed to slide through the jacket and between the ribs. The man had needed to fall. Right then. And he had, like an actor in a well-rehearsed play. Tesla had, in the end, played his part with perfect timing.

Even the dog had missed the moment.

Ozan paused to watch oblivious passers-by, another first. Why should he, of all people, be denied the aftermath of his actions? That pleasure was always robbed from him because he never stayed. He leaned against a light pole a few feet away and waited, not minding the cold seeping into the soles of his shoes.

The dog suddenly realized that no one held his leash. He turned and nosed the fallen man as if he could make him wake up. But the dog was smarter than the people around him. He knew right away that the man would never wake up again. He barked, running in a circle around the fallen man, dangerously close to the traffic rushing by on Forty-Second Street.

A child stopped first, of course, because they still saw things for what they were. His mother tugged on his mittened hand, followed his gaze to the fallen man, and screamed.

The scream lanced into Ozan’s aching head, and he fell back with a gasp. She screamed again, like an actress in a bad movie. He hadn’t thought that people responded like that in real life. It was simply a man lying on the sidewalk, a red pool spreading out from his body, melting the thin layer of frost. He’d seen so many dead men that this one seemed as natural as the yellow cabs driving by or the long green tassel on the child’s cap.

A man stopped next to the screaming woman, then another. She choked out another scream, a mitten clutched to her mouth. Soon, a circle formed around the outstretched body, but no one wanted to touch it. Ozan joined the circle, wanting to get close to them, struck by their ordinariness. Had he ever been like them?

A woman in a camel-colored coat knelt next to the body. There was nothing that she could do. Ozan had killed cleanly, swiftly, the man dead before he’d hit the ground. But she didn’t know that. She pulled aside the man’s coat collar and felt for a pulse on his neck, her dark eyebrows drawn down with worry. The dog whined and paced in front of her.

As she leaned back, shaking her tawny head, Ozan looked to the victim’s young, fresh face. It was not Joe Tesla. A stranger lay dead on the ground.

Shock caused him to stumble, to stare, seemingly as upset by the man’s death as those around him. How had he made such a mistake?

Misdirection. Respect welled up in him at his target’s ingenuity. He rarely dealt with anyone so interesting. And he had been fooled. The man wore a cap from Tesla’s company. He had Tesla’s dog on a leash. He was a decoy. He wasn’t Tesla.

And, of course, he couldn’t be.

Tesla didn’t go outside.

A laugh bubbled up in Ozan’s throat and burst free. He wanted to clap, but stopped himself as people were already turning to stare at him. But he couldn’t stop grinning.

This was extraordinary. Ozan could hunt his quarry in the tunnels as long as he wanted. He closed his eyes from the joy of it. After all, Tesla couldn’t leave. And he would have more tricks in store. Ozan didn’t remember the last time that he’d been so excited by his work. Part of him knew that his reaction was out of proportion, but he didn’t care. He worked hard. He deserved a little fun.

In front of him, the woman unzipped the corpse’s navy blue jacket. He wore a blood-stained blue shirt with a silver tennis ball embroidered on the left breast, above his heart. Even from his position a few feet away, Ozan could easily read the words underneath.

Vanderbilt Tennis and Fitness Club

Grand Central Terminal

Ozan’s eyes were drawn to the Beaux-Arts-style terminal building. He’d learned the grand old dame’s ins and outs while researching the hit on Subject 523. He knew the location of every store and bathroom. His eyes went straight to the third floor, where the tennis court was located. He’d visited it once, but had not been able to find out if Tesla was a member. Apparently, he was.

A shadow moved near the top of the rounded third-floor window.

Ozan circled the crowd that had gathered around the fallen man, intent on the shadow high above him. Tesla was up there. It had to be Tesla. He had seen Ozan kill the tennis player. He knew what would happen to him.

It was Tesla. Certainty coursed through Ozan. He’d been a hunter long enough to recognize prey. And this prey would be terrified and running. He had to go after him.

The yellow dog streaked past. He wriggled between the legs of a man with dreadlocks and a knit cap in the doorway and disappeared inside the building.

Ozan ran after him. The dog must have sensed the danger that his master faced and had gone to protect him. He would lead Ozan straight to the man himself.

The hunt was on.

Chapter 20

November 29, 10:14 a.m.

Vanderbilt Tennis and Fitness Club

Grand Central Terminal

Joe ran straight across the tennis court, taking a ball to the shoulder. The players cursed, but he didn’t slow down. He had to get to Edison before the man in the dark parka did. He could not bear to lose the dog.

And he’d lost Brandon. The young man was dead, and it was Joe’s fault. He’d sent him out with Edison, wearing a Pellucid cap. Stupid. There was a killer searching for Joe, and he’d inadvertently used the kid as bait.

