The Merchant of Death (4 page)

As I stood on top of the cement stairs, the derelict station began to show signs of life. It started as a faint rumble, that slowly grew louder. The station may have been closed, but the subway trains still ran. I saw the headlight first as it beamed into the opening, lighting up the track and the walls. Then the train came—fast. There was no reason to stop at this station anymore so it rumbled through like a shot, on its way to someplace else. For a brief moment I could imagine the station as it had looked in better days. But just as quickly, the image was gone, along with the train. In an instant, the place was deathly quiet again. The only sign that the train had been through was the swirling pieces of crusty paper caught in its slipstream.

I looked to Uncle Press to see if he were appreciating this forlorn piece of old New York history the same as I was. He wasn't. His eyes were sharp and focused. He quickly scanned the empty station looking for . . . something. I didn't know what. But I definitely sensed that he had just notched up into DefCon 2. He was on full alert, and it didn't do much to put me at ease.

“What?” was all I could think of asking.

He started quickly down the stairs. I was right after him. “Listen, Bobby,” he said quickly, as if he didn't have much time. “If anything happens, I want you to know what to do.”

“Happens? What do you mean happens?” This didn't sound good.

“Everything will be fine if you know what to do. We're not here to catch a train, we're here because this is where the gate is.”

“Gate? What gate?”

“At the end of the platform are stairs that lead down to the tracks. About thirty yards down the track, along the wall, there's a door. It's got a drawing on it, like a star.”

Things were going a little fast for me now. Uncle Press kept walking quickly, headed for the far end of the platform. I had to dodge around pillars and overturned garbage cans to keep up with him.

“You with me?” he asked sharply.

“Yeah,” I said. “Stairs, door, star. Why are we—”

“The door is the gate. If for some reason I'm not with you, open the door, go inside and say, ‘Denduron.'”

“Denda-what?”

“Den-du-ron. Say it!”

“Denduron. I got it. What is it, some kind of password?”

“It'll get us where we're going.”

Okay, could this have been any
more
mysterious? Why didn't we just say “abracadabra” or something equally stupid? I was beginning to think this was all some kind of big old joke.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked nervously. “We're going together, right?”

“That's the plan, but if anything—”

“Stop right there!”

Uh-oh. We weren't alone. We both stopped short and whipped around to see . . . a cop. Busted. For what I'm not sure. Trespassing, I guess.

“You boys want to tell me what you're doing down here?” The cop looked confident—no, cocky. He was a clean-cut guy, with a perfect khaki-colored uniform, a big badge, and an even bigger gun. At least it was still in its holster. Even though we were busted, I was actually kind of relieved to see him. To be honest, Uncle Press was starting to freak me out. I didn't think he'd gone off the deep end or anything, but this adventure was getting stranger by the second. Maybe now that a cop was here, he'd have to explain things a little better. I looked up to Uncle Press, expecting him to answer the cop. I didn't like what I saw. Uncle Press was staring the cop down. I could sense the wheels turning in his head, calculating. But what? An escape? I hoped not. The gun on the cop's hip looked nasty. There was a long moment of silence, like a standoff, and then somebody
else
joined the party.

“Can't you leave me in peace?”

We all shot a look over to a dark corner where a pile of garbage sat. At least it looked like a pile of garbage, until it moved and I saw that it was a homeless dude. Correction, he had a home and we were standing in it. He was a big guy, and I had no idea how old he was because all I saw was a tangle of hair and rags. He didn't smell so good either. He pulled
himself to his feet and shuffled toward us. When he spoke, it was with a kind of slurred, crazy-speak.

“Peace! That's all I want! Little peace, little quiet!” he jabbered.

Uncle Press squared off and stood firm, glancing quickly back and forth between the cop and the homeless guy. He was thinking fast, calculating.

“I think you two better come with me,” the cop said to us calmly. He wasn't rattled by the new arrival.

I looked to Uncle Press. He didn't move. The homeless guy got closer.

