Unleashed (22 page)

At the door Mulberry turned to me. "We'll talk later?"

"OK." I closed the door behind them.

"This is insanity," James said.

"I've got to go."

"Where are you going?"

"Uptown. I want to talk to George Chamers' boss." I started gathering my stuff.

"What? Why?" I found my cell phone on the kitchen counter.

"I had been kind of assuming that the blond woman that Chamers spotted was Charlene, or she knew who it was, but obviously she has no idea. All we know is that whoever it was, knew her way around that basement, so who knows that? The man who knows who knows is George Chamers' boss." I grabbed my bag off my bedroom floor.

"Who knows who knows?"

"What?" I scanned the living room for my keys.

"Exactly."

"Where the hell are my keys?

S
potting me, the white-haired man behind the front desk of Eighty-Eight East End Avenue began to smile, then recognizing me, frowned. "Hi," I said, trying to sound like someone who was not going to faint.

"Welcome back." He attempted a welcoming smile but failed.

"Thanks. I was hoping to see William Franklin."

"He is working in the park today."

"Really?"

"Yes, he volunteers. I'm guessing you'll find him on the esplanade."

William Franklin was kneeling on the ground next to several wooden stakes and a group of black-eyed Susans that had tilted over. His white hair fluttered in the river's breeze, and there was a smudge of dirt on the tip of his dignified nose. He smiled up at me. "Hello dear, can I help you?"

"My name is Joy, and I'm a student at NYU. I'm taking an urban planning class and thought that you would be the perfect person to speak to about 88 East End Avenue."

"I'd be happy to tell you about her," he said, his voice filled with a father's pride. "Just give me a couple of minutes."

I sat on a bench nearby and watched as he finished propping up the black-eyed Susans, using string to tie the long stems to the wooden stakes he'd beat into the ground. Franklin stood up and stretched, then reached down and grabbed a vine with white flowers with both hands. He ripped it out of the earth and dragged it over to a trash can. The flowers were pretty, and I didn't understand why he was destroying them.

"Datura," he said when he saw my face. "It's poisonous. Just one of their seeds can make you crazy, three will kill you."

"Scary," I said.

Franklin wiped his hands on the seat of his work pants and then smiled at me. "How can I help you?"

"First let me buy you a cup of coffee."

"That sounds nice." William Franklin walked with the ease of man who knew his way around. He led the way to a quiet coffee shop I hadn't noticed on 80th Street, all the time pointing out buildings and telling me little bits of history. He smiled the whole time, clearly enjoying his guided tour. We both ordered iced coffees, and Franklin joked with the young woman behind the counter that soon he would see her at the debutante ball. She smiled at him, humoring an old man's ancient notions about what girls like her dreamed of.

"Would you like to walk with these?" he asked, signaling with his bushy eyebrows toward the park.

"Sounds great."

"I worry we will have a heat wave soon," William said as we strolled down 80th toward the river.

"I hope the city doesn't lose power," I said.

"Luckily for the residents of Eighty-Eight, we have a generator."

"That's helpful."

"Yes. We have used it during several emergencies."

"I guess there's plenty of room for a generator in that giant basement of yours." Franklin nodded. "George Chamers said it was one of the largest in the area." We entered the park and turned onto the esplanade.

"Do you know George personally?" William asked as he nodded at a woman making her way using a walker. She smiled back at him.

"No, I was just doing research. How is it that the basement is so large and uncharted?"

"There are several reasons the basement is so hard to navigate. Firstly, the original blueprints were lost in a fire in the late '30s. Then, as the years passed, there have been many additions and subtractions to the basement of Eighty Eight. The building used to have a yacht club. It extended directly to the water. But now, of course, there is the F.D.R." He looked out to Hell's Gate, his eyes squinting against the sun. "Lots of changes."

"Chamers joked that there are passages directly to the park." Franklin smiled and shook his head. "Are the rumors true?" I asked.

"There are lots of rumors in this world," William said. "Some people say that there are passages that lead right into Gracie Mansion. The land was originally owned by the Walton Family. Scared of increased conflict with the British, they built tunnels under their house for an easy escape. This proved unnecessary since George Washington and his troops appropriated the estate in 1776."

