The Millionaires

11

“We’ve got what!?” Charlie shouts.

“I don’t believe this,” I stammer, my twitching hand still resting on the hung-up receiver. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

“It means we’re rich,” he shoots back. “And I’m not talkin’ filthy rich, or even extremely rich – I’m talkin’ obscenely, grotesquely, do-re-mi-fa-so-much-money-we-got-a-gross-domestic-product rich. Or as my barber said when I tipped him five bucks once: ‘Dat’s some major clam action.’”

“We’re dead,” I blurt, my full body weight collapsing against the frame of the payphone. That’s what I get – all from a stupid moment of anger. “There’s no way to explai-”

“We’ll tell ’em we won it in the Super Bowl pool. They might believe that.”

“I’m serious, Charlie. This isn’t just three million – it’s…”

“Three hundred and thirteen million. I heard you the first three times.” He counts on his fingers, from pinky to pointer finger: “Three hundred and ten… three hundred and eleven… three hundred and twelve… three hundred and thirteen… Holy guacamole, I feel like the little old guy with the mustache in Monopoly – you know, with the monocle and the bald h-”

“How can you make jokes?”

“What else am I gonna do? Lean up against a payphone and cower for the rest of my life?”

Without a word, I stand up straight.

“Feels pretty good now, don’t it?” he asks.

“It’s not a game, Charlie. They’ll kill us for this…”

“Only if they find it – and last I checked… all those fake companies – this bad boy’s foolproof.”

“Foolproof? Are you nuts? We’re not-” I cut myself off and lower my voice. There’re still plenty of people on the street. “We’re way beyond petty cash,” I whisper. “So stop with the Butch Cassidy bravado and-”

“No. Not a chance,” he interrupts. “It’s time to kiss a little reality, Ollie – this isn’t another thing to run from – this is Candyland. All that money; all of it ours. What else do you want? No one knows how to find it… no one suspects it’s us – if it was good before, it’s doubly better now. Three hundred and thirteen times better. For once in our lives we can actually sit back and kick up our-”

“Dammit, what’s wrong with you!?” I shout, flying from the booth and grabbing him by the collar of his coat. “Have you even been paying attention? You heard Shep – the only way it works is if no one knows it’s gone. Three million fits in our pockets… but three hundred and thirteen… do you realize what they’ll do to get that back?” I’m trying my best to whisper, but people are starting to stare. Looking around, I abruptly let go. “That’s it,” I mutter. “I’m done.”

Charlie straightens his coat. I turn back to the payphone.

“Who’re you calling?” Charlie asks.

I don’t answer, but he watches my fingers pound the digits. Shep.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warns.

“What’re you talking about?”

“If they’re smart, they’re watching incoming calls. Maybe even listening. If you want information, go inside and talk to him face-to-face.”

I stop mid-dial, glare at Charlie over my shoulder, and officially start the staring contest. He knows my look: the doubting Thomas. And I know his: the honest Injun. I also know it’s just a trick… his favorite scheme for settling me down so he can get his way. It’s what he always does. But even I can’t argue with the logic. I slam down the phone and brush past him. “You better be right,” I warn as I head back to the bank.

A quick stop at the local coffee shop gives me an eight-ounce cup of calm, and a perfect excuse for why I left the building in the first place. Still, it doesn’t stop the Secret Service agent at the front door from putting another check mark next to my name – and one next to Charlie’s.

“What’s with the anal attendance taking?” Charlie asks the agent.

The agent jabs us with a look as if the check mark alone should bring us to our knees – but we both know the reality of this one: If they had a semblance of a clue, we’d be walking out in handcuffs. Instead, we’re walking in.

On most days, I go straight for the elevator. Today is clearly different. Following Charlie as he slides past the marble-top teller window, I let him drag me toward the maze of rolltop desks. As always, it’s packed with gossiping employees, but today, that’s actually the payoff.