“Castle! This is
my
castle! I want you all to—”

“What?” asked Uncle Press. “What do you want us to do?” I couldn't believe he was trying to talk to this crazy guy. Then the platform started to rumble. Another subway train was on its way.

“I want you all to go away! Leave me alone!”

For some reason this made Uncle Press smile. Now I was totally confused. Whatever he was trying to calculate, he had his answer. He turned away from the homeless guy and faced the cop.

“You don't know this territory, do you?” he said to the cop.

Huh? What was that supposed to mean? Behind us, the light from the subway train started to leak into the station. It would be here in a few seconds.

The homeless guy started waving his arms for emphasis. “You! I'm talkin' to you! I want you out of my castle!” he yelled at the cop.

I was afraid the cop would pull his gun on the guy for his own protection. But he didn't. He just stood there, staring at Uncle Press. They looked like two gunslingers, each waiting for the other to blink. Then he gave a little
smile and said, “What was your first clue?”

“The uniform. City cops in this territory wear blue, not khaki,” answered Uncle Press.

This guy wasn't a cop? Then who was he? The train horn blared and the screeching of metal wheels on track grew closer.

“I'm flattered though,” said Uncle Press calmly. “You came yourself.”

Uncle Press knew who this guy was! The homeless guy kept getting closer to the cop, or whoever he was.

“That's it! That's it! If you don't git now I'm gonna—”

Suddenly the cop snapped a look to the homeless guy. It was a cold look that made me catch my breath. It stopped the homeless guy in his tracks. The cop stared at him with an intensity I'd never seen. The guy froze, and then began to shake like he had a fever.

The subway horn blared. The train was almost in the station.

The homeless guy looked as if he wanted to get away, but the cop's laserlike gaze had him locked in place. Then, something happened that I won't forget as long as I live, though I wish I could. The homeless guy opened his mouth and let out a horrifying, anguished cry. Then he ran. But he didn't run away, he ran for the tracks! The train entered the station in a blur, and this guy was running toward it.

“No! Stop!” I shouted. But it didn't matter. The homeless guy kept running . . . and jumped in front of the train!

I turned away at the last second, but that didn't stop me from hearing it. It was a sickening thud, and his scream was suddenly cut off. The train didn't even stop. I'll bet no one onboard knew what had happened. But I did and I wanted to puke. I looked to Uncle Press, who had a pained look. He wiped it away in the next instant and looked back to the
cop, who stood there with a smug little smile.

“That was beneath you, Saint Dane,” said Uncle Press through clenched teeth.

Saint Dane.
That was the first time I heard the name. I had the grim feeling it wouldn't be the last.

The cop, Saint Dane, gave an innocent little shrug and said, “Just wanted to give the boy a taste of what is in store for him.”

I didn't like the sound of that.

And then Saint Dane began to transform. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but it was real. His face, his clothes, everything about him changed. I watched in absolute, stupefied awe as he became a different person. His hair grew long and straight till it was over his shoulders. His body grew until he was nearly seven feet tall. His skin became ghostly pale white. His clothes changed from the khaki brown cop uniform, to an all-black suit that vaguely reminded me of the Far East. But none of that mattered as much as his eyes. His eyes grew icy blue and flashed with an evil intensity that made me understand the sheer force of will he possessed that could make someone jump to their death in front of a speeding train.

There was only one thing that didn't change. He still had a gun. And I was surprised to discover, so did Uncle Press. With an expertise that made me feel as if he had done this sort of thing many times before, Uncle Press reached into his long coat and pulled out an automatic. Saint Dane went for his gun as well. I stood frozen. Ever hear the term “deer in the headlights”? That was me. I couldn't move. The next thing I knew I was on my butt on the floor. Uncle Press had shoved me down behind a wooden bench. We were protected from Saint Dane, but for how long?

Uncle Press looked at me, and in a voice that was way
more calm than the situation warranted, said one simple word, “Run.”

