The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [57]
Raul recoiled, and Laurel pressed her back harder against the curved wall.
Henry unwrapped the strips and produced three hazelnut-shaped forms, like tiny Easter eggs, their surfaces rippling under the light, and slotted them inside the wire contraption.
Metronome grabbed the rat by its neck with one hand and gripped its hind legs with the other.
“Here.” Henry fastened the wires around the rat’s midriff, then draped one of the lead-fabric strips over it and secured it with another length of wire. Then he nodded to Metronome. “Hurry up, boy, let her loose by the waterfall after you remove this piece of cloth. She’ll find a way to her lair.”
Laurel eyed Metronome’s retreating figure. “Will she be able to get the wires off?”
“I doubt it.” Henry’s voice didn’t show concern for the rat’s welfare.
“Won’t this get you in trouble?” Raul asked.
Henry’s eyes twinkled and he panned the tunnel. “More trouble?” The hole in his beard lengthened sideways.
“I meant—”
“I doubt the goons will do anything. They’ll guess some mole—that’s what they call us—has helped you out, but there are over twenty settlements. Besides, we may soil their neat tanks. Nah. They’ll be pissed as hell but can’t do shit about it. They’ll know you’ve fled and they’ll look elsewhere. As soon as Metronome returns—say, thirty minutes—we’ll be on our way.”
“You like it here?” Raul was ripping the tab from a bag of rice.
Henry cocked his head, as if he were taking Raul’s measure. “We have almost everything. Hooking up wires for electricity is easy, and discards from the city provide all the material comforts we need. Only running water is lacking, but, in a way, it’s an advantage; dirt and grime help us blend in with the darkness. To answer your question: No, I don’t like it, but it’s home, and crowded with extraordinary people.”
Laurel nodded. She understood about home and extraordinary people. Bastien. A lump formed in her throat, and the light dangling from the IV stand seemed to break into myriad sparkles.
“You move a lot?”
“Used to. We’ve been left undisturbed here for close to six years. A couple of years ago, there was activity farther west by the power station. The police crashed into a community and the brothers had to scamper. Some moved in with us and a few stayed. The Marchesi clan had set up a drug laboratory in an underground cave connected by a network of escape tunnels and passageways to their headquarters.”
Raul’s eyes flickered. “The heat found it?”
“Eventually. They pumped in concrete to seal all the exits.”
Laurel was about to ask if the mobsters were in or out when the concrete poured down, but a gleam in Henry’s eyes answered her question. In. “So now you stay put. I mean …”
“We visit other settlements to trade information or something they may have in excess. Sometimes we even have visitors, other than brothers from other tunnels—journalists and artists, principally.”
“Artists?”
“Yes. It seems a floor dusted with soda straws, condoms, tampons, and diapers nurtures creativity and artistic imagination. Go figure.”
Floyd darted a glance toward the opening at the end of the station. “You travel through the active subway tunnels?”
“That’s dangerous. We keep to the sewers as much as we can. Some have risked shortcuts between settlements through live tunnels, but it’s crazy. They may be run over by a train or touch the electric third rail—a shortcut’s not worth having your head, feet, and hands explode.”
chapter 22
9:11
After Metronome bolted down the tunnel, burdened with his rat cage, Henry Mayer finished his short exchange with Laurel and Raul, then moved to one end of the station, tailed by Barandus. There they sat for a while, Henry obviously talking, his hands dancing in midair, and Barandus leaning forward as if eager not to miss a word. After a few minutes, Barandus stood, strolled to a group gathered around a fire on the lower rail bed, and returned in the company of two men. Then he left again, this time to the opposite end of the station, where he shifted