“Howya doin’?” Jeff from Jersey calls out, cutting us off and patting Charlie on the chest.

“There it is,” Charlie sings. “My daily pat on the chest. Awkward to most – revered by a few.”

Laughing, Jeff stops us just a few feet short of the elevator.

“You know I’m right,” Charlie says, enjoying every moment. I’m tempted to drag him along, but it’s clear what my brother’s after. Jersey Jeff may violate just a bit too much of your personal space, but when it comes to office gossip, even I know he’s king bee.

“What’s the story with Mr. Attendance?” Charlie asks, elbowing toward the blond guy at the front door.

Jeff smiles wide. Finally, a chance to strut. “They say he’s doing some security upgrade, but no one believes it. I mean, how stupid do they think we are?”

“Pretty stupid?” Charlie offers.

“Plenty stupid,” Jeff agrees.

“What do you think it is?” I blurt with the patience of… well… with the patience of someone who just stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars.

“Hard to say, hard to say,” Jeff replies. “But if I had to guess…” He leans in close, relishing the moment. “I’m betting on a pickpocket. Inside job.”

“What?” Charlie whispers, playing up the outrage. From the strain on my face, he can tell I’m ready to lose it.

“It’s just a theory,” Jeff begins. “But you know how it goes – this place doesn’t change the toilet paper without firing off a memo – but suddenly, they’re redoing all of security without even a heads-up?”

“Maybe they wanted to see our normal routines,” I offer.

“And maybe they didn’t want to scream fire in the crowded movie theater. It’s just like when they caught that woman embezzling from Accounts Payable – they try to keep everything quiet. They’re not dumb. If it goes public, the clients’ll panic and start taking back their cash.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I add, refusing to give in.

“Hey, believe what you want – but there’s gotta be some reason all the bigshots are up on the fourth floor.”

The fourth floor. Charlie stares my way. That’s where my desk is, he glares.

“Excuse me?” Charlie blurts.

Jeff grins. That’s what he was saving. “Oh, yeah,” he says, walking back to his desk. “They’ve been up there all morning…”

I look at Charlie and he looks at me. Fourth floor it is.

The instant the elevator doors open, Charlie tears onto the gray carpet and takes a quick recon. From the copy room, to the coffee machine, to the cubicle canyon that fills the center of the room, nothing’s out of place. Mailcarts are rolling, keyboards are clicking, and a few scattered groups are exchanging the first round of morning chitchat. Still, it doesn’t take a genius to know where the action is – up here, there’s only one place where the bigshots can hide. Weaving toward Charlie’s desk as if it’s just another day, we both focus on the office at the far end of the room. The Cage.

There’s no way to tell if they’re in there or if Jeff was blowing his usual smoke. The door’s closed. It’s always closed. But it doesn’t stop us from staring – studying the grain of the wood, the shine of the doorknob, even the tiny black buttons on the punch-code lock. I could easily get us in, but… not today. Not until we-

“Call Shep – see where he is,” I whisper as we slide into Charlie’s cubicle. Charlie sits on one knee in his chair, his head just below the top of the cube. He picks up the phone and dials Shep’s number. I lean in to listen, my eyes still on Mary’s door. Paid to be paranoid, Shep usually picks up on the first ring. Not today. Today, the phone keeps ringing.

“I don’t think he’s-”

“Shhhhh,” I interrupt. Something’s happening.

Charlie jumps from his seat and studies The Cage. The door slowly opens and the room empties. Across the hall, Quincy’s the first to leave, followed by Lapidus. I duck. Charlie stays up. It’s his desk.

“Who else is there?” I whisper, my chin kissing his keyboard.

He keeps his eyes on the door and raises both hands in the air, pretending he’s just stretching. “Behind Lapidus is Mary,” he begins.