He might as well have stabbed Brandon himself.

Joe slammed open the door to the locker room, vaulted the bench, and hit the other side of the room in just a few strides. A naked man coming out of the showers leaped out of his way.

Then Joe was in the reception area, running for the stairs. He had no idea of what he would do, but he’d try anything to keep Edison safe. He ran hard, knocking people out of his way. Where were all the cops he’d had to avoid earlier?

He jumped the last three steps, sliding on the marble floor when he landed. Everywhere, people. Rush hour was over, but they still filled the giant room, talking, walking, getting in his way.

A bark! Edison shot into the hall like a furry cannonball, running full tilt across the polished floor toward him. A beautiful sight.

Yards behind the dog, the man in the dark parka slipped through the crowd like a shark. The killer was almost upon him.

“Edison,” Joe called. “Heel!”

The dog altered his trajectory toward the sound of Joe’s voice. As did the killer. Edison gained ground on him, running pell-mell between people’s legs.

They weren’t safe here. Neither was anyone else who got in that man’s way. Joe had to draw the guy away from the crowd.

Joe ran toward the passage to the Hyatt, searching for cops. None. Earlier, he couldn’t have swung a dead cat without hitting one. Now, nothing.

He whistled. Edison changed course again. The killer, too.

Joe burst into the lobby at a dead run, Edison beside him. He pelted past the front desk. Someone called his name, but he didn’t look to see. Whoever it was, they would soon be chasing him, too.

Joe slammed open the door to the employee-only section of the hotel—simple walls, no decoration. He and Edison skidded around a corner and down a dingy hall. His goal lay just ahead. He hoped that he was aiming for more than a rumor.

He reached the corner of the building. On the other side of the wall was Park Avenue, the street that split in two to go around Grand Central Terminal.

Behind him, the door crashed open. Someone else had entered the hall. Joe wasn’t lucky enough for it to be a Hyatt employee. It had to be the killer.

Edison barked threateningly, backing up his guess.

“We’re in this together, boy.” Joe was breathing so hard that he could barely get the words out. That sprint had cost him, but he had no time to be tired right now.

He yanked open a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, entering a small, dark room full of service carts. So far, so good.

With one hand, he pushed a cart to the side so that there was room for him and Edison. Once inside, he closed the door and latched the flimsy bolt from the inside. That’d keep the killer occupied for about a nanosecond.

He moved another cart, then the next, pushing them against the door while he headed toward the back corner. The combined weight of the carts might slow the bastard down. Not much, but maybe enough.

When he got to the corner, he made out the contours of a wooden hatch built into the floor. His spirits rose. He’d worried that the existence of this hatch was a hotel urban legend, or that he’d come to the wrong room, and that he and Edison would be trapped in here.

He lifted the iron ring in the center, and the hatch creaked open. A dark hole yawned in the floor. A thud against the door told him that the killer was right outside. The bolt wouldn’t hold against him for long.

Hoping for a miracle, Joe climbed into the hole. With no hesitation, Edison ran next to him. He loved that dog.

Light from the open hatch gave him enough illumination to see metal pipes, now covered in rust. Those were old steam pipes that had once heated a building that stood on this site long before the modern hotel was built in its place. He looked up at the bottom of the hatch to see if there was any way to lock it from this side. There wasn’t.

He glanced around the room, finding a door on the other side. He closed the hatch, plunging the room into darkness. He jerked his flashlight out of his pocket.

During his stay at the Hyatt, he’d learned of this room from a bored security guard, and had hoped that it hadn’t been filled in or locked off. He’d been lucky so far. He reached a door and shone the light across its rusty surface, searching for the handle. He found it and tried to turn it. Locked.

Above him, carts rattled and smashed. The killer was up there.

Joe stuck his flashlight in his mouth and fumbled with his keys. The Gallo ancestor had specified that he have access to the steam tunnels. Joe hoped that his reach extended to this set of tunnels, this particular door.

He jumbled through the keys, one after the other, hoping for a clue. A metal tab next to a skeleton key had the word Steam embossed on it in Gothic lettering. Joe pushed the key into the lock. With a little wriggling, the rusty tumblers turned.

Joe lunged through, Edison on his heels.

He closed the door and worked the key in the lock as fast as he could. Anyone could pick such a simple lock. Joe grabbed duct tape from his backpack and tore off two strips. Using his teeth, he ripped off a tiny corner and rolled it into a ball small enough to jam into the lock, sticky side in. Then, he stuck that to a second piece. He pushed the tiny ball into the lock and secured it on his side with the strip of duct tape. The man inside would have to fish it out before he could pick the lock, and he might waste time trying to pick the lock before he figured it out.

Or he might just kick it down.

Joe sprinted down the steam tunnel. The guy who was after him would get through the door eventually, and he and Edison needed to be far away when that happened.

