Time I didn’t have.
Time the colony didn’t have.
But I didn’t have a choice. The colony needed help, whether they wanted it or not. And I was the only one who could give it to them.
Chapter 23
Upon returning to the subway tunnels, I noticed a troubling development. The thin layer of water that covered the track bed had doubled over the last hour. Since it was only ankle deep, I wasn’t in danger of drowning anytime soon. However, since it covered the third rail, it was more than deep enough to kill me.
I didn’t know for sure if electricity still fed into the third rail, but I didn’t want to find out the hard way. Looking around, I spotted thin concrete ledges on both sides of the tunnel. They were shoulder-high and stretched outward as far as I could see.
I clambered onto the nearest ledge. As I steadied myself, I started to wonder if I was making a mistake.
But I couldn’t force the colony to stop drinking from the river. And I didn’t have enough evidence to convince Chase of my theory. As I saw it, that left me with one move.
I needed to find proof.
And to do that, I needed to access the river. If I could find another route to it, I could empty one of my bottles of store-bought water and gather a sample. Then I could take the stuff to Chase to get it tested.
It seemed like a reasonable strategy. I’d gotten a good look at the river’s direction during my visit. I also held an image of Viele’s map in my memory.
Then again, although I could trace the river’s course in my head, only certain parts of it would be reachable from existing tunnels. And the chances of actually accessing the waterways seemed remote at best.
Halting, I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and held it, forcing everything out of my mind.
As my questions and doubts faded away, an image of the Viele map formed in my head. First, I saw the green expanse, layered with small rocks and wavy lines. Next, other lines traced up and down the map, forming a grid of city blocks. Finally, thin, curvy blue lines materialized. Those were the lines that mattered the most. They represented Manhattan’s original waterways.
Three streams stood out above the others. They originated in a small section of midtown. From their separate origins, they flowed southeast before combining into one stream. That stream drifted farther southeast before pouring into the East River.
I recalled the locations of every subway tunnel in the area. Unfortunately, there were only four overlapping points with the waterways. Two of those points were positioned along the Lexington Avenue Line. The third point was a small stretch of the IRT Flushing Line, specifically the tunnel between Grand Central Terminal and Fifth Avenue. The final point was the area encompassed by the 42nd Street Shuttle Line.
Since I was already in the appropriate tunnel, I started by checking the two spots on the IRT Lexington Avenue line. As I walked to the first point on my mental map, I swung my flashlight beam across the expanse. The tunnel looked totally ordinary. Tall metal pillars, buried within a thick concrete wall, separated two sets of tracks while simultaneously supporting the ceiling. Letters and symbols, painted white, stood as a small memorial to the sandhogs, or underground construction workers, who once operated in the area. On the opposite side of the tunnel, my flashlight illuminated a row of rusty pipes that lined the wall.
It didn’t take me long to decide I was wasting my time. There wasn’t a single opening or fracture in the area.
Giving up, I used a series of maintenance tunnels to transfer to the IRT Flushing line. It took me another twenty minutes to walk up and down both sides of that tunnel.
Seeing nothing, I walked back to the Lexington Avenue Line and headed toward the 42nd Street Shuttle Line. As I strode forward, I kept one eye on the concrete ledge at my feet and the other on the tunnel. The tracks, including the third rail, were now completely covered with water. Although I couldn’t see sparks or other signs of electricity, I still didn’t want to take any chances.
I heard a splash. Reeling to the side, I pointed my light through the tunnel and waited, breathing heavily.
But nothing emerged.
An eerie feeling came over me. What if the alligator spotted me? What if it was hunting me? By the time I saw it, I’d already be within striking distance, with mere seconds to defend myself.
I shoved the thought out of my mind. If electricity continued to flow into the third rail, anything trying to follow me would suffer the consequences. And if it didn’t, the ledge offered me several feet of protection from anything on the track bed.
As I walked down the first leg of the 42nd Street Shuttle’s long, twisting tunnel, my thoughts flipped back to Ghost and his colony. Something about our most recent meeting bothered me. It wasn’t the animosity between us. Nor was it the overriding tension in the room. It was something smaller, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
A soft whooshing noise pierced the stale tunnel air. I froze in place, not moving a muscle.
Pipes hissed.
Water lapped gently against the tracks.
A full minute passed.
Then I heard it again.
It seemed to come from the direction of the wall. Gently, I placed my ear against the cold concrete.
I heard nothing.
I waited a few seconds.
Still nothing.
I continued to wait.
Then the whooshing noise echoed softly in my ear, sounding close yet far away at the same time.
I frowned. The noise, whatever it was, had definitely originated from the wall. It didn’t sound like a subway train, not that it mattered since they weren’t running anyway. And to the best of my knowledge, there were no maintenance shafts in the immediate area.
It didn’t make sense. Other than bedrock, there was nothing on the other side of that wall. And yet the whooshing noise persisted as if air circulated around a large space.
Curious, I looked around. I realized that the portion of concrete on which I stood appeared newer and thicker than the rest of the ledge.
Bending over, I examined the surface. I saw a very thin, jagged crack. Using my flashlight, I followed its path. The crack ran across the length of the ledge and then started up the wall. After a few feet, it turned at a right angle and cut across another section of concrete. Then, it drifted down again, cutting a second crack through the ledge.
Near the second crack, I spotted something etched in the wall. I pointed my flashlight at the distinct marks. They appeared to form a skull and two crossed pickaxes, designed in a similar manner to that of the skull and crossbones.
A couple of lines were carved out of the wall, surrounding the design. An idea hit me. Reaching out, I placed my thumb against the etching.
And pushed.
The design depressed, acting like a button.
Something clicked.
The ground rumbled.
I stumbled as the ledge shifted. Leaning down, I clutched it for support. A cloud of dust filled the air, blinding me. I coughed, hacking out a handful of the particles.
As the dust cleared, I raised my flashlight. My heart began to pound.
Save for a few feet at the top and bottom, the entire wall had shifted inward, like a door on hinges.
Shifting my beam, I illuminated a hidden corridor, ten-feet deep and five-feet in diameter. It was dusty and dry, with the bottom part of the wall acting as a barrier against the rising water.
It can’t be…Hartek’s treasure?
The possibility shot through my brain. Of course, it was just a possibility. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there were plenty of other explanations, none of which involved lost Nazi gold.