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know ’em…”

I pick my head up just enough for a peek. As Mary leaves the office, she’s followed by a squatty guy in a poorly fitted suit. He walks with a slight limp and keeps scratching at the back of his buzz cut, right above his neck. Even with the limp, he’s got the same meaty look as Shep. Secret Service. Behind Mr. Squat is another agent, much thinner in both hair and weight, carrying what looks like a black shoebox with a few dangling wires. FBI had the same thing when they prosecuted that woman in Accounts Payable. Hook it up to the computer and you get an instant copy of the person’s hard drive. It’s the easiest way to keep the place calm – don’t let them see you confiscating computers – just take the evidence in a doggy bag.

Sure enough, as the door swings wide, I spot Mary’s computer up on her desk. The disk drive slot is covered with evidence tape. Nothing goes in; nothing gets out.

It takes another second for the clown car to spit out its last passenger – the one person we’ve been waiting for. As he steps into the hallway, Shep’s eyes lock on Charlie. I expect a grin, or maybe even a fiendish Elvis lip-curl. But all we get is wide-eyed anxiety. “Uh-oh,” Charlie says. “My boy’s looking crappy.”

“Everything okay, Shep?” Mr. Squat calls out as he and the rest of the zoo crew wait for the elevator.

“Y-Yeah,” Shep stammers. “I’ll meet you up there in a second. I forgot something in my office.” Heading to the other end of the hallway, he shoves open the metal door and ducks into the stairwell. Just before the door closes, he shoots us one last look. He’s not running up the stairs. He’s just standing there, waiting. For us.

As Mr. Squat turns our way, I duck back down. Charlie doesn’t move.

“What’re they doing?” I whisper, still trying to stay out of sight. I hear the elevator doors slide open.

“They’re waving to us…” Charlie says. “Now Quincy’s standing behind Lapidus, trying to give him the bunny ears… Oh, Lapidus is on to him. No bunny ears for anyone.” He can make all the jokes he wants, it doesn’t hide the fear.

I hear the elevator doors slowly slide shut.

“C’mon…” Charlie insists as he motions to my cup of coffee. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

Leaving my coffee cup on his desk, I follow him out of the cubicle and straight to the coffee machine – which just happens to be next to the stairs. Charlie plows forward. I check over my shoulder.

“Are you sure it’s-?”

“Stop hesitating, Ollie – it’s only gonna rot your brain.”

Without looking back, he takes a swan dive into the abyss. But as he ducks into the stairwell, it’s completely empty. Over the banisters, he looks up and down. No one’s-

“Not exactly what we had in mind, now is it?” a deep voice asks as the door slams with a thunderclap. We spin around. Behind us is Shep.

“Not a bad day’s work,” Charlie whispers, extending the high-five.

Shep doesn’t take him up on it. He’s too focused on me. “So it’s all in the account?”

“Forget the account. Why’d you call in the Service?” I insist.

“They were here when I got here,” Shep snaps back. “I’m guessing it was Quincy or Lapidus – but believe me, when it comes to law enforcement, the Service is better than the FBI. At least we’re dealing with friends.”

“See…” Charlie interrupts. “Nothing to worry about.”

We both shoot him looks that’re meant to knock him on his ass. Me, he can handle. Shep’s another story. Time to get serious.

“We’ll catch the people and get the money back as quick as we can,” Shep announces, leaning over the banister and eyeing the floors above us. He lowers his voice and mouths two words: “Not here.” He’s not taking any chances.

“So where do you want to go for lunch?” Charlie quickly adds. Smart. We need a place to talk. Someplace private. Simultaneously staring at the floor, the three of us fall silent. We’re all on the same page, churning through the mental atlas.

“How about the Yale Club?” I suggest, going with Lapidus’s favorite hideaway.

“I like it,” Charlie says. “Quiet, secluded, and just snotty and repressed enough to know how to keep its mouth shut.”

Shep shakes his head. Reading our confused looks, he pulls out his wallet and gives us a quick flash of his driver’s license. Good point. To get in there, we’ll have to show ID.

