3

Corelli stood tensed at the edge of the subway platform. He leaned forward and squinted slightly. He’d seen movement in the tunnel, an almost imperceptible change in the gradation of darkness like shadows passing before shadows. It was about to begin. He’d read Dolchik’s file, knowing that justice would be meted out one day. But why should he be sacrificed when only Dolchik’s blood would balance the scales?

The vague movements took form and shape and moments later an army of faceless men and women staggered forward from the dark tunnel, their outstretched arms wavering in the dank air like antennae of a monstrous new species of insect. These subterranean creatures were the ranks of the missing-the mothers, brothers, lovers, friends who had vanished into the maze of the subway forever. And now they wanted revenge.

As the flailing hands of the leader made contact with Corelli and twisted fingers settled around his neck, a distant buzzer sounded. The ghouls froze, then began to retreat as the noise grew louder and louder and louder and…

Corelli rolled to the side of the bed and punched the alarm clock, immediately silencing it. He stretched to release the tension from his muscles and sat up, wiping a fine gloss of perspiration from his forehead. After a glass of orange juice he’d feel better; he always did. Having nightmares was so familiar that the ritual of getting over them each morning was as automatic as shaving and showering. But this latest terror was different; it had broken an apparently endless cycle of reliving Jean’s death. And for that reason alone Frank knew unequivocally that finding Dolchik’s missing-persons file would be another milestone in his life.

Showered and dressed and still feeling shaky from the dream, Frank concocted a mug of bitter instant coffee and sat down at the table crammed into a corner of his tiny kitchen. He stared out the window down at Hudson Street where it ended abruptly at Abingdon Square; usually he liked this particular view of his Greenwich Village, but today he suspected he wasn’t going to like anything.

Damn Dolchik, he thought to himself, he’s up to something. Keeping track of M.P.’s was no mere parlor game, not when human lives were involved. Yet he’d been secretly collecting missing-persons reports all along like some kid hoarding baseball cards. The reports were all fragmentary, usually based on the testimony of a token-booth clerk or maintenance worker. They followed the same pattern: a lone passenger, waiting for a train late at night, cries for help, then… silence…no one on the platform, and a confused-and usually terrified-subway worker. Dolchik obviously had seen a pattern. Many of the disappearances had occurred in parts of the city where he had no business being. He was onto something, all right. But why, yesterday, had he lied about his interest in Penny Comstock when hers was the last-and most recent-name on the list?

Corelli sat back and sipped the coffee thoughtfully. He’d often suspected that behind the facade of Stan Dolchik’s redneck boisterousness there was a cunning and agile intelligence. And now, more than ever, he believed his instinct about the captain was right. Now the question was: What was he going to do about it?

A tapping on the front door roused Corelli from his quandary. It had to be Ralph Myers with the morning newspaper. Corelli had few friends, and those he had never came prowling around at seven-thirty in the morning. He opened the front door.

“How ya doing, Mr. Myers?”

“It’s a fine morning, Detective Corelli,” Myers replied, the hint of a smile on his face. He was the super’s father, a white-haired man in his early seventies who refused to grow old and useless. For Ralph Myers, fetching the morning paper for Corelli, then carrying it up six flights to his top-floor apartment, was proof positive he wasn’t ready to be fitted for a shroud quite yet.

“Anything worth reading?” Corelli took the Daily News from the old man and glanced at the front page.

“Wouldn’t know myself. Not much interested in what’s going on in this lousy world.”

“Sounds sensible.” Corelli gave him two quarters. “Want to see this when I’m through?”

The old man shook his head like always and started back down the stairs. Myers had read every word of the paper before delivering it, but never would have admitted to the crime. This was his little game, and in a small way, it usually got Corelli’s day off on the right track. Today the sight of the old man only depressed him.

