Crude Sunlight 1 (9 page)

Henry ran for perhaps thirty seconds and then slowed to a stop. The image was upside down on the screen, swaying slightly and directed at a nearly black wall. He must be letting the camera hang by his side, thought Thomas.

"Jimmy!" Henry's call echoed in the tunnel, but with no response. Turning, the camera panned over the corridor behind, and two flashlight beams could be seen approaching from down it. "Jimmy, where are you?"

The scraping sound shuddered again, bruising the air, but loud, much louder this time, and Henry jumped back, suddenly gasping for air. The sound was followed by something almost inaudible, a voice, and then Henry let out a cry and began to run, the image on the camera again swinging violently, Henry's grunts of exertion filling the apartment with terrible intensity.

In the background Thomas could hear voices calling for Henry, but they were distant, growing fainter. Henry ran, the camera jerking in the darkness, until he suddenly let out a cry and the camera view span in circles and came to a stop, showing the cool white length of the flash light's beam. Henry groaned and then a voice sounded again, whispery and thin, plaintive, unintelligible. Henry let out a second yell and then stood and ran into the darkness, leaving the camera and flashlight behind, his footsteps receding as he sprinted down the corridor.

Thomas' heart was pounding. He stared at the screen, straining to hear something, anything. Distant calls, a few shouts. The television showed the angle where floor met wall, both made of cement, stained and dusty. A stretch of a few feet at best. Silence. And then a gentle croon, sung again in that whispery voice. Snatching up the remote, Thomas ran the volume up all the way so that the apartment filled with the hiss of the speakers and that vague song. The disembodied humming filled the apartment, and then something like a shadow passed through the beam of the flashlight, a flash of perhaps a skirt that, while not black in color, seemed nearly so as if the shadows clung to it. A flash of cloth, which seemed to melt into the wall, or to merge with the shadows--and then it was gone.

Thomas pressed Pause, stared at the frozen image, and then rewound. He pressed Play, and watched again till that shadowed shape passed before the screen, at which point he pressed Pause once more and stared carefully. A skirt? The hem of a skirt? Drab and indistinct. But then--pressing play, he watched again as the object--the person?--moved at an angle impossible to accommodate within the confines of the corridor, and merged with the wall and shadows to disappear.

Pausing the video again, Thomas frowned. An unnoticed door, perhaps? A smaller side tunnel? Pressing Play, he watched the darkness unspool for a few minutes before flashlights played about the hall, and a hand reached down to take the camera up. Eric's nonplussed face filled the screen as he scrutinized it, and then flipped it off. The television screen went to blue.

Thomas stopped the tape and sat back on the couch. He sat still for a moment, and then dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Julia's number. It ran three times, and then clicked and she picked up, her voice husky with sleep.

"Thomas?"

"I just saw the video." Silence yawned, implications apparent, and he could tell she was waiting for him to continue. "That is one fucked up video."

"Yeah," she said, "It is."

"And you didn't see any of this stuff while you were down there? What was that thing which crossed in front of the camera at the end? Did you even know this tape existed?"

"No, hey, hold up." He could hear her shifting in what might be her bed, sitting up, forcing herself to awaken. "I didn't know about this tape till Eric gave it to me, like, on Wednesday. I mean, I knew Henry was taping that night, but he never showed it to me. Eric said he only saw it when Henry showed it to him at the very end when they were doing their competition thing. And I've got no clue as to what's going on at the end of the tape, but Eric said that it showed the same woman that took Henry away."

"The same woman? Eric knows who has Henry?"

"Well, kind of. I mean, this is some more crazy sounding stuff. I don't think you're going to be able to go to the cops with this. Eric said... well. He said that this woman down there in the tunnels came to Henry and took him away. The same woman Henry saw the first time he was down there. Or at least, that's what Eric thinks happened. He wasn't making too much sense."

Thomas ran his hand through his hair. She was right. The cops would laugh him right out of the station. "Well, great." He passed his hand over his face, and shook his head. "What exactly am I supposed to do with all this? I mean, seriously. Am I supposed to believe that Henry was grabbed by--what--something? Down there? Or--I mean, you tell me, Julia. What exactly am I supposed to do with this?"

