And Tesla might have answers for him. That must be why Tesla had come here. He, too, needed to know about 523. It couldn’t be as simple as cause of death. Anyone could see that the hammer had killed him, so Tesla must be seeking something else.
Ozan had to know now. He couldn’t kill Tesla. He’d have to wound him, interrogate him, find out if the fever that flowed in Ozan’s body had first flowed in 523’s. Once he knew the cause, he could find the cure. Once he knew the cause, he could kill Tesla.
But not until then.
Chapter 27
Joe passed a few locked doors before he found the one that led to 520 First Street. One of his master keys fit into the lock, and it turned easily. People kept these locks well oiled. He hoped that he didn’t run into them.
A cluster of pipes turned here — some went into the wall next to the door, and others curved down into the floor to another, deeper level. This juncture wasn’t on his maps. Someday he’d explore that level.
He entered the building’s sub-basement — a simple room with raw concrete walls. Gray metal lockers ran along one wall, a gray metal table and two chairs stood in the middle of the room, and a sink with a hotplate and an ancient coffeepot sat in the corner. The film of dust coating everything looked at least a decade old. Either someone was a very bad housekeeper, or no one had been in this room in a long time.
Joe opened the first locker and smiled. It contained a tattered orange safety vest with a blue and white Con Edison logo stuck on the left breast. It might as well have contained an invisibility cloak, and he quickly donned it.
He poked around the room and found a wooden clipboard with a five-year-old work order fastened to it, which he scooped up, too. A man wearing an electric-company vest and carrying a clipboard looked like he knew what he was doing. His days in the circus had taught him that people saw what they expected to see, and props set their expectations.
He could never explain a dog. A Con Edison worker with a psychiatric service dog was too memorable.
“Sorry, boy,” he said. “You’re going to have to stay here.”
He led Edison over to the far corner by the lockers, where the air was cooler, and he would be hidden behind the table. He filled the old coffeepot to the brim from a rusty metal faucet that had dripped a red blotch onto the dirty white sink under it.
“Water, boy,” he said, setting it down by the dog.
Edison lowered his head and drank greedily. Joe rinsed a thick white cup that he found sitting upside down in the sink and downed a few cups full of rusty-tasting water himself. The jog down the steam tunnels had dehydrated both of them.
“Stay,” he told the dog.
Edison cocked his head uncertainly. His job was to accompany Joe.
“Just for a little while,” Joe said. “Stay.”
Edison understood the tone and settled down, muzzle on his paws, to wait. Joe hated to leave him alone.
He glanced at his watch. Dinnertime. With luck, everyone would be gone home for the day and the building would be mostly empty. He might get through this without any problem.
If not, and he got arrested, he’d tell them where to find his dog. Edison was microchipped, and any vet who read it would return him to the service-dog headquarters. Edison would be fine.
Would Joe?
Chapter 28
Joe took a last long look around the nearly empty room, wondering if he should check all the lockers to see if there was anything stored there that might help him. He rinsed his cup and set it upside down in the sink for the next guy. No point in stalling. It was already nearly seven. Most of the employees had probably gone home for the day. He hoped.
He gave Edison a two-fingered wave and a final injunction. “Stay.”
Edison gave him a dubious look, and he wondered if the dog would stay put.
Joe tried the door that led out of the basement. Locked. Several minutes later he’d established that none of his keys fit the lock. It made sense — the building itself wasn’t part of the underground network.
Undeterred, Joe circled the room. The door was the most obvious exit, but the steam pipes themselves left the room and vanished into the ceiling. He placed his palm on both pipes. Cold. Apparently, this building was too modern for steam heat. The hot pipes in the tunnels must have been carrying steam to another building farther down the line.
He studied the pipes. A gap between the pipe and the edge of the ceiling looked promising, but it would be a tight fit. An image of his mummified body dangling there forever flashed through his mind.
With one quick motion, he took off his backpack. He’d never fit through with it on.
“Wish me luck,” he told Edison, and he left the backpack by his front feet.
Edison turned his head away, clearly offended at being left behind.
“I don’t blame you, boy. But you’re never going to make it up the pipe. You’re a dog, not a monkey.” An image of the monkey skeleton bricked in so long ago flashed through his mind. “And it’s just as well. I like you better as a dog.”
Edison’s tail wagged once (cyan) as if he couldn’t help it.
Joe stuck the clipboard inside his shirt and tucked the bottom of the shirt in tightly so that the clipboard wouldn’t slide out during his climb. Then he transferred his small flashlight to his front pocket.
Hoping that it would hold his weight, he wedged his toes in the dusty brace that secured the pipe to the wall. He grasped the next brace and pulled himself higher. His sneakers slipped off the metal. He fell downward, but caught himself with his arms. Again, he searched for a toehold in the brace. His foot slid off.
With a sigh he climbed back down to the floor. Edison bobbed his head, looking as smug as possible for such a good-natured dog.
“I’ve got a plan,” he told the dog. “Just you wait.”
Edison wagged his tail.
Joe removed his shoes and socks, flattening out his socks and stuffing them in his pockets. His sneakers were a different problem. Where could he put them where they wouldn’t be in the way? In the end he tied the laces together and hung them around his neck.
Up the pipe again. He reached out and took firm hold of the first brace, hauling himself up. The metal dug painfully into his palms. His feet sought purchase against the sides of the pipe, slipping before curling like a monkey’s. The rusty surface felt rough against the soles of his feet.
He shimmied up a foot, then another, skinning the inside of his right ankle and swearing. If Edison had been a person, he’d have been laughing.
Finally, he got his head through the opening in the ceiling, but the room was so dark that he couldn’t see where he was. He pulled one arm up and braced his elbow on the floor. Leaning his weight on that arm, he threaded his other arm up through the small opening.
A few minutes later, he was sitting on the floor. Edison woofed once from below.
“Hush,” he called down.
He shone his flashlight around the room — a metal door, a bare bulb with a pull string above, painted concrete walls lined with plastic bottles of cleaning fluid. He was in a broom closet. Just one glamorous stop after another these days.
Sticking his head through the floor, he waved to Edison. The dog was standing at the base of the pipes, looking up.
“Stay, boy. Back soon.” He hoped that was true.
Reaching up, he pulled the string to turn on the light. The knees of his pants were filthy, and rust streaked the front of his orange safety vest. If nothing else, he looked as if he’d done a hard day’s work underground — the kind of authenticity that money couldn’t buy.