He made himself a second cup of coffee before scanning the newspaper. Shit, today was going to be a bad one. He’d known it the minute he woke up from the dream, and reading the deep sadness and loneliness in Ralph Myers’ face cinched it. Well, the latest news would certainly take his mind off his own troubles. The inch-high headline “KID GRABBED FROM IND” assaulted Corelli from the front page. Opposite the lurid story was a blurry photograph of a young girl Corelli guessed to be six or seven. Her wide-eyed innocence was deceptive, for even in the grainy black-and-white picture a spark of mischief gilded her eyes. Her name was Lisa Hill. She looked like a nice kid. A smart kid.

But not smart enough.

He read the story, expecting the usual sensation-seeking drivel designed to hold a reader’s interest during a morning subway ride. But as he read the details of Lisa Hill’s “abduction” a second time, Corelli felt the muscles at the back of his neck tense. Lisa and her mother had been alone on the downtown platform, and witnesses on the uptown platform swore that at the time of the child’s disappearance no one had come upstairs! Officials speculated Lisa had to have been taken up the two levels and out onto the street. Any other explanation was absurd.

But not to Frank Corelli.

It had happened again! He cupped his hand thoughtfully over his mouth, exhaled through the fingers while studying Lisa Hill’s picture. The only difference between this and the Penny Comstock disappearance was that with Comstock there was no witness. Lisa Hill had been with her mother. Even if the mother didn’t see anything, she was still at the scene of the crime. And that was a good beginning. But where to go from here?

Corelli downed the coffee in one gulp, grabbed a cigarette, and pulled the phone book from the top of the refrigerator. Goddammit! The TA was a public-service organization. It was supposed to provide transportation and safety. But New Yorkers were beginning to pay extravagantly for the questionable privilege of exposing themselves to the danger and filth of the subway. Somebody was screwing up. Maybe it was Dolchik. Or maybe it went higher-to the TA executive offices on Madison Avenue. But whoever was at fault was callously overlooking the fact that the friends of Penny Comstock-and the parents of Lisa Hill-just might be wondering where the hell they were!

The phone book listed one L. Hill on West Seventy-ninth Street. L for Louise, Corelli thought as he dialed. Maybe a widow. Probably divorced. The Upper West Side was full of divorced women with children, women using only a first initial, hoping to keep their sex and their vulnerability from the cranks and the perverts. After five rings the phone was answered.

“Yes?” The woman’s voice was lifeless.

“Mrs. Hill?”

“What do you want?” A touch of anger lifted her voice momentarily.

“This is Detective Corelli of the New York Transit Police.”

“I’ve answered all your questions.” The life drooped out of it again.

“And I’m sure you’ve been very cooperative, but I’m with the TA-the people who brought you the subway?”

“Thanks a lot,” she replied, not missing the irony in Corelli’s voice. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you about Lisa.”

Although Louise was beginning to get used to hearing her daughter’s name on the lips of strangers, it was still painful. “I’m not sure I have anything more to say.”

“I could come over now, if it’s convenient,” Corelli cajoled. He’d be late for work, but Quinn would cover for him.

“Does it have to be now? I’m-”

“I’m afraid it does,” Corelli said officially. The case was actually being handled by the city police and as such was out of his jurisdiction. But there was no need to let Mrs. Hill know that there was no love lost between the TA and the NYPD and that he was actually trespassing.

“You have the address, I presume; everybody seems to,” she said listlessly. “It’s apartment 4-F.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Corelli brushed his teeth, packed Dolchik’s reports into his briefcase, called Quinn and had him cover, then headed toward the subway entrance on West Twelfth Street.

With any luck, talking to Louise Hill would be a beginning. Exactly what kind, Corelli wasn’t sure, but a beginning nevertheless.

The apartment house on West Seventy-ninth Street was a large, nondescript gray building whose unimaginative architecture typified the block. Squatting back from the sidewalk, it presented a cheerless facade of dirty stone and smudged windows to the street. Corelli wandered into the sterile and uninviting lobby thinking the co-op more suited for business than for raising a family. The doorman interrupted an animated conversation with an overfed chihuahua to ask Corelli’s business. Seemingly satisfied with the answer, he escorted him into the elevator, punched the button for Mrs. Hill’s floor, then settled back onto a tall wooden stool and yawned with barely exaggerated ennui.

