Dantes' Inferno (44 page)

“Sweetheart,” she prodded. When he didn't answer, she dragged her heels, then trailed after Pete. Each step was hazardous due to rock, broken glass, sticks, and whatever else the runoff deposited.

“What have we got here?” Pete's question bounced around the tunnel. He flashed his beam ahead on the high curve of the ceiling. Sylvia missed it at first; but when Pete prodded at the wall with his stick, rubble fell clear.

“Is it some kind of drain?”

“Not one of ours.”

“What do you mean, not one of yours?”

“Somebody decided to improvise their own . . . and did . . . a pretty sophisticated job of it.”

She glanced back for the professor, who was twenty feet behind, the beam of his flashlight darting wildly as he scraped at the wall. “Your average transient wouldn't do that, would he, Pete?”

“Look here . . .,” Pete murmured, in a fading tone that said his mind was already following a curious scent. “Somebody carved out some toeholds.”

She saw the faint, tight cuts in the wall; they resembled the prehistoric marks she'd seen in the Anasazi cliff ruins of New Mexico; three or four inches across, an inch or so deep. She said, “The ancestors of the Pueblo Indians used them so a person could scale a sheer face and escape enemies.”

“Good idea.” Pete grunted, already hoisting himself nimbly up the wall. While Sylvia watched, he scrambled through an opening high in the concrete.

Moments later, she followed. Head and shoulders crammed through the opening, she could see by the light of Pete's flashlight. Within a matter of inches, the passage expanded to a width of at least three feet and a height of about five feet. A ripple of emotion washed over her body, carrying with it the ancient fear of cramped dim spaces. She couldn't see where this new tunnel ended; it stretched out like a long, dark throat.

She scrambled the rest of the way in: “What is this, Pete?”

“It's old. Hell, I've never come across it before.” He ran workingman's fingers along one wall and dust formed in small clouds. “Old clay . . . so it could've been used for sewage or water.” He whistled uneasily. “I've been at this job for so damn long I've heard just about every tall tale.”

“About?”

“Old Spanish tunnels.”

“Spanish as in seventeen hundreds?”

“Where a guy like Zorro could hide out for years,” he said flatly. “I don't like it. You better stay back—this kind of unshored tunnel is what we in the earth business call a very long tomb.”

“I'm going to be stupid and follow you.” But she was afraid, fearing what she'd always feared most—the loss of bearing, emotional or physical, the failure of her ability to rely on her instincts. That was where Sylvia felt most vulnerable in the world. She imagined it was the way a sailor used to navigating by the stars must feel when clouds obscure the night sky.

She held her breath while the worst of the dust cleared. She was grateful for the hard hat, the leather gloves, the clear goggles. The first aid kit she carried was digging into her hip through the fanny pack. She slipped the eye protectors on now.

Pete's flashlight illuminated earth held in place by a thick weave of roots, rock, clay. Sylvia was afraid to swallow. She dreaded each step that took them deeper into earth. This territory belonged to other creatures, night animals.

Appropriate that a mole would have a lair, she thought.

Pete grunted, coming to a standstill. He had his light directed straight ahead; in front of them, the tunnel had collapsed in upon itself. His light beam began to chip at the dead end tunnel wall. For the thirty or so still-navigable feet in between, three low openings led off the tunnel. But they were crude, cramped, diving even deeper into solid earth.

She just had time to brace herself against the internal recoil when more dirt showered down on them, forcing her to squeeze her mouth shut. As the dust settled, she opened
her eyes and wiped the grit from the lenses of the goggles. Pete's flashlight was on the tunnel floor; its yellow, dying beam illuminated the wall and the three letters painted in black:
DIS
.

Dis, city of nether hell. An invitation to journey deeper into M's world.

“We're going back,” Pete said suddenly. “I can't be responsible—have to get help.”

Recovering his flashlight, he brushed past Sylvia, with a gruff “C'mon now.”

She didn't follow. Behind her, she heard Sweetheart's voice—somehow he'd managed to squeeze through the opening.