Franklin laughed softly at the Walton’s bad luck. We were approaching the memorial for the soldiers who drowned aboard the H.M.S. Hussar when William Franklin stopped. "There are rumors that the Hussar was carrying the British payroll when she sank," he said. "That millions upon millions of dollars' worth of gold bullion rests a mere 80 feet beneath the surface, lying within easy reach of common scuba."

I felt a tingling all over. Gold. Scuba. Was it possible that the coins Joseph gave Charlene came from the Hussar?

"Men much smarter than you and I have gone looking for it," he continued. "Simon Lake, the famous submarine inventor, spent many years and much of his fortune groping around in those murky waters looking for the Hussar. In 1985, Barry Clifford, the well-known aquatic salvager, claimed he'd found the wreck but nothing came of it."

"Do you think there's gold down there?"

Franklin shook his head and laughed. "I doubt it, and even if there was, it would be under rubble. Pot Rock, the rock the Hussar struck, was demolished, along with the rest of the reefs that helped earn this stretch of water its name."

I looked out at Hell's Gate, the waters churning under the hot sun. "What about tunnels into Gracie Mansion? Do you believe those rumors?"

He smiled and shrugged. "Who knows? There are supposed to be tunnels leading in and out of the White House. Why not Gracie Mansion?"

"Are there tunnels that lead into the park?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"You have a lot of knowledge."

He laughed. "Was it your mother who taught you flattering old men would get you what you wanted?"

I laughed but didn't answer. We strolled on, circling Gracie Mansion, in silence.

###

W
illiam Franklin went back to work and I called Mulberry. "Hey,” I said. I'm in the park, and I just learned something amazing. Did you know there were secret passages built under Carl Schurz Park before the revolutionary war?"

"What?"

"There was a passageway, a secret passageway." I was pacing under the shade of a cherry tree. "I mean, there have to be. The blond woman either knows the building well, or someone in the building taught her how to go. The thing is there can't be that many people who know about this."

"Slow down, Joy."

"Are you listening to me? We're almost there. I can feel it."

"OK. OK. I need you to start over."

I watched a squirrel chase another down a tree. "Mulberry, Jesus. Don't you understand what I'm saying? Secret passageways. Tunnels, underground, leading from one place to another. Ways to travel underground without anyone knowing."

"Where?"

"Are you serious? In the goddamned park." The squirrels stopped near a fence and chattered at each other. They waved their little arms around and bobbed their heads.

"William Franklin didn't mention this to the police," Mulberry said.

"That doesn't mean it's not true."

"But why would he hide it?"

"You're joking, right?" One squirrel started chasing the second. They ran into the bushes.

"Sorry. I'm just tired."

"All right," I exhaled loudly. "Look, is Charlene safe now?"

"Yes, she is."

"OK, so you need to look forward. You need to understand that this isn't over."

I could hear him bristle over the phone. "I'm on my way," he said gruffly.

"Fine."

"Fine." I flipped my phone shut loud enough that I hoped he could hear it. The squirrels started making some serious noise—loud squeaking and thumping. My prurient interest overcame my decorum, and I peered through the bushes. They were doing it on top of a square hatch marked
Drainage
. The squirrels finished up and scurried off. I was still staring at the drainage hatch. I cocked my head. "That's a hatch," I said out loud.

Before thinking about it too much, I climbed over the wrought-iron fence into the bushes. Ducking down, I was invisible from the pedestrian path as long as no one was looking for a young woman crouching in the foliage. The hatch hinges looked well-oiled, but when I tried to lift the metal top, it didn't move. I pulled with all my strength against the solid edge, but nothing. Sweat dripped into my eyes. There had to be some kind of trick to the thing. But all I saw around me were dirt, branches, and sprinkler heads. Digging my fingers into the dirt, under the edge of the hatch, I pulled up. Nothing happened.