Corelli hadn’t given Louise Hill much thought since talking to her. He expected she’d be emotionally overwrought, and his keen understanding of human nature had prepared him for almost any reception. She’d sounded withdrawn and uncooperative on the phone, but he knew from working in the subway that people under extreme pressure react in myriad ways. What one moment was a respectable, calm specimen of good citizenry turned, the next, into a howling aggressor. However Mrs. Hill had been affected by her situation, Corelli was ready for anything.

He was ready for anything-except what he found when Louise Hill opened the door. When she smiled and said his name, he unconsciously straightened up and ran his hand quickly through his hair. Mrs. Hill was beautiful. Not pretty, not good-looking, but beautiful. She was tall, but comfortably shorter than Corelli, slender but firmly built, as if she were athletic-she probably played tennis. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the color of burnt sugar. Her nose was small and slightly turned up and her glossy black hair was nearly shoulder-length.

“I hope this won’t be too much trouble, Mrs. Hill,” Frank said as he was shown into a large, sunny living room. It was a long time since any woman had made him wonder how presentable he looked; Louise Hill made him want to go out and start all over again-this time in a new suit, fresh haircut and manicure.

“Trouble? Until you get Lisa back, that’s all I’ve got.” She sucked in a deep breath that lifted her breasts upward, then exhaled with a sigh. “I guess you’re used to this.”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Corelli caught himself looking at her breasts, and, confused by his own crassness, turned and surveyed the living room. He may have been right about the building’s impersonality, but he was wrong in thinking it couldn’t be made homey. The living room reflected care, taste, and that most ineffable quality in decorating-love. “Nice place,” he said, barely aware he’d begun to prolong the interview for a reason that was definitely not business.

“What can I do for you?” Louise fielded the compliment. “I thought I’d answered all the police’s questions.”

“I’m not with the New York Police Department,” he quickly corrected her. “I’m with the Metropolitan Transit Authority-the MTA, usually known simply as the TA.” He shrugged now, almost apologetically. “I work in the subway.”

“I didn’t know there were two different police forces.” For the first time since Corelli had walked in, the veil of Louise’s own preoccupation lifted and she studied him openly. Satisfied that he was what he said, she indicated a couch by the window. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Corelli. Won’t you sit down.” She sat on the edge of the chair opposite him. “I’ve had so many people here, so many strangers asking questions, that I’ve begun to think everyone knows his way around here… including you.”

“I can imagine it’s been a difficult time for you, Mrs. Hill.”

She stared at him for a moment, then stared down at her feet. “I thought I’d been through tough times before. I was divorced last year and I wondered how I got through it all. That was nothing compared to this.” She remembered the old complaint that talking to an American for five minutes elicited everything there was to be known about him. But, hell, Corelli was in her home. And she’d damn well tell him what she wanted. Besides, he looked kind, like the type of man who just might understand and sympathize. “I’ve been in New York for eight years and I’ve always known as well as anyone what might happen to anyone in this city if they were unlucky. I just never thought it would happen to me.”

Corelli studied her as she spoke. She had a way of speaking off into the distance, as if she were alone, or reciting lines. But when she finished and lifted her eyes to his, Corelli felt more the center of her attention than if she had spoken to nun directly. Louise Hill was talking from her heart, not through the layers of defense erected to protect New Yorkers from the very dangers that had so suddenly broken through to her. The defenses hadn’t worked. She was totally exposed, and Corelli’s heart went out to her.

“Now, Sergeant,” she pushed on, “what exactly would you like to know?”

“Just tell me what happened-exactly.”

Louise took in a deep breath and, as best she could, recounted the fragmented details of Lisa’s disappearance. She had already recited the narrative so many times since yesterday that as the words spilled out by rote, her mind drifted slightly. She now remembered how angry she’d been with Lisa for disobeying her, for walking down the platform alone. And she remembered her promise to herself that if anything happened to the child, that would be just fine; she deserved to be taught a lesson. God, why had it taken this horrible tragedy to make her realize that her world began and ended with Lisa? Teach her a lesson? The lesson was Louise’s, and she was beginning to crumble from its severity.

