From then on Jinx stayed as far away from Bobby as she could, and when she heard he’d disappeared a few days ago, all she felt was relief—one less thing to worry about. But instinctively she still avoided the 110th Street station as much as she could.
Getting off at 116th Street, she emerged from the station on Broadway and crossed the street to the Columbia University campus. Columbia had become one of her favorite places in the city from the moment she’d stumbled across it two years ago. She could wander along its paths for hours, fantasizing about going to classes in its ornate brick buildings. Once, she almost snuck into the back of a lecture hall, but she lost her nerve at the last minute, certain that everyone would know right away that she didn’t belong there and throw her out. But they couldn’t throw her off the campus.
She was about to pass through the big gate onto the campus itself when she stopped. A few yards down the sidewalk a man was pushing a wheelchair in which sat a young woman.
The woman looked oddly familiar.
And she seemed to be looking back at her.
As the man pushed the woman closer, Jinx suddenly knew. It was the woman from the subway—the woman Bobby Gomez had mugged last fall!
Turning away at once, Jinx hurried through the gates and walked quickly toward the enormous quadrangle in the center of the campus, not daring to look back. If the woman recognized her and called the police—
Wanting to be as far away from the neighborhood as possible, Jinx veered off to the south, broke into a run, and kept going until she exited the campus at 114th Street. She kept going south, so freaked by seeing the woman that she skipped the nearby 110th Street station and disappeared back into the subway at 103rd.
Only when the train had rumbled off into the darkness of the tunnels did she feel really safe again.
The gnawing in Jeff’s stomach told him the day had passed, so he knew that even if they found a place where they could peer out of the tunnels, the sight of daylight that had buoyed his spirits earlier would have faded into the semidarkness of a New York night. When the hunger in his belly had first begun to stir hours earlier, he’d simply ignored it—lunch was a meal he never minded missing, and before he was arrested, he’d almost given up eating it at all. But in prison, eating had become something to break up the dull monotony of the days, and though his palate had never grown fond of jail cuisine, apparently his stomach had. The small pangs of hunger he’d experienced a few hours ago had become far more insistent.
As he and Jagger retreated back into the darkness—their eyes still fixed on the tantalizing sunlight that remained out of reach—he’d been certain that they’d quickly find another way out.
There had to be hundreds of escape routes—surely they could find a storm drain emptying into the river, or a shaft leading up to a manhole in a street.
In his memory he could see dozens of gratings in the streets, in the sidewalks, in the parks—all of them leading into the maze of passageways beneath the city. Surely they’d quickly find one. It wasn’t possible they were all guarded.
Was it?
Before they’d turned away from the last drop of daylight, they tried to develop a strategy. It seemed simple at the time: the hunters—whoever they were—knew they were on the West Side. So they would start working their way east. Somewhere, they would find an unguarded escape route to the surface.
They’d started east, following the plan, but after an hour, perhaps two, they lost their bearings.
At first it hadn’t been too difficult to keep track of their direction—the passages seemed to be laid out on a grid that mirrored the grid of the streets above. They stayed away from the darkest areas and tried to keep to the upper levels, heeding Tillie’s words about the increasing craziness of the people who lived in the lower depths. But at certain crossroads their way was blocked by knots of hard-eyed men in gangs large enough to intimidate even Jagger. The fifth time it happened, Jeff was certain that the men weren’t simply blocking escape routes, but instead were steering them in a particular direction. They were being herded like cattle.
With the way up blocked, they’d finally had no choice but to burrow deeper, and it had now been hours since Jeff had had any real idea of their location, much less a plan for how to escape.
The tunnels were all starting to look alike—the one they were currently in was lined with pipes and lit every hundred yards or so by a bulb just bright enough to allow them to make their way, but dim enough to leave them deep in darkness most of the time.
Suddenly, Jagger’s strong fingers closed around his arm. “Somethin’ ahead,” the big man whispered softly, so that no echo of his words would betray their presence.
Jeff peered into the darkness and saw what Jagger meant.
A faint, orange glow.
A campfire, perhaps.
They remained where they were, frozen in the darkness, searching the gloom for any movement, straining to catch any sound.
All was quiet.
“Stay here,” Jagger whispered. “I’ll go see.”
“We’ll both go,” Jeff whispered back. Before Jagger could argue with him, he pulled free from the other man’s grip and began creeping toward the glow. It was emanating from the same kind of opening in the tunnel’s concrete wall that led to the chambers in which Tillie and her family dwelt.
But how many rooms might there be?
And what kind of people were sheltered there?
When the opening in the wall was only five yards away, they paused again, listening to the faint crackling sounds of burning wood.
Still no voices.
They moved closer, then Jagger darted ahead, crossing in front of the doorway and pressing himself against the wall on the other side.
Jeff started to follow but Jagger raised his hand to signal him to stay where he was. As Jagger’s hand rose, a shadow filled the door and a gruff voice said, “Lester? That you?”
Jeff flattened himself against the wall, too late. A form stepped out into the tunnel, and the beam of a flashlight blinded Jeff.