Cold, rusty pipes flashed by on both sides. All these pipes must be out of commission, or else he’d have been burning up down here.

He dashed through another door, another tunnel, and another. It was like a rabbit warren down here, and he didn’t see how the killer could find him. Lost, and out of breath, he stopped running.

He’d have to hike until he found a landmark, or met a friendly policeman to ask directions. He sighed. Maybe not that last one.

Edison gave him an apologetic look and peed on the wall. Poor thing, he hadn’t had his walk. “It’s OK,” he told him. “You’re a good dog.”

The dog wagged his tail. A dark splotch marred the golden fur on his chest. Joe scrubbed at it with his hand. It was blood. Joe shone the flashlight on it to make sure that Edison wasn’t wounded. He wasn’t.

It was Brandon’s blood. Poor Brandon had practically still been a kid. He’d had nothing to do with any of this, and now he was dead. That was Joe’s fault.

Joe couldn’t fix it and bring him back. His family and friends would have to mourn and go on without him. But Joe could make damn sure that his death didn’t go unsolved. He would find out find out the name of Brandon’s killer.

Once he had that name, he would see to it that the man met with justice, no matter the cost. He wouldn’t get to melt back into the crowd like he had at the murder scene. He’d be exposed as a killer, and he’d pay the price.

Joe owed Brandon at least that.

Chapter 21

November 29, 11:58 a.m.

Grand Central Hyatt

Ozan pulled the hatch carefully closed. Not just for stealth, but also because sharp noises aggravated his headache. The room above was empty. Tesla and his dog must have gone through the door on the far side, although he’d checked the rest of the room thoroughly, in case there was another trapdoor in the floor or secret exit on the opposite wall. But there was nothing like that. This room had been built to allow the building’s engineers to access the steam tunnels for maintenance, not to prevent a palace coup.

He stifled a laugh of exhilaration. Tesla had led him in a good chase through the terminal. The police had massed to follow them, but they were at least a minute behind and, in Ozan’s world, a minute was an eternity.

He’d lined up the room-service carts on his way through, not worried about coming back that way and hoping to stall his pursuers. If they caught him, he had only to identify himself and use his contacts at the CIA to be released. But he would lose the scent here, and he didn’t want to do that.

He drew his flashlight and headed down the stairs.

His head throbbed with each step. He’d been eating aspirin like Pez today. It had brought down the fever, but not dulled the pain. His brain felt as if someone was prodding it with hot needles.

A quick glance revealed that the old door would be easy to kick down. Whoever had built it hadn’t been worried that someone would want to break into the steam tunnels, or out of them. But he hesitated.

Tesla might be on the other side, armed. He must have led Ozan down here on purpose, probably into a trap. The man had proved that he could be wily, and even a cornered rabbit could fight. They didn’t often kill the fox chasing them, but sometimes they got lucky.

Elation ebbing, he leaned against the wall. The needles in his brain were keeping him from thinking clearly. His illness was affecting his judgment. He should go home and rest, come back later when he felt better.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of the grisly sample he’d collected from Subject 523. Dr. Dubois had insisted on a piece of his brain. Ozan had assumed it was just a repulsive proof of death, but it might have been more. What if the doctor was looking for something wrong with his brain?

Thumping overhead brought him back to the present moment. He had been followed back to this room. He didn’t have the luxury of thinking it over and taking another path.

He squandered a precious minute fumbling with the door lock before he realized that Tesla had jammed something into it. Clever rabbit. Brute force would have to win out over finesse. Forcing his way out seemed crude, irritating to his sense of order. Worse, it left an unobstructed path behind him, but it had to be done.

Taking a step back, he aimed for just below the door lock and kicked. The wooden door frame cracked. That was the weakest part of this door—metal door, strong lock, but a weak frame. He kicked again, feeling the frame give. One more kick was all he needed.

Then he was through the door, gun and flashlight up and ready. If Tesla didn’t take him down with the first shot, he wouldn’t get a second one.

The long, dark tunnel was empty in both directions. Ozan stopped and pointed his light at the floor, searching for footprints. He found many boot prints; the tunnel wasn’t as deserted as he’d have thought. But he found only one set of paw prints. Following them, he hurried west.

“Freeze,” called a voice from behind him.

The idiots from the hotel must have broken through.

Ozan darted into a side tunnel, followed it to a junction, and chose right. A few turns later, he’d lost his pursuers. He’d also lost Tesla.

The dangers behind meant that he couldn’t go back and track his rabbit from the hotel’s steam tunnels. That was just a waste of time.

Instead, Ozan resolved to return to the murder scene and track him from there. Like all men, Joe was a creature of routine. He must have his favorite tunnels, places where he rested. Ozan would find them, and there he would wait.