“When you reached the upper level of the Seventy-second Street platform, did you see anything unusual?” Corelli interrupted her thoughts.

“There were a few people waiting for the uptown train; nothing else.”

“Then it didn’t appear they’d just witnessed something out of the ordinary?” The question, while avoiding the word “kidnapping,” was academic-if Lisa Hill had been abducted against her will and forced out of the station, she would have put up one hell of a fight. And that would have attracted attention.

“The only thing out of the ordinary they saw was me,” Louise said ironically. “They looked at me like I was crazy. I guess I really can’t blame them; I was screaming or something. The police have statements: they all said that until I came, upstairs they saw no one, nothing strange.”

“Is that why you went back downstairs instead of running out into the street? Because they were so calm?” That wasn’t the real reason, though even Mrs. Hill probably didn’t know it. Corelli guessed that subconsciously she knew Lisa was still underground.

“I guess that’s why I went back down.” She’d been asked and had answered that question a hundred times. That was the reason, unless…

“Mrs. Hill?” Corelli asked, sensing she might be remembering something.

“I had this feeling… No, it’s insane.” She shook her head.

Corelli leaned forward. Not only was Louise Hill beautiful, she was sensitive, too, a cut above the usual witness to a crime; that could be useful. “Mrs. Hill, think. What kind of feeling did you have?”

“That Lisa was still down in the subway, that she was close, but I just couldn’t see her.”

Bingo! But now was not the time to tip his hand. Corelli remained straight-faced. “You said the platform was empty, that you looked and she wasn’t on the tracks.”

“No, she wasn’t. Still…” The memory filled her mind, and the terror suddenly began again. Louise clenched her hands and tried to forget, but Corelli pushed on mercilessly.

“Are you sure the downtown platform was empty?”

“Of course I’m sure. What do you take me for? A moron?” Her voice was suddenly sharp and defensive. She was beginning to lose control.

“Mrs. Hill, it’s been my experience that people tend to see more than they remember at first. Sometimes, after the initial shock lessens, their memory improves.” Corelli felt bad about forcing the issue, but he had to. Unlike the NYPD, he had a good idea that whatever had happened to Penny Comstock and all the others had also happened to Lisa Hill. And he was determined to find out exactly what that was. “Please, try to remember any other details,” he coaxed.

“There was no one else on the platform,” she repeated through clenched teeth. “I looked first onto the platform, then into the stairwell, then onto the tracks, and finally down the tunnel…” She paused, stared at Corelli, then turned away and shook her head.

“What was that? Why did you shake your head?” He fought to keep the excitement from his voice. “You remembered something, didn’t you?”

“I just remembered…No, it’s nothing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” He stood up and went to the window to let her collect her thoughts without being under his scrutiny. “You looked down the tunnel and…?”

“I thought I saw the flicker of something in the dark, something gray, fluttery… like newspapers that had been caught in a breeze. You know, blowing along the tunnel wall about this high.” When Corelli turned around she had raised her hand about four feet from the floor.

“Newspapers? Are you sure?” In the darkness of the tunnel, someone running low to the ground could be mistaken for almost anything-particularly by a witness in Louise Hill’s state of mind.

Louise dropped her hands into her lap. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed again, wearily, hopelessly. “Sergeant Corelli, I’m not sure of my own name anymore. My daughter’s gone. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and I’m terribly afraid… and lonely. I’m sorry if I can’t answer your questions the way you’d like.”

Their eyes met for a moment; then Corelli looked away. He wanted to-had to-maintain the optimum of professionalism for his own sake. But Louise Hill was getting to him. Goddammit, he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. It wasn’t only her beauty that got him. It was her unashamed vulnerability. Jesus! Here he was in the home of a woman who was going through living hell, and he was getting turned on.

But Louise Hill saw none of this as she rose from the couch. “I’m going to make a cup of coffee for myself. May I get you one, Sergeant?”

“That’s ‘Detective,’ Mrs. Hill,” he replied softly. “And the answer is yes.”