“Who are y—” the voice began, but was cut off in a strangled yelp as Jagger’s arm snaked around the man’s neck and jerked him backward. As the flashlight dropped from the man’s hand and clattered to the tunnel’s concrete floor, Jagger forced the man back through the door from which he’d just emerged. Jeff snatched up the flashlight and followed.
It was a small chamber, lit only by the flickering light of a fire burning in a barrel so rusted that large areas of the metal had corroded all the way through. There was some kind of shaft in the ceiling of the chamber, which acted as a chimney, and the draft from the open door was just enough to keep the room from filling with the fire’s black smoke. A battered plastic crate served as the only furniture. Filthy blankets piled in one corner appeared to be the man’s bed, and an old kettle hanging from a makeshift tripod could be put over the fire barrel for cooking. The pot was steaming, and Jeff assumed the man had just pulled the tripod away from the fire. The smell from the kettle, however, was nowhere near as savory as that produced by Tillie’s stove.
Jagger released the man with a shove that hurled him against the wall. He collapsed to the floor and huddled there. Pulling his knees to his chest, he peered fearfully up at them. His eyes flicked furtively from one to the other, but every few seconds they came to rest on a spot behind them. Jeff turned to see what was capturing the man’s interest. In the corner was a large black plastic bag out of which spilled the kind of tattered clothing so many of the city’s homeless carried around with them.
“It’s mine,” the man said, his voice trembling with apparent fear. “Nothing in it. But it’s mine—you can’t have it.”
Jagger’s eyes narrowed. “See what’s in it,” he told Jeff, his eyes fixing on the man.
“No!” the man shrieked. In a lurch, he scuttled across the floor and wrapped his arms protectively around the bag. “You can’t have it. It’s my treasure!”
“Gotta be somethin’ in
there, the way he’s bawlin’,” Jagger said. Reaching down, he peeled the man’s arms away from the bag and pulled him away. “Take a look,” he told Jeff again.
Jeff hesitated, but the look in Jagger’s eyes told him it would be useless to argue. Crouching down, he began sorting through the contents of the bag. A few clothes dropped to the floor, and the man, pinned to the wall by nothing more than Jagger’s right arm, whimpered as if he’d been jabbed with a knife. More clothes came out of the bag, and then, hidden beneath them, he found what the man must have been referring to as his “treasure.”
Purses.
There were half a dozen of them, mostly the type of small leather clutch bags that women of a certain age carried in the evening. Purses with no straps for their owners to hang on to if someone tried to snatch them out of their hands.
“Mine!” the man howled as they tumbled out on to the floor. “I found them!” His eyes filled with tears and a sob rose in his throat as Jeff started going through the purses.
In the third purse, Jeff found a cellular phone. For a moment all he could do was stare at it, but as he realized what it might mean, his hand began to tremble. He took it from the purse slowly, as if it might vanish before his eyes like a mirage of water in the desert.
Dead, he thought. The battery has to be dead.
He flipped it open and pressed the power button. To his amazement, the screen lit up.
The battery meter showed one bar.
The signal strength meter showed nothing at all.
Turning the phone off, he flipped it closed, but instead of putting it in his pocket, he just stared at it.
With the phone, they might just find a way to get help. If they could reach some place where they could get a signal . . .
If the battery didn’t die . . .
Part of him wanted to leave right now, to start crawling through the maze of tunnels again, searching for a place where a cellular signal could get through.
A subway station? He was almost certain he remembered hearing someone complain about how weak the signal was in the stations, but if there was any signal at all . . .
But even as the urge to start hunting for some place to use the phone grew in him, another part of his mind told him not to do anything foolish.
They were tired and hungry, and had no idea what time it might be.
If he tried to use the phone and got no answer, he might wind up wasting whatever juice the battery still held.
Better to wait.
When he was rested, fed, and could think clearly, he would figure out how best to use the phone. The man whimpered as Jeff slipped it into his pocket, but he didn’t care. Obviously, the man had stolen it, and just as obviously, he hadn’t been using it. He was probably crazy enough that he didn’t even know what it was for.
He looked into the man’s eyes.
“We’re going to stay here tonight,” he said quietly. “We’re going to eat with you, sleep for a while, and then we’re going to leave. We’re not going to hurt you.” Jeff’s voice seemed to soothe the man, and he nodded, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Let him go, Jagger,” Jeff said. “He’s not going to hurt anyone.”
It was hours later.
They’d eaten their fill of whatever was in the kettle—it hadn’t tasted very good, but as far as Jagger was concerned, it was better than the food at Rikers.
Jagger had slept for an hour while Jeff stayed up keeping watch, then Jagger took his place. The guy who lived in the room slept, too. He’d never told them his name—he acted like it was some kind of secret—but Jagger didn’t care. He didn’t like the guy.
It was the way he looked at Jeff.
He could tell the guy liked Jeff.
Wanted Jeff to stay with him.
Wanted Jeff to be his friend, the way he was Jeff’s friend.
But that wasn’t going to happen. As soon as Jeff woke up, they were going to leave, and then it would be just the two of them again.
