Reliquary

= 43 =

HAYWARD SHOULDERED the riot gear, adjusted the lantern visor strapped around her head, and glanced across the mass of blue milling around the lower concourse of the 59th Street station. She was supposed to find Squad Five, led by a Lieutenant Miller, but the vast space was in chaos, everyone trying to find everyone else and consequently finding nobody.

She saw Chief Horlocker arrive, fresh from mustering the squads that were assembling at the 81st Street station under the Museum. Horlocker took up a position on the far side of the concourse next to Tactical Head Jack Masters, a thin, sour-looking man. Master’s long arms, which usually hung down by his side like an ape’s, were now gyrating as he talked to a group of lieutenants, slapping a series of maps, tracing out imaginary lines. Horlocker stood by, nodding, holding a pointing device like a swagger stick, occasionally tapping it on the map to emphasize a particularly salient point. As Hayward watched, Horlocker dismissed the lieutenants and Masters picked up a bullhorn.

“Attention!” he barked in a rasping voice. “Are the squads assembled?” It reminded Hayward of Girl Scout camp.

A rumbling murmur that might have been “No” arose.

“Squad One here, then,” Masters said, pointing toward the front. “Squad Two, assemble at the downtown level.” He continued through the squads, assigning them various sections of the concourse. Hayward headed for the Squad Five assembly point. As she arrived, Lieutenant Miller was spreading out a large diagram of his own squad’s area of responsibility shaded in blue. Miller was wearing a light gray assault uniform whose loose folds could not conceal a generous load of adipose tissue.

“I don’t want no heroics, no confrontations,” Miller was saying. “Okay? It’s basically a traffic cop assignment, nothing fancy. If there’s any resistance, you’ve got your mask and your tear gas. Don’t fart around; show them you mean business. But I don’t expect any trouble. Do your job right, and we’ll be out of here in an hour.”

Hayward opened her mouth, then restrained herself. It seemed to her that using tear gas in underground tunnels might be a little tricky. Once, years before the Transit Police merged with the regular force, someone at headquarters had suggested using gas to quell a disturbance. The rank and file almost revolted. Tear gas was bad enough on the surface, but it was murderous below ground. And she could see that their detail covered the deeper subway and maintenance tunnels beneath Columbus Circle station.

Miller swiveled his head, the dark glasses around his neck swinging from a Day-Glo chord. “Remember, most of these moles are wigged out on some shit or other, maybe weakened by too much juice,” he barked. “Show them some authority and they’ll fall in line. Just move ’em up and out like cattle, if you know what I mean. Once you get them started, they’ll keep going. Head them toward this central point here, beneath the number two turnaround. That’s the staging point for squads four through six. Once the squads have reassembled, we’ll move the moles up to the parkside subway exit, here.”

“Lieutenant Miller?” Hayward said, unable to keep silent any longer.

The Lieutenant looked at her.

“I used to roust some of those tunnels, and I know these guys. They’re not going to move along as easily as you think they are.”

Miller’s eyes widened, as if seeing her for the first time. “You?” he asked in disbelief. “A rouster?”

“Yes, sir,” Hayward said, thinking she’d give the next guy who asked her that a swift kick in the balls.

“Jesus,” said Miller, shaking his head.

There was a silence as the other cops looked at Hayward.

“Any other ex-TAs here?” Miller asked, looking around. Another officer raised his hand. Hayward quickly took in the obvious features: tall, black, built like a tank.

“Name?” Miller barked.

“Carlin,” the heavyset man drawled.

“Any others?” Miller asked. There was a silence.

“Good.”

“Us ex-Transit Police, we know those tunnels,” Carlin said in a mild voice. “Too bad they didn’t think to enlist more of us for this picnic. Sir.”

“Carlin?” Miller said. “You got your gas, you got your stick, you got your piece. So don’t wet your pants. And when I want your opinion again, I’ll ask for it.” Miller looked around. “There are too many goddamn bodies in here. This action calls for a small, elite group. But what the Chief wants, the Chief gets.”

Hayward glanced around herself, estimating there were perhaps a hundred officers in the room. “There’re at least three hundred homeless beneath Columbus Circle alone,” she said evenly.

“Oh? And when did you last count them?” Miller asked.

Hayward said nothing.

“There’s one in every group,” Miller muttered to no one in particular. “Now listen up. This is a tactical operation, and we’ve got to be tight and obey orders. Is that understood?”

There were a few nods. Carlin caught Hayward’s eye and rolled his own briefly toward the ceiling, indicating his opinion of Miller.

“All right, partner up,” Miller snapped, rolling up the chart.

Hayward turned toward Carlin, and he nodded in return. “How you doing?” he asked. Hayward noticed her first impression of the officer as overweight was wrong: He was strongly built, cut like a weight lifter, not an ounce of fat anywhere. “What was your beat before the merge?”

“I had the tour under Penn Station. The name’s Hayward.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a derisive look cross Miller’s face: Carlin and the broad.

“This is really a man’s job,” Miller said, still looking at Hayward. “There’s always the chance things could turn a little ugly. We won’t hold it against you if—”

“With Sergeant Carlin here,” Hayward interrupted, “there’s enough man for the both of us.” She swept her eyes appraisingly across Carlin’s massive frame, then looked pointedly at Miller’s stomach.

Several cops erupted into laughter, and Miller frowned. “I’ll find something in the rear for you two.”

“Officers of the law!” Horlocker’s voice suddenly barked through the bullhorn. “We have less than four hours to clear the homeless from the areas beneath and surrounding Central Park. Keep in mind that precisely at midnight, millions of gallons of water will be released from the reservoir into the storm drain system. We’ll be channeling the flow precisely. But there’s no guarantee that a couple of wandering homeless won’t get caught in the downward rush of water. So it’s imperative that your work be done, and everyone within the clear zone evacuated, well before the deadline. Everyone. This is not a temporary evacuation. We’re going to use this unique opportunity to clear out, once and for all, the underground homeless from these areas. Now, you have your assignments, and you have team leaders who’ve been chosen for their experience. There is no reason why these assignments cannot be completed with an hour or two to spare.

“We’ve made arrangements to provide these people with food and shelter for the night. Explain this to them, as necessary. From the exit points marked on your maps, buses will take them to shelters in Manhattan and the other boroughs. We don’t expect resistance. But if there is resistance, you have your orders.”

He looked around at the assembled group for a moment, then raised the bullhorn again.

“Your fellow officers in the northern sections have been fully briefed and will begin their operations simultaneously with your own. I want everyone moving together. Remember, once underground, your radios will be of limited use. You may be able to communicate with each other and nearby team leaders, but aboveground communication will be intermittent at best. So keep to the plan, keep to the schedule, and do your part.”

He stepped forward. “And now, men, let’s do some good!”

The ranks of uniformed officers straightened up as Horlocker walked through them, clapping some on the back, dispensing encouraging words. As he was passing Hayward, he stopped, frowning. “You’re Hayward, right? D’Agosta’s girl?”

D’Agosta’s girl, my ass. “I work with D’Agosta, sir,” she said out loud.

Horlocker nodded. “Well, get to it, then.”

“Hey, sir, I think you’d better…” Hayward began, but an aide had run up to Horlocker’s side, babbling something about a rally in Central Park growing much larger than expected, and the Chief moved away quickly. Miller shot her a warning look.

As Horlocker left the concourse with a retinue of aides, Masters picked up the bullhorn. “Move out by squad!” he barked.

Miller turned to the group with a lopsided grin. “Okay, men. Let’s bag some moles.”