Five minutes later the sound of shattering glass and a cry from the direction of the kitchen had Corelli running, his right hand automatically poised to reach for his gun. He didn’t know what to expect, but as he reached the kitchen door he was aware that his heart was pounding in his chest and that his mouth had gone dry.

Louise stood silently in the center of the large kitchen. Her head was bowed and her arms dangled lifelessly in front of her. At her feet were a tray and the shattered remains of a coffeepot, mugs, and a plate of homemade cookies. She looked up uncomprehendingly at Corelli as her eyes filled with tears. “Looks like I can’t do anything right anymore,” she managed to say before a wave of tears washed the words away.

Corelli took a step toward her, feeling like a damned fool. Since yesterday, Louise Hill had obviously been under a great strain, and his incessant questioning had pushed her over the emotional edge. If it hadn’t been for her revelation about the “something gray” in the tunnel, Frank would have felt worse than he did about upsetting her. As it was, he felt like shit. But Louise’s answers might have just given him the start needed to link Dolchik’s file with this disappearance… and then link them all to the same somebody-or somebodies-who preyed on people in the subway.

“Hey, are you going to be okay?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized while frantically trying to erase the stream of tears. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“It’s called delayed reaction. There’s nothing to worry about.” Corelli intended to take her by the hand and lead her back into the living room. Instead, he put his arms around her and pressed her head to his shoulder. Louise tensed momentarily, and when the awkwardness of the moment passed, she relaxed.

“How about giving me a second chance with that coffee?” she finally asked as she extricated herself from his arms.

“Leave that to me. You go sit down.” Louise began to protest. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

She smiled, pushed aside an errant lock of hair, then left without further protest.

“So, if the NYPD is handling the case, why are you here, Frank?” Louise asked twenty minutes later. Corelli made good coffee, and it revived her almost as much as his earlier kindness had.

“Let’s just say I’m moonlighting. The boys in blue know this town from the surface; I know it from the underground.”

“Some job.” She abruptly changed the subject. “Do you believe that whoever took Lisa is still down there?”

Corelli shrugged in answer, but the question unsettled him. He was beginning to get a feeling about this whole mess-a feeling that told him he wasn’t just dealing with some creep who snatched kids off platforms and dragged them into tunnels.

“Frank, be honest with me. You owe me that much. They took my baby,” she said sorrowfully, “and I cried in front of you. I don’t cry in front of every man I meet-cop or no cop.”

“I really don’t have any theories about what actually happened. It has occurred to me that someone who knew the subway system inside-out might have taken Lisa into the tunnel. The logical thing is to think she was taken upstairs; I’m not so sure.”

“Oh, God,” Louise gasped. “My poor baby.”

“There are two sets of tracks on that particular line-local and express. A knowledgeable man could jump from one set of tracks to the other to avoid oncoming trains; there are also other alternatives. Anyway, once down the line at another station where no one was looking for him, he might easily come up on the platform, then leave.” And as Corelli said it, he knew it was bullshit. Alive or dead, Lisa Hill was still in the subway.

“What are the chances that that happened, Frank?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.” Jesus, life was so unfair. Why the hell did he have to meet Louise Hill now? Why not later, when this was done with. Or better still, months before, when they could have started a relationship like two ordinary human beings.

He looked at his watch: he was already an hour late for work. “I’ve got to go.”

Louise saw him to the door, where they hovered a moment or two longer than necessary. “I wish this hadn’t happened, Frank. Not just for Lisa’s sake, but for mine. People shouldn’t have to meet like this,” she admitted softly, echoing Corelli’s thoughts.

“You and me both,” he agreed. “But it’s happened, and I’m going to do my damnedest to work it out. If I need any more help…”

“Call me,” she said without hesitation. “And thanks for being so nice earlier.”

Corelli left with a smile on his face, but back on the street he forced himself to forget Louise Hill and to concentrate on the figure she’d seen in the subway. That was no pile of newspapers blowing along the tracks. It was someone walking, creeping along to avoid detection. He was sure of it. Now all he had to do was prove it.