“I got it,” Charlie says. “How about Track 117?”

I smirk. Shep’s lost. A quick whisper in his ear fills him in.

“You sure we can-?”

“Trust me,” Charlie says. “No one even knows it exists.” Watching us carefully, Shep doesn’t have much of a choice.

“So I’ll see you at noon?” Shep asks. The two of us nod our heads, and he takes off up the stairs. He disappears quickly, but we still hear his shoes clicking against the concrete steps.

The door slams above us, and I hit the stairs like Stallone in the first Rocky.

“Where’re you going?” Charlie calls out.

I don’t answer, but he already knows. I’m not waiting till lunch – I want the rest of the picture now.

Tearing up the corkscrewed stairs, I look back just enough to see Charlie trailing right behind me.

“They’ll never let you in,” he calls out.

“We’ll see…”

Fifth floor… sixth floor… seventh floor… I shoot out into the hallway, heading straight for Lapidus’s secretary. Charlie waits back, watching the rest through a crack in the stairwell door. That was his floor; this one’s mine.

“They still in there?” I ask, blowing past her desk as if they’re expecting me.

“Oliver, don’t…”

She’s not even close to being fast enough. I fling the door open and disappear.

Inside, the noisy chatter falls dead silent. Every single head turns my way. Lapidus, Quincy, Shep, Mary… even the two Secret Service agents who’re crowded around Lapidus’s antique desk. They look at me like I crashed their funeral.

“Who the hell is this?” Mr. Squat barks.

I look to Lapidus for the save, but by now, I should know better.

“I’ll take care of it,” Lapidus says, rushing toward me. He reaches out for my elbow, and with the gracefulness of a ballroom dancer, glides past me, spins me around, and escorts me back to the door. It’s so smooth, I barely realize what’s happening. “We just need to take care of a few things first. You understand…” he adds as if it’s no big deal. There’s a loud creak and the door opens. Three seconds later, I’m out on my ass.

Across the hall, I catch Charlie watching from the stairwell. My eyes drop to the carpet. Behind me, Lapidus gives me the standard boss back-pat and sends me on my way.

“I’ll call you when we have some news,” Lapidus adds, his voice suddenly waning. At three hundred million, it’s too big even for him. As I glance over my shoulder, he looks more ragged than both me and my brother – and the way he’s clutching the doorknob, it’s almost like he needs it to stand. Watching me leave, Lapidus slowly shuts the door. But in the last second… just as he turns away… just as he brushes his hand across his top lip… I swear, he’s fighting back the slightest of grins.

“So he wouldn’t give you anything?” Charlie asks as we race up Park Avenue, zigzagging in tandem through the lunchtime crowd.

“Can we please not talk about it?” I snap.

“What abou-”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

Charlie steps back, his palms facing me. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me twenty times – I got better stuff to do anyway. Now what d’you wanna buy first? I’m thinking something small, but easy to hide – like Delaware.”

This time, I don’t answer.

“What? You don’t like Delaware? Fine – how ’bout a Carolina?”

I continue to stay quiet.

“Oh, c’mon, Ollie – throw me some love – a shrug… a yell… something.” He knows I’m too opinionated to bite my lip – which means he also knows that when silence steps in, my mind’s on something else.

“Helloooooo – Earth to Oliver! You speaka de Spanish?”

I step off the curb and cross 41st Street. Only one more block to go. “Do you think Shep would turn on us?” I blurt.

Charlie laughs out loud. That little-brother laugh. “Is that what’s got you crapping your pants?”

“I’m serious, Charlie – for all we know, that’s why he agreed to meet us. He’ll tape our entire conversation, and then all he’ll have to do is turn us over to the-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa… it’s time to jump on the trolley and get out of the Land of Make-Believe. This is Shep we’re talking about. He’s not in it to screw us over. He wants this money just as bad as we do.”

“Speak for yourself,” I shoot back. “I’m done with the money. I’m just worried that when push comes to shove, we’re going to be knee-deep in he said/we said.”

