I could see Mike’s white teeth. “I never go in unless I do. And Mercer’s up above, watching over you. We move when you hear the sound of the next train.”
It was almost six minutes before the headlights of the silver subway car cast a beam that bounced off the curved wall, followed a fraction of a second later by the noise of the steel wheels.
Mike walked quickly, still limping, to a staircase twenty feet ahead and climbed the first few steps, turning sideways and pressing against the handrail as the train passed through. I did the same thing.
I looked above me for the source of whatever natural light seemed to bathe the lower steps. I guessed that the glass skylight in the ceiling must have been situated in the park in front of City Hall, capturing and filtering the remaining rays that marked the end of the long June day.
From this vantage point, I could see the beauty of the original architecture. The tunnel was entirely without angles, the structural vaults and smooth curves continuing in a semicircle until they disappeared out of sight in both directions. Brass chandeliers without bulbs dangled from the tiled ceiling that they’d once illuminated. I tried to calm myself by studying the elegance of the century-old design, but Mike tugged on my arm and I was ready to advance with him deeper into the darkness again.
Another dozen steps and we reached the top of the staircase. Mike removed the flashlight from his pocket and shone it around the edges of the steel enclosure that sealed off the exit, pressing against it with his left hand at the same time.
“Dead end,” he said. “C’mon.”
He must have seen the anxiety in my troubled expression.
“There’s four of these doors, Coop. I know there’s still an opening in one of them. I’ve been through there.”
He shone the light so that we could descend. “Wait for the next train to go past. I don’t want any nosy motorman to see us and decide to stop,” he said when we reached the halfway mark.
Minutes later, another local hurtled through the loop to turn and begin its uptown run.
Mike led me along the platform to a second set of steps, also brightened by a second skylight.
He took the first three stairs, then stopped and focused his light on the old cobblestone. “This is the one.”
“How do you know?”
“Rat droppings. More likely people have come and gone this way-more likely there’s something to eat inside. There are guys who call themselves creepers, Alex. They find these abandoned spaces and make ways to break into them, just for sport. If I had a nose like a rat, I’d have made first grade the year I came on the job. The crawl space is up here. I’m pretty sure of it.”
He backtracked and flipped open his phone. “Mercer? Can you hear me?” he said. “Yeah, it’s breaking up because I’m in the tunnel. Inside the old City Hall Station. Call Peterson. We mapped this all out for the task force a couple of years back. Have him cover the exits and entrances…What? What? Can’t hear you.”
Mike started up the steps again. He turned and saw me looking over my shoulder at the train tracks. He held up his thumb like a hitchhiker on the road. “Out?”
I caught up to him.
“Look, I can wave down a motorman. Get one to take you out,” Mike said softly.
I hesitated but didn’t answer.
“It’s like a rabbit warren inside. An old wooden ticket booth, subway cars that have rotted out over time, piles of old IRT station signs. If Brendan Quillian is actually hiding here, I promise I’ll call in the cavalry. I just think Teddy O’Malley is playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game with me and I want to see what it is.”
“I’m a musketeer, aren’t I?”
Mike continued up to the top of the tall staircase and I followed. This time, as soon as he flashed his light on the door, the two-foot-square opening at its base became obvious. A trapdoor lifted from the top, on a hinge, as he pressed on it.
“Can you do it?”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Crawl on your belly like a reptile. Four feet. Maybe six.”
“Remember me?” I whispered. “I’m the one who’s claustrophobic.”
“A short shimmy. Then it expands onto this huge mezzanine. Wide-open spaces that you like, with a grand staircase that floats up like a back door to City Hall. Put on your tap shoes and you can do a Busby Berkeley while I see if my hunch about O’Malley is right.”
“Won’t the mayor be surprised to see us, coming in through his basement?”
“That’s why the plan to revamp it didn’t work.” Mike knelt down and shone the light in. “Not as dusty as you’d think. Transit buffs and creepers sneaking in and out of here all the time.”
“But why?”
“Whack jobs. There are antiquated, closed-up stations-not quite as nice as this one-all over town. These train nuts love to make believe it’s the good old days. Ten of them camped out here two years ago and threw a party.”
Mike was about to kneel down when his cell phone vibrated. “Yeah? Where are you, Mercer?” He waited for an answer. “Has O’Malley returned your call? Don’t you think it’s strange that he hasn’t? A visit to Trish Quillian, and then he simply goes out of range and we lose him.”
There was a longer pause. “Coming in how? Behind us? That’ll make Coop happy. Second staircase after the train makes the curve into the station. Tell the loo this might be for nothing, but he’s welcome to join us.”
“What will I be happy about?”
“Mercer’s taking the train into the loop just the way we did. Peterson wants a team ready at the old entrance, just in case we’re onto something. And not a peep back from O’Malley. In with me? Those slacks looked ready for the dry cleaners last time you wore them.”
“In with you,” I said quietly.
Mike stretched out on the floor. “Grab my foot, you’ll feel better.”
He had become much more reckless since the tragic accident that took Valerie’s life. I didn’t know how to slow him down, and I didn’t want to leave him in this tunnel now. I was tired and confused, and hoping that Mercer would catch up with us quickly.
Mike propelled himself through the short passageway-the kind I imagined one might find at the base of an Egyptian pyramid-and I followed on my hands and knees, holding on to his good ankle whenever I could. He turned off his flashlight as his head emerged through the narrow space.
Within seconds we had entered the large chamber of the original station. He stood up and helped me to my feet.
Again, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I turned slowly in a circle to take in the enormous room that had been the crown jewel in New York’s first underground transit system-a little vaulted town beneath the city.
Mike signaled me to stand still and not to speak. Silhouettes of the token booth and a decommissioned “redbird”-one of the old painted subway cars that had been taken out of service years ago-took shape in front of us on the mezzanine level of the original station. Larger chandeliers than those on the platform hung from the interiors of the tall arches against cream-colored tiles that glistened in the background.
But still not a sound to be heard.
Three minutes. Then five passed before Mike satisfied himself that there was no one in proximity to us and took a few more steps. He had drawn his gun and waved his left arm to motion me to fall in place behind him.
I waited as he approached the token booth. He leaned his back against the outer corner of it, then pivoted around and pointed his gun inside, the way I had seen him do on so many occasions when reconnoitering a dangerous location. It was empty.
Fifteen feet farther into the station was the redbird, left on display from an earlier renovation. The doors were open, and as I got closer, I could see that the dried bamboo strips on the seats had been gnawed through and the stuffing scattered on the floor of the car. But no one was inside.
Mike pointed off to the side and, emboldened by the quiet reception, turned on his flashlight again. There was indeed a grand staircase, and over the span in front of it, the lettering that identified CITY HALL in even larger tiles, surrounded by a bright green ceramic that lightened the drab, earthenware shades of the ones around it.