“He said gray, man. Like a bag of rags dumped near the track. That’s all I can remember.” Miguel Esperanza was no longer intimidated by Willie Hoyte’s gruff interrogation. It was just getting plain boring. Miguel had better things to do than to sit in Willie’s kitchen and drink Cokes while Willie played Perry Mason. Shit, it was one thing to be invited into the home of the Dogs of Hell’s leader; it was another to be second-degreed. Especially when he had a hot date waiting across town for him at that very moment.

“What you mean, he said he saw a bag of rags?”

Miguel sighed dramatically. “I already tole you, Willie. Ted said he saw somethin’ moving along the wall in the tunnel. I tole him it was jes’ some workman or somethin’, but he didn’t believe me. He said no workman dressed like that and walked like he was hiding or somethin’.”

For a moment Willie caught sight of his father’s smiling face, and his determination to get to the bottom of Slade’s disappearance was renewed. This was the second day no one had heard from that white sonofabitch, and Willie was going to have answers about what had happened to his second-in-command or else he was going to kick ass.

“I looked out where Slade was peering,” Miguel continued, “but, shit, I didn’t see nothin’ at all. Maybe Slade was smoking reefer.”

“Tell him that to his face, Miggie,” Willie replied angrily. Right about now Miguel would do anything-even lie-to get off the hook. “Why didn’t you stay with him on the platform at Ninety-sixth Street?” Miguel turned away in answer and Willie decided to pursue the question. “You chickenshit or something?”

“I was going to Marylu’s house, that’s why,” Miguel admitted, feeling the blood rise to his face. “Don’t a man get no privacy ’round here?” Miguel loved the way his girlfriend ran her fingers over his chest, all the time cooing about the hardness of his muscles. It was a real turn-on!

“You don’t get shit if you don’t be square with me.” There was really nothing more to say, but Willie’s frustration drove him on. He’d never admit he really cared about Slade-he’d cared about his father once, and look where that got him-but he did care, and Slade’s vanishing into thin air scared him, made him feel his own vulnerability.

Miguel pushed away from the kitchen table. “I’ve had it up to my teeth with you damn fool questions, Willie.” He squared his shoulders and put on his Dogs of Hell jacket. “How many times we got to go over this before you believe me that I don’t know squat about Ted Slade?”

“I believe you, Miggie,” Willie admitted quietly. “It jes’ don’t figure, that’s all.”

“Well, it don’t figure to me, neither, but that don’t mean shit where Slade’s concerned.” Miguel scratched his head and shrugged. “Maybe you should tell your buddy Detective Corelli ’bout Slade’s vanishin’ act.”

Willie didn’t rise to the bait. He knew his men were suspicious of his special relationship with the cop, but that was none of their damn business. Besides, he was personally going to investigate this occurrence himself. Something weird was happening down in the subway. Slade’s disappearance proved it. So did Corelli’s asking Dogs of Hell to keep a lookout for strange things-people walking into the subway and never walking out.

“Let’s go.” Willie beckoned Miguel to the front door.

“I’m seein’ Marylu in half an hour,” Miggie whined.

Willie rolled his eyes. “You got a date at three o’clock in the afternoon? Man, don’t you ever get enough?” Miguel blushed, and Willie pushed him out the door. “If you want to keep your lady smilin’, you’d best call her from a phone booth and tell her you’re gonna be late.”

“Say what?” Miguel said, wishing he’d never heard of Willie Hoyte or of his goddamned Dogs of Hell.

“You’re gonna be a little late, my man, ’cause you and me are goin’ out to find Ted Slade. Now, come on.” And with that he pushed past Miguel and jumped down the stairs two at a time.

The Seventh Avenue IRT subway had four clusters of exits onto Broadway at the Ninety-sixth Street stop: one on either side of the street at Ninety-sixth Street itself, and two between Ninety-third and Ninety-fourth streets. The station was a heavily traveled thoroughfare for uptown and downtown local and express traffic, and during the morning and afternoon rush hours, its platforms were crowded with riders. Even at off-peak hours, Ninety-sixth Street was busy.