“Well, let me tell you something, if we were, he’d be a moron. I mean, the way everything’s set up, we couldn’t have done this on our own. Even Shep knows that. So if he starts pointing the finger at us, it’s clear we have plenty of his own fingerprints to point at him. Besides, it’s not like we have a choice – he’s our only man on the inside.”

Once again, I fall silent. He’s on the money with that one. When it comes to the big picture, there’s still a ton of information we’re missing. And right now, as we cross 42nd Street and quickly approach the brass-and-glass doors of Grand Central Station, there’s only one place we can get it.

“You ready?” Charlie asks, pulling open the door and bowing butler-style. He’s watching me closely, checking to see if I’ll hesitate.

I stop at the threshold, but only for a second. Before he can issue the challenge, I step inside without looking back.

“Now we’re talking,” he croons.

“C’mon,” I call out, daring him to keep up. From the silence alone, I know what he’s thinking. He can’t tell if the bravery’s real, or I’m just anxious to get some answers. Either way, as I turn around to check the look on his face, it’s clear he’s thrilled.

For the first few steps, we’re running through a low-ceiling, claustrophobic subway tunnel. Then – like that moment when your car pulls out of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and all of Manhattan stands wide-open in front of you – we take our first step into the light… the ceiling rises up, up, up… and the enormous, marble-covered Main Concourse of Grand Central Station appears. Craning his neck up, Charlie can’t help but stare at the seventy-five-foot arched windows along the left wall, and the blue-and-white zodiac mural that decorates the vaulted ceiling.

According to the clock at the center of the station, we only have about three minutes. I turn back to Charlie as I run. “What’s the easiest way to-”

“Follow me,” he interrupts, excitedly taking the lead. I may’ve heard of where we’re going, but I’ve never been there myself. This place is all Charlie’s. With me barely a step behind, he makes a sharp left, weaves through the bottlenecked crowd of commuters and tourists, and races full speed toward one of dozens of stairs that lead to the station’s lower level.

“Nice and easy now,” I say, tugging on his shirt to slow him down on the stairs. I don’t want to make a scene.

Yeah, like anyone’s watching, he says with a raised eyebrow.

Leaping down the last three steps, Charlie lands with a thwack, his shoes smacking against the concrete floor. His feet have to sting in his dress shoes, but he doesn’t say a word. He hates I-told-you-so.

“Where now?” I ask, quickly catching up.

Without answering, Charlie takes off through the lower level of the station, which these days, is now just another food court. Charlie’s nose follows the whiff of heat-lamped fries, but his eyes are glued to a left-pointing arrow at the base of a vintage-tiled sign: “To Tracks 100-117.”

“And away we go,” Charlie says.

Up the hallway, we’ve got the food court on our left and turn-of-the-old-century track entrances on our right. I count the doorways as we go. 108… 109… 110. At the far end of the hall, I quickly spot the rabbithole – Tracks 116 and 117.

Darting through a door, we’re at the top of a tall staircase, looking down at the wide concrete platform. True to form, there’s a train pulled into Track 116 on the right side of the platform. On the left, though – on 117 – there’s no chance that a train’s coming. Not now. Not ever. Simply put, Track 117 doesn’t officially exist. Sure, the space is there, but it’s not an active track. Instead, for the past ten years, it’s been filled with a long row of prefab construction trailers.

“This is where you used to play?” I ask as we stare at two construction workers through a lit window in the trailer.

“No…” he answers, cutting toward a short path on my left. “This is where we used to hide…”

Reading the confused look on my face, he explains, “Back when I was a junior in high school, me and Randy Boxer used to go track-to-track, playing music for Friday night commuters. His harmonica, my bass, and the biggest potential audience this side of Madison Square Garden. Naturally, the transit cops chased us at every opportunity, but in the labyrinth of staircases, the lower level always had the best places to disappear. And here – behind 117 – this was where we’d reconvene so we could pick the fight all over again.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask as he rushes across the dirt-covered catwalk that runs perpendicular over Track 117. It’s not the catwalk that’s giving me pause – it’s the metal door at the end – and the brown, faded words painted on it:

Employees Only

Stop! Look!

