“What’s it like?” she asked.
“It’s just different,” he said. “My brain has always been different from everybody else’s.”
She nodded.
“It used to be a good thing,” he said. “It got me out of the circus and into the world of technology.”
He didn’t seem coordinated enough to be in an actual circus. Maybe it was a metaphor. “That doesn’t seem too bad.”
He shrugged. “Now that my mind is keeping me trapped inside, being different isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
What could she say to that?
After their conversation, the day went better. They wandered the shops at Grand Central Terminal for a bit, and then he said he wanted to go down to his underground house. She’d heard about the house from Mr. Rossi that morning. It seemed too far-fetched to be real, but so did The Campbell Apartment, also in Grand Central, which had belonged to a 1920s tycoon before eventually being remodeled into a bar, so she supposed there was precedent.
Anyway, getting him someplace less crowded would be a good thing. She didn’t know why he needed protection, but clearly something had happened to him that had scared him enough for him to call Mr. Rossi at six in the morning. Personally, she couldn’t think of a single situation where she would call Mr. Rossi that early. Including nuclear Armageddon.
She let him enter the concourse a little ahead of her, scanning the area. The pillars would give cover to an army, but there was nothing she could do about that.
Straight ahead, people darted back and forth, most arriving for their workdays in the city. Too many to count. Too many to watch. But none raised a red flag.
Tesla made for the center of the concourse and the information booth into which he’d disappeared all those months before. Her niece, Abby, said that the round booth reminded her of a layer cake — waist-high marble, glass windows, glass roof, and the famous clock perched on top like a candle. She remembered watching the movie Madagascar with Abby. The little girl had laughed herself silly when the giraffe got his head stuck inside that clock.
Tesla tapped on the information booth’s door, and a chubby black woman with the name tag “Evaline” opened the door. This must be the entrance to his underground house. Who had he been visiting down there when he disappeared all those months before?
“I have a guest today, Miss Evaline,” Tesla said. “A Miss Vivian Torres.”
Evaline folded her arms across her ample bosom. “Unless she’s on the authorized list, you know I can’t let her go down there.”
Vivian braced herself for a struggle. She wasn’t going to let Tesla out of her sight, even if it meant that she had to throw him to the ground and hog-tie him. Her orders were clear — keep constant visual contact until notified by Mr. Rossi himself.
“I think she might be on the list,” Tesla said. “She works for Rossi and Rossi.”
Evaline raised one skeptical eyebrow, but typed into a small gray box.
Vivian waited.
“You are authorized, Ms. Torres.” Evaline moved aside. “Come on in.”
Tesla thanked her and opened a nearly invisible door on the edge of the pillar. Vivian had only ever seen it open once before, on the night when she’d been hired to watch him and had lost him right here.
She followed, surprised that it was so easy. Inside, dingy white paint covered the walls. Like most things, the inside was a lot less glamorous than the outside. She’d expected something grander, but this was ordinary.
Tesla motioned her to stand by the wall and lifted a hatch on the floor. Underneath the hatch a set of wrought iron stairs spiraled down. She went first, judging that an attack from behind was less likely than someone hiding beneath the stairs.
Tesla and Edison waited at the top of the stairs. Tesla looked annoyed.
“Clear,” she called up.
They trotted down the stairs, and Tesla pressed the elevator button. Modern steel doors slid aside on an old-fashioned elevator of filigreed wrought iron. Tesla gestured for her to go first and pushed a lever inside to make the elevator go. Was the elevator as old as Grand Central itself — a century? Cool.
Tesla stared up at the ceiling. Machinery was creaking up there, and it clearly didn’t make him happy. Luckily, it didn’t take too long before they reached the bottom.
She exited first, senses alert. A walkway curved to the side, letting her see a hundred feet ahead. Nothing there. To the right stretched a large empty room, lit by a long string of yellow bulbs. Empty.
“There’s a steel door at both ends of this tunnel,” Tesla said. “It’s operated by an antique key.” He held it up. “And an electronic keypad with an eight-digit code. Anyone who wants to come in here needs both. Or they have to get by Evaline to get to the elevator.”
With the cops and surveillance cameras in the concourse, no one would get past Evaline without calling down a lot of attention on themselves. “Those are the only entrances to your house?”
His blue eyes darted to the side before he answered. “Yes.”
He was lying.
She kept one hand near her gun and walked right down, a short tunnel to a thick steel door. A green light blinked steadily from the keypad. Tesla walked left, and she went ahead of him and checked that door, too. Also clear. Three surveillance cameras — one at each end of the tunnel and one by the elevator. Nobody was going to sneak up on Joe Tesla.
Finally, she turned her attention to the Victorian house. A porch light shone near the front door, but the windows were otherwise dark. Four windows on the ground floor, six on the second.
Tesla started up the stairs, but she stopped him. “Let me go in first, sir, and clear the house. You wait out here with Edison.”
Tesla rolled his eyes.
“It’s my job,” she said. “Just let me do it.”
He backed up. She drew her gun and went inside, flicking on lights as she went. The switches were odd, but she got used to them. First, there was a tiny vestibule with a coatrack and an umbrella stand. That led to a hall. Clear. A room on the right with a fireplace and wingback chairs. Nowadays it would be called a living room, but she suspected that the original term was parlor. She cleared it, a library on the other side, then a dining room and kitchen behind those with a tiny bathroom tucked in the corner.
Up the stairs and she walked quickly through three bedrooms, a master bathroom with a claw-foot tub and floor tiles made of tiny pieces of marble, another library, and a room with a giant TV that felt jarring after the impeccably maintained period details. The place was huge, especially when you considered that it was set in solid rock. Unbelievable what people did with their money. But, she had to concede, it was also very cool.
She let Tesla and the dog in, and they went to the parlor to do who knew what. She spent the rest of the day patrolling the house and the tunnel out front. And wondering about the entrance he’d lied about.
Doors worked both ways. Anyone might come or go through that lie.
Chapter 12
Dr. Dubois ran a finger inside his collar under his damned designer tie. He found his office too hot, as he always did in winter, but he at least preferred this to the sweltering heat of Cuba. Even before the escape of Subject 523, he’d hated the island. Every time he’d gone out into the humid air, something had crawled on him, flew at him, or stung him. He preferred nature contained and controlled, as it was in his office.
He glanced around the room. It was just the way he liked it — glass desk spotless, ergonomic chair properly adjusted, a purposefully uncomfortable visitor’s chair facing the desk, a dust-free computer and monitor, and a few prints of waves painted by an allegedly famous artist. His secretary had picked them out — nature in a frame.