Willie was counting on that fact as he and Miguel paid their fares at the Ninety-third Street token booth, pushed through the crowds and down the stairs to the platform. An express train was just pulling out of the station to their right, and in the distance, the lights of a local broke the darkness at the far end of the platform as it approached. He and Miguel lingered near the staircase while scanning the platform for TA cops. As usual, there wasn’t a uniform in sight.

The local pulled into the station, discharged a few stray passengers, picked up many more, then commenced its run south. Willie waited until the last car vanished into the darkness, then darted around the staircase along the narrow catwalk that ran alongside the tunnel. Miguel stood a polite distance behind him, his mouth open with amazement. There was no way he was going in there; no way.

“You crazy, Willie?” Miguel hissed after a moment “You know what happened to Slade foolin’ around like this.”

“I don’t know what happened and that’s what I’m bound to find out.” Willie peered over his shoulder to be sure another train wasn’t bearing down on him. Rush hour was approaching, and with it came extra traffic. Convinced he was safe, he eased himself off the catwalk down onto the roadbed. “Keep a watch out for the TA,” he admonished Miguel.

“Get outta there, man, you gonna get yourself killed. Forget the fuckin’ TA.” Miguel felt a trickle of sweat sluice down his back, leaving a cold trail. Jumping down onto the tracks was exactly what Ted Slade had done- and that crazy sonofabitch had never returned to tell of it.

“You jes’ watch out for Miguel Esperanza,” Willie shouted over his shoulder as he moved in deeper. “And for Christ’s sake, if some cop starts snoopin’ around, don’t stand there lookin’ at me like you see some naked broad in here. Play it cool. Dogs of Hell ain’t no dummies, remember.”

Willie had to talk big to cover his own mounting fear. The tunnel was dark and dank, and the series of signal lights along the wall cast an eerie light into the tunnel. Had it not been for his grudging affection for Slade, nothing could have enticed Willie into any subway tunnel. As a child he’d had an uncontrollable fear of the dark and the terrible things that inhabited it. Now, alone as the thick darkness closed in around him, the old fear took hold.

“Sheeeit,” Willie yelled as he stumbled into an ankle-deep puddle of stagnant water. He was ill-prepared for roughing it in his running shoes, and as the water soaked his foot, he wondered if being here was such a smart idea, after all. Well, it was too late to turn back now.

The flickering halo of light at the Eighty-sixth Street station off in the distance was a beacon to follow. Willie hugged the west wall, always mindful that the third rail, which carried enough electricity to kill him in a second, was opposite him under a protective cover, like a snake hiding under a rock. A vague rustling sound behind him, an intimation that someone else was near, sent a bolt of terror through Willie. He turned around quickly, just in time to see something dart into the shadows; not a figure, exactly, more like a different texture of darkness.

Willie stopped moving entirely. He had to be imagining things. He was alone in the tunnel; he had to be. But just to be sure, he squinted his eyes to help improve his vision; then he scanned the area between the local and express tracks where he thought he’d seen the movement. There was nothing to see. Nothing to be afraid of except his own fear.

“Man, you gettin’ as flaky as Miggie,” he joked aloud to break the tension. “You better get on with it or your ass will be grass.” He knew the local tracks would soon be crowded with trains and that getting out of the tunnel in one piece would be a tough job.

Miguel’s voice, reverberating down from the station, shattered the heavy silence of the tunnel. “Willie, there’s a train coming!”

Willie turned and, once again, saw a flicker of movement behind him; closer now than before. But his attention was drawn back toward the platform by another call from Miguel. “Shut up, Miggie,” Willie complained under his breath. If that damned fool kept up the yelling he would attract undue attention.

And as the thought passed through Willie’s mind, he saw a TA cop in the distance join Miguel on the platform. The cop leaned forward, visored his eyes with his hand, then pushed Miguel out of the way. “Get outta there, you dumb fuck!” the cop screamed.