Jagger didn’t know whether they were going to be able to use the phone. But if Jeff wanted to try, then it was okay with him—Jeff was pretty smart, and if he thought it would work, it probably would. After all, he’d almost gotten them out over by Riverside Park. If it hadn’t been for those guys, they’d already be free.
Free, and looking for a place where they could live.
Once they found a place to live, he would figure out a way to make enough money to take care of them both. Just like he’d taken care of Jimmy before they’d put him in jail.
He stretched, and as his right leg straightened out, his foot touched the sleeping form of the crazy guy who lived there. The man rolled over and one of his arms flopped over Jeff.
As Jagger watched, he moved closer to Jeff, snuggling up against him just like—
Jagger cut the thought off. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man, and a moment later, when he thought he saw the guy pull Jeff even closer to him, he felt the first flashes of anger.
The guy was trying to take Jeff away from him!
But that wasn’t going to happen.
His hand went to the heavy railroad spike nestled in the big pocket of his coat.
As the man seemed to squirm up against Jeff, Jagger’s hand tightened on the spike.
After that, Jagger wasn’t sure what happened. All he knew was that Jeff was suddenly awake, and the other guy was moaning and bleeding.
Bleeding from a big hole in his back.
Jeff was staring at him like he’d done something terrible.
“He was going to hurt you,” Jagger said. “I couldn’t let him hurt you, could I?”
“Jesus,” Jeff breathed, “He wasn’t— He—”
A spasm seized the man and blood spewed out of his mouth. Then the fit subsided, and a moment later he fell still.
Utterly still.
Jeff reached out, hesitated, then put his fingers on the artery in the man’s neck.
Nothing.
He looked up at Jagger. “He’s dead.”
Jagger’s eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to kill the guy—he was almost sure of it. “He was gonna do something to you—” he began, but Jeff was already standing up.
“Let’s just get out of here,” he said quietly. Quickly, they picked up their things and started out of the room, but just before they passed through the door, Jeff turned and looked back. The man’s open eyes seemed to be staring at him, glowing in the reflected firelight.
CHAPTER 25
“You better get to gittin’ or you’re gonna be late for school.”
Robby, carefully leaning forward so he wouldn’t spill anything on his new shirt—a real new shirt, instead of a used one from the thrift shops—finished his bowl of cereal and eyed the chipped coffee mug in front of Tillie.
“Don’t even think about it,” Tillie said, not even bothering to look up from the two-day-old newspaper she was reading. “You want to stunt your growth?”
“Come on, Tillie,” Robby begged. “Lots of the kids drink coffee. They bring it in thermoses and—”
“And you’re not lots of kids,” Tillie broke in, trying to fix Robby with a glare, but unable to resist winking at him instead. “Tell you what—one sip, and no more arguments? You go right off to school?”
Robby’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Really?” he breathed.
Robby gazed at the mug reverently, almost certain someone would either snatch it away from him at the last second or hit him.
Or both.
Tillie could recall the night Jinx had first brought him to the co-op. He’d been so frightened that she stayed up all night, sitting next to his bed, holding his hand. For a long time, certain that he was going to find himself abandoned on the streets again, Robby had refused to go anywhere, and when anyone went near him, he flinched as though anticipating a beating. Tillie began to suspect that his parents had actually done him a favor by abandoning him. When school had started, at first he refused to go. The only way Tillie could convince him to take the ris
k was by promising that someone from the co-op—someone he knew—would always be on the sidewalk right outside the school. Half a dozen people had taken turns that day, and finally the school called the police to complain about the number of homeless people hanging around. But Robby had survived the day, and gotten safely back to the co-op, and soon it was enough if someone walked him to within a block of the school and met him at the same place afterward. Everyone in the co-op knew they risked her wrath if Robby was left alone, even for a minute.
Slowly, very slowly, Robby was starting to trust people again. Now, as he gazed warily at the steaming mug of coffee, Tillie pushed it a little closer. “It’s okay—it won’t bite you. But it’s hot, and you might not like it.”
Robby picked up the mug and held it to his lips. As the liquid touched his tongue, his eyes snapped open and he put the mug down so fast he almost slopped it down his front. “Yuck! Who could drink that?”
“I guess not you,” Tillie observed, retrieving the mug. “Now get along with you—you’re gonna be late. Jinx, do something with the boy.”
But Jinx, who was sitting across from Robby, wasn’t listening. Her eyes were fastened on the torn and stained newspaper that was only partially flattened out on the table in front of Tillie. Her eyes were focused, in particular, on a picture that had a moment ago been covered by Tillie’s mug.
It was a picture of Jeff Converse.
“Can I see that?” she asked, pulling the paper toward her before Tillie could answer.
“May I see that,” Tillie corrected, but Jinx hardly heard her as she quickly scanned the article:
. . . DIED WHEN A STOLEN CAR RAMMED THE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION VEHICLE IN WHICH HE WAS BEING TRANSPORTED . . .
. . . SENTENCED YESTERDAY AFTER BEING CONVICTED OF ATTEMPTED RAPE AND MURDER . . .
. . . THE VICTIM, CYNTHIA ALLEN, CONFINED TO A WHEELCHAIR SINCE MR. CONVERSE’S ATTACK ON HER, HAD NO COMMENT . . .