"Hey, I don't know," she said, "You're the one who's all interested in finding your brother. I was just trying to help."

"Yeah." Thomas stared bleakly at the carpet. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry. This is just a lot to absorb."

"Don't sweat it."

Thomas tried to figure out the next step. Call the cops to register the information? Go back to Buffalo and talk to Eric again, try and wrest some straight answers from him? His mind returned to those final moments on the tape. The swish of the skirt's hem. The impossible merging with the wall. The deep shadows that cast everything into doubt. The sound of his brother gasping as he ran, panicked, terrified, down there in the dark, where he had disappeared a few months later. Down there in those tunnels, alone. He had to go back. He had to go back and find Henry, had to go down into those tunnels with a huge flashlight and search for him, because if that's the last place his brother was ever seen then he owed it to him, owed it to try anything he could.

"Julia, thanks. I mean it. You've been really helpful. I--I think I'm going to come back to Buffalo. I need to take a look down there. I need to see those tunnels myself. I'm going to talk to Eric, and then--well." The thought of entering the steam tunnels, walking past those pipes, into those dark rooms filled with trash and then going deeper--it all filled him with a sense of distant dread, an unreality he had no wish to enter but which here, in his high-rise apartment over New York City, seemed manageable, intangible.

"You're going to go down there?" Incredulity. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. I've got to try. I know it sounds stupid. But I have to find Henry."

"Shit." A contemplative silence. "That's a bad idea."

"Probably." Thomas smiled mirthlessly. "But unless something else comes up, I need to go take a look."

"Well, okay. Let me know when you get into town. I'd like to be there when you talk to Eric."

"Will do. Thanks again for sending the tape."

"Not a problem. Good night."

"'Night, Julia." Thomas hung up, and then turned to stare at the blue television screen. Go back to Buffalo. Confront Eric. Drive down past those old abandoned houses, up to that State Hospital and down into its cold, black fastness. The thought filled him with a bleak, flat feeling. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go alone. Raising his phone, he stared at it for a moment, and then scrolled through his address book and dialed.

It rang twice, and then, "Thomas?"

"Buck. Hey. What are you doing this weekend?"

Chapter 9

Friday passed quickly. The morning was dank and gray and filled with pointless meetings. Thomas watched the clients from his leather chair near the head of the table next to Jormusch and found himself unable to stop gazing through them. All he could think about was Buffalo. Driving up that long northern road with Buck by his side, to reach down into the dark gullet of that building and wring that soiled and filthy darkness of its secrets.

Finally he escaped, running late for a planned lunch with Buck. He jogged down the block to the deli where Buck routinely consumed massive pastrami sandwiches with a bottle of beer. Pushing open the glass door, he glanced over the crowd packed in at the counter, at the scattering of plastic tables and the short aisles of specialty goods before pinpointing Buck by the back next to a window, carefully layering mustard over his lunch.

"Sorry I'm late," said Thomas, lowering himself into the seat across from Buck. "I swear, sometimes I feel like my clients are going to ask me to hold their dicks when they go to take their next piss. Amazing."

Buck grinned toothily and set the mustard bottle aside. An oozing river of yellow was slowly sinking into the rippling folds of meat and lettuce. "Sounds like fun. Everything work out all right in the end?"

"Yeah, sure. We reviewed our previous summary of our last review, and assured them about seven times that we were well on schedule. You all set to leave at six?"

"I should be good to go. This'll be the earliest I get off work in just about forever. My being at my desk when you called was a good reality check. Hoo-whee. I'm just about the busiest little bee in this flower patch."

Buck leaned back and took up his sandwich, gingerly handling it as he leveraged a good quarter into his mouth. Mustard swelled out as he bit down; several thick drops splattered onto the plate. Putting the sandwich aside, Buck wiped his mouth with a napkin, then scrunched it up and dropped it on the table. By the end of the meal there would be a small pyramid of them.

"Well, I've already reserved a room at the Hilton for tonight and tomorrow night. I'm thinking we get in late, crash, and then get up early to go talk to Eric. Try and be done by lunch, and get into the building while the sun is still up. Be done by evening, and then, well, I don't know."

