Reliquary

Waxie scowled at him. “I’m not ru

“I’m not talking about being mayor. All I know is, when the rain of shit begins to fall like it always does, your ass will be covered.”

Waxie grunted, looking somewhat mollified.

D’Agosta could see Hayward’s light playing down the tracks toward them, and soon the woman appeared again out of the gloom.

“Almost there,” she said. “It’s one more down.”

“Down?” said Waxie. “Sergeant, I thought this was the lowest level!”

Hayward said nothing.

“So how are we supposed to go down?” D’Agosta asked her.

Hayward nodded in the direction from which she’d come. “North along the tracks about four hundred yards, there’s another staircase along the right wall.”

“What if a train comes?” Waxie asked.

“This is a deserted stem,” Hayward said. “No trains have come along here in a long time.”

“How do you know?”

Hayward silently played her beam along the rails beneath their feet, illuminating the thick orange rust. D’Agosta’s eyes traveled up the flashlight beam until they reached Hayward’s face. She did not look very happy.

“Is there anything unusual about the next level?” D’Agosta asked quietly.

Hayward was silent for a moment. “Ordinarily, we only sweep the upper levels. But you hear stories. They get crazier the lower you go.” She paused. “That’s why I suggested backup,” she said pointedly.

“People living down here?” Waxie asked, sparing D’Agosta the necessity of a reply.

“Of course.” Hayward made a face as if Waxie should know better. “Warm in the winter, no rain or wind. Only people they have to worry about down here are the other moles.”

“So when was the last time they rousted that level?”

“They don’t roust the lower levels, Captain.”

“Why not?”

There was a silence. “Well, for one thing, you can’t find the deeper moles. They’ve got night vision, living in the dark. You hear something, and by the time you’ve turned around, they’re gone. They only do a couple random sweeps a year with dogs trained to find bodies. And even they don’t go that deep. Besides, it’s very dangerous. Not all the moles come down here just for shelter. Some come to hide. Some are ru

“What about that article in the Post?” D’Agosta asked. “It said there was some kind of underground community. Didn’t sound all that hostile.”

“That was under Central Park, Lieutenant, not the West Side railyards,” Hayward said. “Some areas are tamer than others. And don’t forget that article mentioned something else. Something about ca

Waxie opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, swallowing loudly.

They began moving down the tracks in silence. As they walked, D’Agosta realized he was unconsciously fingering his S&W Model 4946 double-action. Back in ’93, there’d been some controversy in the department about moving to a 9-millimeter semiautomatic. Now D’Agosta was glad he had it.

The staircase, when they reached it, was fronted by a steel door canted at a crazy angle across the doorframe. Hayward pulled it open, then moved to one side. D’Agosta stepped through and immediately felt his eyes begin to water. A smell like ammonia violated his nostrils.

“I’ll go first, Lieutenant,” Hayward said.

D’Agosta stepped aside. No argument there.

The lime-coated staircase descended to a landing, then made a turn. D’Agosta felt his watering eyes begin to sting. The smell was searing, indescribable.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“Piss,” said Hayward matter-of-factly. “Mostly. Plus other things you don’t want to hear about.”

Behind them, Waxie’s wheezing became more pronounced.

They stepped through a ragged opening into a dark, humid space. As Hayward played her light about, D’Agosta saw that they were in what looked like the cavernous end of an old tu

D’Agosta could hear Waxie blowing hard behind him. He was begi

Hayward was moving toward a passage that led away from the cavern. “Over here,” she said. “The body was found in a cubby down this way. We’d better stay close. Watch out you don’t get piped.”

“Piped?” D’Agosta asked.

“Someone reaches out from the dark and whacks you over the head with a pipe.”

“I don’t see anyone,” D’Agosta said.

“They’re here,” Hayward replied.

Waxie’s breathing became more labored.

They began following the passage, moving slowly. Hayward periodically pointed her light along the sides of the tu

Hayward stopped, removed her police cap, and drew a damp strand of hair back into place behind one ear. “The report said it was the cubby directly across from a collapsed iron catwalk,” she said.

D’Agosta tried breathing through his hand, and when that didn’t help he loosened his tie and pulled his shirt collar over his mouth, as a kind of mask.

“Here it is.” Hayward shone her beam on a rusted heap of iron struts and I-beams. She swept the flashlight across the tu

D’Agosta stepped closer and peered in. Naked bedding lay askew, caked thickly with dried blood. Blood was also spattered about the walls, along with bits of something that D’Agosta didn’t want to think about. There was the ubiquitous packing crate, tipped over and partly crushed. The floor of the cubby was lined with newspapers. The stench was beyond description.

“This guy,” Hayward whispered, “was also found without his head. They identified him from prints. Shasheen Walker, thirty-two years old. Rap sheet as long as your arm, a serious user.”

At any other time, D’Agosta would have found it ludicrous to hear a police officer whispering. Now, he felt somehow glad. There was a long silence while D’Agosta played his own light around. “Did they find the head?” he asked at last.

“Nope,” said Hayward.

The foul little den showed zero signs of a police search. Thinking he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, D’Agosta reached into the cubby, took hold of a corner of a filthy blanket, and jerked it back.

Something brown tumbled out of the folds and rolled toward the nearest edge. What was left of its mouth was wide open in a frozen scream.

“I guess they didn’t look too hard,” D’Agosta said. He heard a small moan escape from Waxie. “You okay, Jack?” he asked, glancing back.

Waxie said nothing. His face looked like a pale moon, hovering in the noisome dark.

D’Agosta turned his light back on the head. “We’re go

Hayward edged forward. “Lieutenant?”

D’Agosta paused. “Yes?”

“The moles left this place alone because someone died in it. They’re superstitious that way, some of them. But as soon as we leave, they’re going to clean this whole mess up, get rid of the head themselves, and you’ll never find it. More than anything else, they don’t want cops down here.”