“You know exactly where we are—you take the truck, Pete, send help,” Sweetheart told the flood control employee. “Sylvia?”

“I'm not going back without you,” she said softly.

“I've got all the reason in the world to keep going—even if it means I never come out. You don't have to—”

“Shut up and move.”

After a moment, Sweetheart nodded, saying, “Tell them Dr. Strange and I will probably need a rescue.”

“This ain't legal,” Pete said.

“It is if I pull rank,” Sweetheart insisted. “Federal government beats LA County.” Sweetheart flattened his mouth into a grim line. “You're wasting time we don't have. On your way out, take a look at the electrical cable in the main flood drain. Our friend seems to have wired your tunnel.”

“Wired? As in . . .?” Pete's eyes went wide.

“Explosive capabilities,” Sweetheart said. “Make sure Special Agent Purcell gets that information.”

“Right.” Pete stared at them both, shaking his head at the same time he offered Sweetheart his tool belt. “This
might come in handy,” he offered. “We'll get back just as soon as we can. I know how to find you.” And then he was gone, returning through the mouth of the improvised tunnel to the main flood drain.

Sylvia willed her rapidly beating heart to slow down. She squatted, got down on all fours, and began to crawl through the smallest opening, just below the entrance to nether hell.

No way Sweetheart would make it through
—but when she turned, there he was, her substantial shadow.

For a distance of about fifteen feet this new tunnel was narrower than the last—but it widened out abruptly. Fighting off the claustrophobia, and in spite of the dust, Sylvia inhaled deeply. Breathing helped.

Sweetheart took the lead. They traveled in silence. The distance was almost impossible for her to gauge—fifty feet? One hundred?

Abruptly, they heard the dull rumble of dirt giving way; the sound came from behind—a cave-in. The flashlight revealed a wall of earth where a section of the ceiling had collapsed.

Silently they moved forward, only to arrive at another dead end. But this time there was a short chimney overhead, extending to a narrow opening.

Another message on the wall:
ANTENORA
.

Without waiting for a question, Sweetheart said, “Betrayal of cause or country. If it makes you nervous, turn around.”

“It doesn't make you nervous?”

“Scared shitless.”

“I feel better,” Sylvia managed to whisper. Her throat was aching. The flashlight attached to her hard hat cast eerie shadows. “
Turn around?
Damn you. And go
where?
”

In the semidarkness, she caught Sweetheart's face in the
light beam and saw him crack a smile. Then he leveraged his arms on the sides of the chimney and he hoisted his body upward, barely fitting into the space. He was down again immediately. He said, “Metal door.”

“Manhole cover?”

“Probably an entrance to a utility vault.”

“Locked?”

“Or sealed.”

“Pete's tools.”

Sweetheart flashed his light at the tool belt, searching through items and finally selecting a rusty, generic key. “Worth a shot.”

Almost instantly, he hoisted himself again, bracing himself with one foot wedged against earth, grunting, groaning. But it wasn't going to happen.

He dropped back down, shining his light along the ground. “Didn't I kick something hard about ten feet back?”

Sylvia followed the light beam as it caught the tail end of a piece of rebar. She retrieved the makeshift prying tool, handing it to Sweetheart.

For the third time he pulled himself into the chimney, forcing the metal tip into a rounded seam of the cover. He leveraged himself again, arms overhead, going for one final effort before his muscles failed.

Five seconds, ten, fifteen—when the cover gave way, it didn't just open; it
broke
.

There was a sharp cracking sound. Warm, stinking air hit their faces. Sylvia gagged.

Sweetheart dropped back to the tunnel floor, whispering what sounded like a curse. Then he scaled the ladder, lifting himself up and into the dark, boxlike space.

Sylvia waited a few seconds, then she gripped the ladder and let her feet take the rungs in small, quick steps.