Listen!

Danger

Danger. That’s where I hit the brakes. And, as always, where Charlie picks up speed.

“Charlie, maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” he calls out as he grabs the handle to the door. Eyeing the rusted metal frame, he gives it a hard yank, and just as the door swings open, a sandstorm of dust tumbles toward us. Charlie steps right into the whirlwind. And I realize I’m all alone.

As I follow him through to the adjoining room, we’re in a huge underground station, standing on the edge of an abandoned set of train tracks.

For Charlie, it’s a homecoming. “Where trains come to die, Randy used to say.”

Looking around, I can see why: The tunnel is wide enough for three sets of tracks, tall enough to fit the old diesel trains, and has ceilings black enough to show why they dropped the diesels in the first place. Next to the rusted tracks and between the even rustier I-beams, the floor is covered with condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and at least two used hypodermic needles. No question, it’s a good place to hide.

“Close the door,” Shep calls out from further up the platform.

“Nice to see you too,” Charlie says. Pointing over his shoulder, he adds, “Don’t worry about the door – you can’t hear anything from back here.”

Shep looks at him like he’s not even there. “Oliver, shut the door,” he demands. I don’t hesitate. The door slams with a muffled thud, encasing us in silence. We’ve got fifteen minutes before someone realizes we’re all gone at the same time. I’m not wasting a second.

“How bad is it?” I ask, wiping my soot-covered hands on the back of my pants.

“Ever heard of the Titanic?” Shep asks. “You should see it up there – every single one of them’s a lit match away from exploding. Lapidus is tearing his ears off and threatening to unleash the ten plagues on anyone who leaks the info to the public. Across the table, Quincy’s screaming through the phone at the insurance company and clicking his calculator to figure out just how much they’re personally on the hook for.”

“Have they told the other partners yet?”

“There’s an emergency meeting tonight. In the meantime, they’re waiting for the Service to dissect the computer system and possibly get a nibble on where the money went after London.”

“So they still don’t know where it is…” Charlie begins.

“… and they still don’t know it’s us,” Shep closes. “At least, not yet.”

That’s all I need to hear. “Fine,” I say, my hands squarely on my hips.

Charlie glares my way. He hates this stance.

In no mood to listen, I turn to Shep. “Now how do you think we should turn ourselves in?” I ask.

“What?” Shep blurts.

“Whoa doggy,” Charlie begs.

“Oliver, don’t be hasty,” Shep adds. “Even if it’s a tornado now, it’ll eventually slow down.”

“Oh, so now you think we can outrun the Secret Service?”

“All I’m saying is it can still work out,” Shep replies. “I know the Service’s protocols. When it comes to the money, it’ll take at least a week before they figure out if they can find it. If they do, we turn ourselves in with a full explanation. But if they don’t… why walk away from the pot of gold? Forget the pocket change – three hundred and thirteen million means over a hundred and four million each.”

Across Charlie’s cheeks, the smile takes hold. Noticing the anger on my face, he pushes a bit further and starts to dance. Nothing big – just a little bounce in the shoulders and a stomp in the feet. It’s purposely designed to annoy. “Mmmmm-mmm,” he says, doing the full Stevie Wonder neck-sway. “Smells like rich!”