“But what about—”

“Run!”
He then dove out from behind the protection of the bench and started shooting. I stayed there long enough to see Saint Dane dive behind a pillar for protection. Uncle Press was a pretty good shot because the tiles on the pillar splintered and shattered as they were slammed with his bullets. It was clear what he was doing. He was keeping Saint Dane occupied to give me time to run. But run where?

“Bobby, the door!”

Right! The door with the star and the abracadabra. Got it. I started to crawl away, when Uncle Press called to me, “Watch out for the quigs!”

Huh? What's a quig? Bang! A tile shattered right near my head. Saint Dane was now shooting back, and I was the target! That's all the encouragement I needed. I ran. Behind me the sound of the blasts from the gun battle rang through the empty station. It was deafening. I ran past a pillar and
bang!
A bullet pulverized another tile. Pieces of flying tile stung the back of my neck. That's how close it was. I got to the far end of the platform and saw the stairs leading down to the tracks, just as Uncle Press described. I stopped for a second, thinking I'd have to be crazy to crawl down onto subway tracks. But the alternative was worse. It would be easier facing a subway train than that Saint Dane guy. So I took a quick breath and climbed down the stairs.

Once I was down on the tracks, the gun battle seemed far away. I still heard the occasional crack of a gun, but I was now more concerned about what was in front of me than behind. For a moment I thought I should go back and help Uncle Press, but jumping into the middle of a blazing gun battle
didn't seem like such a hot idea. I could only hope that he could handle the situation. The only thing I could do was follow his instructions.

It was dark. I had to feel my way along the greasy wall to make sure I didn't accidentally step on the tracks. I'd heard about the infamous electric “third rail” that powered the trains. If you stepped on that thing, you were bacon. So I stayed as close to the wall as I could. Uncle Press said this door was about thirty yards down from the platform. I tried to picture a football field to visualize how far thirty yards was. It didn't help. I figured I'd just keep moving until my hand hit this mysterious door. My biggest fear was that I'd miss it and then . . .

Grrrrrrr.

A grumble came from behind me. What was that? Was it a train? Was it power surging through the third rail? It was neither, because I heard it again and it came from a different direction.

Grrrrrrr.

It sounded like growling. But I didn't think rats growled, so it couldn't be rats. Good thing. I hated rats. I looked around slowly and in the dim light, I saw something that nearly made my heart stop. Across the tracks, looking straight at me, were a pair of eyes. They were low to the ground and caught the light in such a way that it made them flash yellow. It was some kind of animal. Could this be the “quig” Uncle Press had told me to watch out for? Or maybe it was a wild dog. Whatever it was, it was big, and it had friends, because more eyes appeared. It was a pack of animals gathering, and their growling told me they weren't friendly. Gulp. My plan was to do everything I could not to threaten them. I decided to move very slowly, very deliberately and make my way toward the door and . . .

GRRRRRRR!

Too late! The entire pack of dogs, or quigs, or whatever they were leaped from the shadows and charged me! Suddenly the third rail didn't seem all that dangerous. I turned and ran. There must have been a dozen of them. I could hear their teeth gnashing and their claws scratching on the metal rails as they bounded over one another to get to me and . . . and I didn't want to think of what would happen if they did. I remember having a fleeting thought that maybe they'd hit the third rail and vaporize, but that didn't happen. My only hope was finding that door. It was so dark I kept tripping over stones and garbage and railroad ties and everything else down there, but I kept going. I had no choice. If I fell, I was kibble.

Then, like a lifeline to a drowning man, I saw it. The only light came from dirty, old bulbs strung above the tracks, but it was enough for me to see. Recessed into the cement wall was a small door with a faint star shape carved into the wood. This was it! I ran up to the door, only to discover there was no door handle. I couldn't open it!

I looked back and saw the pack of animals nearly on me. I only had a few more seconds. I leaned my weight against the door and it opened! The door opened in, not out! I fell inside and quickly scrambled back to close the door just as—
slam slam slam!
—the animals hit the door. I leaned back on the door, desperate to keep them out, but they were strong. I could hear their claws feverishly scratching at the wooden door. I couldn't keep them out for long.