It was a concrete, rectangular vault, about ten by ten by six. The walls were covered with thick metal sleeves running the length of the room to duct banks. The sleeves probably contained electrical cable or phone lines. In the center of the room, a heavy, rusting ladder hung down from a hinge in the ceiling.

Sweetheart directed his light along the floor, moving clockwise. At first, Sylvia thought he'd discovered a dog lying on a bundle of filthy rags.

Then she saw the pale, lifeless face of Molly Redding.

6:31
A.M
.
As they crouched over her frail body, Sylvia felt the faintest butterfly breath on her arm, saw the most subtle movement of ribs expanding beneath Molly's worn yellow T-shirt. She was alive—barely.

“She's dehydrated, in shock,” Sweetheart said, accepting the first aid kit from Sylvia. He broke it open, scattering contents, extracting a plastic needle, tubing, and a saline bag. His hands were steady while he readied the supplies.

“You'll need to hold the saline bag so we get infusion.” He slapped Molly's arm, pinching, looking for a vein to guide the needle, but her skin was so pale it seemed bloodless. Finally, he positioned the tip above a faint and flaccid vessel. “I'm going for it,” he said grimly.

The needle nosed its way through surprisingly resistant skin; a small bead of blood welled.

Molly moaned.

Sweetheart repeated her name, tapping her cheeks with his fingers. “Come on, Molly, come on back.” He fed the end of the tubing into the needle.

Soft hazel eyes fluttered open. Whimpering in pain, Molly tried to focus.

“It's okay,” Sweetheart said gently. He cradled her in his arms, whispering, “I'll make it be okay.”

Molly stirred; perhaps she tried to raise a hand, but her muscles refused to function. She opened her mouth. Sylvia leaned close to hear.

“Sweetheart . . .” Molly swallowed, taking a shuddering breath. “I prayed . . .” Her eyes closed again.

He refused to let go of his niece; he ordered Sylvia to direct light at the ladder overhead. It ran from the ceiling to the floor at a slight angle; the metal rungs were heavy and red with rust.

She aimed the beam at the manhole cover just above the ladder. For an instant, they had a way out. The light reflected off heavy security bars—the cover had been intentionally sealed, bolted over with heavy metal panels that crisscrossed the cast iron cover.

“Show me where we are,” he ordered.

Sylvia shifted, exposing empty space before light hit the outline of a rough steel plate in the far wall. From what she could make out, it was some kind of exit, similar to the one they had used for entry—perhaps an opening into another passage.

Did it lead deeper into the subterranean network of tunnels, pipes, ducts? Or was it an actual exit to open air and safety?

Sylvia said, “Let's try to carry her out the way we came.”

“We'll never make it.
You
can try—bring back help.”

“Are you sure you can't get us out the manhole?” she asked. She flashed the light overhead a second time. The seal looked tight.

“Maybe we missed something,” Sweetheart said.

The beam of light darted like a frightened bird around the room, briefly illuminating the glass case (just above eye level) with a fire extinguisher and the red notice
EMERGENCY BOX
3456.

Still cradling Molly in his right arm, Sweetheart shifted
his body to study the case. “From here, it looks clean,” he said finally. Sylvia realized he was weighing the possibilities of an IED booby trap versus the chance to get Molly vital medical assistance. “Do you see anything—wires, any sign of tampering?”

“Nothing.”

Abruptly, Sweetheart raised one arm above his head. He smashed the glass with his fist, ripping the cover from the hinges. Then he lifted the receiver on the emergency phone.

Almost instantly, he whispered,
“Shit.”

Sylvia saw it in his eyes—the fear. She made the connection—the box was wired—and she braced for explosive impact, crouching down.

Sweetheart sheltered Molly with his own body.

For thirty seconds nothing happened.

Then the explosion shook the earth like a quake, rattling the concrete vault. Shock wave after shock wave hit, rolling in on a molecular tide closing off one means of escape—the tunnel they had just left—and ripping a hole in the opposite wall. The final wave tore metal paneling from its hinges, propelling it into darkness—

And then the heavy overhead ladder crashed down on them like a falling sky.