“I’m telling you, there’s no reason to turn ourselves in,” Shep adds, hoping to ram it home. “If we play it smart, we’ll all be whistling a wealthy tune.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” I snap back. “We can’t win. Think of what you said when we started – it’s a perfect crime when no one knows it’s gone; it’s only three million dollars – that was your whole big speech. And where are we now? Three hundred and thirteen million missing… the Secret Service parked in our front yards… and when the press get ahold of it… plus whoever wanted this money in the first place… by the time this is done, the whole world’s gonna be hunting our asses.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Shep says. “But that doesn’t mean we have to go for the hara-kiri on day one either. Besides, there’s no way Lapidus is letting this get out. If he does, the other clients’ll start hurtling for the exits. It’s like when that guy hacked ten million out of Citibank a few years back – they did everything in their power to keep it out of the papers-”

“But eventually, it was on page one,” I interrupt. “The word always gets out. There’re no secrets anymore – this isn’t the Fifties. Even if Lapidus can hold it back for a month… between reports, and insurance claims, and lawsuits… it’ll eventually worm its way free. And then we’re back where we are right now… three dumb sitting ducks who-”

There’s a loud thump, and we all stop. It’s not like the random clangs that echo from the other tracks. Whatever just made that noise, it was in the room.

Shep jerks his head to the left and scans the crumbling concrete wall, but there’s nothing in sight. Just a few long-abandoned electrical boxes and some faded graffiti.

“I thought it came from up there,” Charlie whispers anxiously as he points toward the shadows of the arched ceiling. Between the lack of lighting and the stains from the soot, every arch is a dark floating cave.

“Were you followed?” Shep mouths.

I stop for a second. “No… I don’t think so. Unless-”

Shep covers his lips in a Shhhh motion. Rotating his neck side to side, side to side, side to side, he scans the rest of the room with military precision. But it doesn’t take years of Secret Service training to tell me what my gut already knows. We all get the same out-of-body feeling when we’re being watched. And as Charlie nervously glances around, a pregnant silence settles on the room, and we can’t help but feel like we no longer have this place to ourselves.

“Let’s get out of here,” Charlie says.

But just as he turns to the door, there’s another noise. Not a thud. More like a creak. I instinctively look up, but it’s not coming from the ceiling. Or the walls. It’s lower.

There’s another quiet creak and we all look down. “Behind you,” Charlie motions to Shep. He spins around and checks out a section of flat wood planks that’re built into the ground like a mini-liferaft.

“What’re those?” I ask quietly.

“Vertical passageways. Underneath the planks, they lead down to the tracks below,” Charlie explains. “That’s how they move the big equipment and generators – they just take out the wood and lower them through the holes.” He’s trying to sound relaxed, but from the crinkle in his forehead – and the way he backs away from the planks – I can tell he’s creeped out. He’s not the only one.

“Can we please get out of here?” I ask.

Bending down toward the floor, Shep angles his head, trying to peer between the planks of wood. It’s like staring into an underground air-conditioning vent. “You sure it’s from here?” he asks. “Or is it echoing from somewhere else?” Changing course, Charlie moves in for a closer look.

“Charlie, get away from there,” I plead.

There’s another creak. Then another. Slow at first, but getting faster.

Shep looks up and re-scouts the entire tunnel. If it is an echo, it has to start somewhere.

I rush in and grab Charlie by the shoulder. “Let’s go!” I say as I head for the door.

Stumbling to his feet, Charlie follows me, but keeps his eyes on Shep.

Through the planks, the pace of the noise gets even quicker. Like a soft scraping…

“C’mon!” I insist.

… or someone walking… no, more like running. The sound’s not coming from in here. It’s outside. I stop and slide to a halt along the dusty floor. “Charlie, wait!”

Passing me by, he turns around like I’m insane. “What’re you t-”

There’s a sharp crash in the corner, and the door we’re headed for bursts open. “Secret Service – nobody move!” a beefy man shouts, rushing into the room with his gun pointed straight at my face.

Instinctively, I back up. He slows down, and I spot his limp. Mr. Squat. The lead investigator.

“He said don’t move!” a blond-haired agent yells, racing in right behind him. Like his partner, he aims his gun straight at us – first at me, then at Charlie, then back to me. All I see is the black hole of the barrel.