The policeman opened his mouth again, but his voice was drowned out by the clattering thunder of an approaching local train. Willie hadn’t seen it because he’d been too interested in the cop. But he saw it now and he was so suddenly afraid that he fought to keep back a scream. What the hell was he doing down here? What did he expect to find that was worth risking his own life? Ted Slade hadn’t been seen in two days, but that didn’t mean he’d walked into this tunnel and never walked out. If he’d been bit by a train, it would have been reported and made all the newspapers. But it hadn’t been. And as far as Willie knew, that was the only bad thing that could happen to you down here. So far as he knew.

After narrowly escaping the train by jumping onto the express track, Willie felt his resolve to pursue his goal weaken momentarily. “Why am I standing here peeing in my pants?” he asked himself aloud. And as quickly as the question was posed, it was answered: “Because somethin’ bad’s happened to my main man. And Willie Hoyte don’t desert his friends.”

He was about to continue his exploration when he saw the cop speaking into his walkie-talkie. That was bad news. He was probably alerting his buddies, signaling the TA control center to shut off the power in that section of the track so he could chase Willie. And, sure enough, thirty seconds later, the cop jumped down onto the roadbed and started running toward Willie like he had a personal grudge against him and was about to collect.

Willie turned tail and started to run full-out. The Eighty-sixth Street station was his only hope of escape. But it was still a long way, and running down here was tough; it meant leaping over ties, keeping a sure footing on the loose gravel and slick sludge of the roadbed. And most of all it meant keeping away from the deadly third rail. But getting away from the TA was more important than thinking about how tough it was. If that cop caught him, Willie Hoyte would be crucified once and for all. Willie Hoyte, founder of Dogs of Hell-nothing more than a dumb bastard who endangers his own life and that of other subway passengers to play on the tracks. That’s what the TA would say. Damn! He could almost read the headlines now.

The cop was gaining on him. Willie had no idea how far he’d run, but the configuration of the tunnel was changing. Ahead, the wall seemed to fall away into an inky pit of darkness. It looked like a disused station, but Willie’d been riding this line for years and had never seen it before. He knew there were abandoned stations throughout the city, stations that had been closed down because they no longer served any useful purpose. Willie’d seen them but he’d never seen one here. Had Slade seen it? Had Slade seen that gray thing creeping along the tracks toward this station? Was that why he’d come here?

The cop was now so close Willie could hear his labored breathing. And as he looked over his shoulder to get a bead on him, Willie’s foot caught on a tie and he fell, tumbling out of control. He reached out, frantically grabbing for something to stop his forward motion. His fingers entwined around something soft and slick, something with enough weight behind it to halt his forward roll. Willie held tight until he stopped; then he turned and stared into the darkness, trying to discern what had stopped him.

At first it looked like a pile of rags. Or a collection of shopping bags carried around by the crazies in the street. On closer inspection, Willie saw it was a body-a crumpled-up body with its head tucked down, knees drawn up to its chest in a gruesome imitation of a fetus. Willie’s mouth filled with salty bile. He swallowed to keep back the fear. The body was clad in a Dogs of Hell jacket. And Willie knew that he’d found Ted Slade.

“Don’t move, you shithead,” the cop screamed as he ground to a halt just behind Willie. “I’m gonna bust your ass, you crazy nigger.” The cop’s hateful eyes followed Willie’s stare to the body by the tracks. “What the hell is that?”

He stepped forward, but Willie caught him by the ankle and stopped him. “Stay away, you. That’s one of my men.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The cop kicked Willie’s hand away.

“I’m Willie Hoyte and that’s one of my Dogs of Hell.” He dragged himself up to face the cop. “I come down here lookin’ for him. And now I found him.”

“You stay right there, mister,” the cop commanded. He stepped around Willie and went to the body. He stared down at it a moment, deciding his next move; then, with the tip of his shoe angled under the corpse’s elbow, he tipped it to its side. Rigor mortis had long since set in, and the body retained its infantile position as it rocked onto its back. The cop pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone it directly at Ted Slade’s head; then he looked away in disgust and turned off the light. But not fast enough. Not before Willie saw his friend and began screaming.

Ted Slade’s face was gone.