"I see several severe flaws with your plan," said Buck. He leaned forward, and frowned at Thomas. "First, tonight, we do not crash when we arrive at the hotel. We check out the hotel bar, and if the hotel bar is lacking in amenities we check out other bars till we are suitably attended to." Thomas opened his mouth but was forestalled by a raised, meaty palm. "Second--well, I don't know what the second problem is, but I'm sure it's in there. We'll deal with the first problem first, and face the second when it inevitably rears its ugly head." That said, he took another bite of his sandwich and sat back, trying to grin and chew at the same time.

"Ah. So. A bar crawl. Perfect. Just what I need before heading into the bowels of the earth in search of my missing brother. A Buck-induced hangover. Brilliant."

"You question my methods, young grasshopper, but shall soon see the wisdom of my ways. Trust me. In all my long years I've discovered that there's no better way to prepare for a shitty day underground then a bracing night at the bars. It'll stiffen your courage. You'll see."

Thomas couldn't help but smile. "Sure. How about we see how we feel when get there? Let's take it one step at a time, starting with my getting lunch before I have to run back and make sure my clients know how to flush?"

Buck waved a hand, shooing Thomas away, and took a third huge bite, crunching down contentedly as he watched his friend rise and join the line before the cashier.

* * *

The hotel bar in Buffalo proved cheerless and abandoned, so Buck went off to accost a bellhop and learn the location of the closest and best bar to be had. Thomas stood in the lobby, hands in the pockets of his pea coat, feeling subdued, pensive. The car ride up had alternated between jocularity--initial bouts of enthusiastic conversation--and islands of silences, which had grown and became total toward the end. Buck's energy had revived upon their arrival at the Hilton, his desire to hit a good bar deriving as much from a need to salvage the initial momentum of the trip as to drink alcohol.

Unsure as to why he did so, Thomas pulled out his cell phone and dialed Julia's number.
She's probably asleep
, he thought, and immediately wanted to hang up even as it began to ring.

"Hello? Thomas?" A lot of background noise, loud music perhaps, her voice pitched to carry.

"Hey!" said Thomas, turning as if unsure as to how stand, awkward and surprised. "I'm in Buffalo. We're in Buffalo, I mean."

"What? I can't hear you!"

"It's nothing," said Thomas loudly, shooting an embarrassed look at the concierge. "I just called to let you know--"

"Hang on, I'm going outside," she said. Thomas frowned, staring at his shoes as he waited for the noise to fade. "There," she said. "Is that better?"

"Yes, much better. Where are you?"

"At Briar's. It's one of the oldest bar in Buffalo. What were you saying? You're in town?"

"Yes, with my friend Buck. I was just calling to make sure you were still up for meeting with Eric tomorrow." As if summoned, Buck stepped out from a corridor and began walking over, eyebrows raised in question.

"Oh, sure. What time tomorrow?"

"Who are you talking to?" whispered Buck. "Michelle?"

Thomas frowned and shook his head. "Julia," he whispered back. "Just confirming tomorrow."

"What?" asked Julia.

"Nothing. Want to meet at ten?"

"See if she wants to go to the bar with us," said Buck, causing Thomas to turn away in annoyance.

"Ten works. What are you guys up to tonight?"

"I..." said Thomas, watching Buck as he edged around and back into sight. "Well, we were going to head out, actually, and find a place to get a drink." Buck nodded encouragingly.

"Where you guys going?"

"I don't know. Where are we going, Buck?"

"Where is she?" Buck asked. "Tell her we can meet up wherever she's at."

Thomas covered the base of his cell with his hand. "She's barely twenty, man. Come on."

"Hey," grinned Buck. "I'm not saying anything here. But if there's grass on the field..."

Thomas rolled his eyes and uncovered the cell. "Actually, we're probably just going to turn in for the night."

"Really?" Julia sounded skeptical. "It's like ten-thirty."

Buck made a grab for the phone, but Thomas turned away sharply again. "Yeah, well you know, it was a long drive and all."

"Aw, hell man, what are you saying?" Buck stepped back and shook his head. "A long drive? Forget that. Come on, let's go."