I sat back on my haunches. Dirt, branches, and sprinkler heads. Then I saw it. One of the sprinkler heads was not like the others. While most of them were silver and modern-looking, the one closest to the hatch was bronze and stained green from age. I pushed on it, I pulled on it, and then I kicked it. The head shifted slightly, and the hatch opened silently.

I peered into the dark hole, now exposed. Cool air scented by the river hit my face. I opened my cell phone and lowered it into the hole. In the dim, gray light of my cell phone's face, wooden steps glowed. "Holy shit." I glanced around me:  branches, dirt, and sprinkler heads. I stepped down into the cool air. Goose bumps spread from my ankles up to my nose as I descended.

###

S
unlight streamed down from the opening and cast my shadow over where I was stepping. The space below me was filled with murky darkness. At the tenth step, the metal hatch began to close. I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut. It must be an automatic door, I told myself. The metal thunked into place above me, and I was left alone with the cold, packed-dirt walls, the solid wooden steps, and the reassuring light of my phone. I kept moving down.

About 30 steps later, I reached the bottom. A hallway faded into blackness in front of me. The ceiling was strung with light bulbs in yellow plastic cages. There was no obvious switch to turn them on. Two steps later, the bulbs brightened with a whirr of electric current. The hall ended 40 feet in front of me at a gray door with a chrome knob.

The knob turned easily, and the door opened into a dark, cramped space. I felt my way forward and quickly found another doorknob. Turning this one got me into a larger dark space. I found a light switch on the wall to my right, and when I flicked it on, I discovered I'd come out of a closet. The room I was standing in was empty, and there was a door to my left. I lingered on the threshold peering out onto a hallway that had the telltale white walls and sporadic lighting of Eighty-Eight East End Avenue. The hall ended in a T. I decided to go left because it was as good as going right, but before venturing beyond my doorway, I turned to study it.

There was nothing that would distinguish it from any other door in any hall. I took a pen out of my shoulder bag and made the smallest of blue marks by the middle hinge. Then I started left. I reached the hallway at the end of the first hall and realized I didn't have a plan. Should I try every door? Should I wait for Mulberry to arrive and then try every door?

I was suddenly paralyzed with indecision, and that turned into fear faster than squirrels copulate. I broke out in a sweat. As the fear was hitting its peak, and all I could hear was the rushing of the blood through my veins, a door behind me opened and voices and footsteps echoed.

The halls I could see were empty. The acoustics made it impossible to tell where the footsteps were coming from. I went to take a step and stopped, my foot hanging in the air. They would hear me. There was a door only a few feet away, and I wracked my brain over how to get to it without making a sound. Then again, maybe they already knew I was here. If there were sensors to close the hatch and turn the lights on, why wouldn't those same sensors notify someone in a room somewhere filled with security monitors that an intruder had entered the building? Maybe it didn't matter if I made any noise.

"Christ, you're such an idiot," a man's voice said. "Betting on the Mets is like betting on the fat guy in an eating contest."

"You just can't understand that the Mets are the greatest team in the world," said another man. I pictured potbellies and easy laughter. I took as soft a step as I knew how. The slightest of taps echoed through the hall. I took another quiet step and was standing in front of the door. "If you refuse to acknowledge the greatness of the Yankees, there's no help for you," came the predictable retort.

I wrapped my sweaty palm around the knob. It opened nice and quiet. I went in and closed the door behind me. Leaning against it, trying not to breathe or let my heart beat, I listened. Through the door, I could still hear the muffled voices of the men. I was pretty sure they were getting closer. Light leaked in under the door and lit my sneakers. I took two steps back, just in case they were looking under doors for shoes. Their shadows passed by, blocking the light for a second. "All right, I'll bet you $500."

"You know what?  Make it a thou—" The rest was muffled. Their voices gone, I peeked out the door. What was I doing down here? I shook my head trying to physically remove my doubt. I started trying doorknobs. The first room was filled with, as far as I could tell, a tenant's storage. A milk crate of vinyl records sat next to a turntable. A puffy, black-leather couch covered in plastic was pushed up against the far wall. A glass coffee table with chrome legs was next to the couch. Two wet suits spilled out of an open box. A married man's bachelor's belongings, I guessed.