The World Beneath

Chapter 33

Joe watched Andres and Edison until they disappeared up the stairs and into the light. He imagined them crossing under the streetlight, passing people hurrying to get out of the cold, getting into the cab, closing the door, and riding away.

His imagination didn’t dare go further than that.

Instead, he shrugged into Andres’s warm coat and headed back for the anonymity of the underground. Shivering, he pulled the coat tighter around himself. He hadn’t noticed how cold he was until Edison was gone. His teeth chattered, and he silently thanked Andres for giving him the coat off his back, and so much more than that.

A train must have just arrived, because the corridor was suddenly full of people. A man bumped into Joe’s shoulder and muttered at him. Joe moved closer to the wall, to stay out of the way of the crowds that surged past him on their way home.

Home.

The mass pushed him to one side, but he limped back into the station. His ankle throbbed, and he couldn’t remember what he’d done to it. His arms and back ached, too, from carrying a limp Edison through the tunnels. He only hoped that it mattered, that the vet would be able to heal him. That his pathetic weakness had not doomed the brave and loyal dog like it had doomed Brandon. If Joe could have gone outside and explained everything to the police, Brandon would still be alive, and Edison would be chasing a ball in the park. No self-pity, he reminded himself. But this wasn’t self-pity. It was grief and shame.

A man in a dark suit dodged in front of him to drop his newspaper in the recycling bin. Joe held out his hand, and the man slapped the paper in it without breaking stride.

Joe sat down on the subway bench, holding the newspaper. He was afraid to read it and see what it said about him, but he had to know.

He unfolded the newspaper. He hadn’t expected the New York Post. The man had looked more like someone who read the rarified words of The New York Times. A surprise. The scent of ink drifted up, an ordinary smell from his past — a time when he could sit with his coffee and read the paper and then go outside and start his day. He ached for those days.

He shook the paper out and read the headline: Mogul on Murder Spree? Underneath the headline was a photo of him gleaned from an old version of the Pellucid web site. They were lucky that he’d quit, considering the damage control they would have had to do if their chief technology officer was a crazy killer hunting victims through New York’s subterranean world. Mind-boggling.

He read the headline again. He was a mogul now, was he? And a killer. Anger rising, he skimmed the article, gritting his teeth when he came across phrases like mentally ill and chained to a life indoors and source of his murderous rage. They had effectively painted him as a bored rich kook who couldn’t go outside and had turned to murder in the tunnels to amuse himself. The last line read, If he’s innocent, then why is this so-called brilliant man cowering in corners instead of accounting for his whereabouts to the police?

Joe tore the paper in half. Yes, it was damaging, and parts of it were lies, but it contained a grain of truth — he was cowering here instead of proving his innocence. Well, screw ’em. He’d find the guilty parties and get them arrested.

He dropped the pieces of newspaper into the recycling bin.

What was up with Vivian? Had she received his emails and relayed his tips to the cops? If she had, no one on the force was leaking the information to the Post. If she hadn’t, how else could he get that information out to the public? Everyone needed to know Rebar’s true identity. They needed to know that Saddiq had killed Brandon, and probably Rebar as well. Maybe that would be enough for them to put the pieces together. Or not. His best chance of solving this lay in putting together the pieces himself.

A man sat next to him on the bench. He turned up the collar of his camel-hair coat and studied Joe’s face. Did he recognize him? With his face covered in stubble and grime, wearing an Eastern European army surplus coat and stinking of blood and dog, Joe didn’t see how the man would connect him to the well-groomed and happy millionaire on the front page of the newspaper. He couldn’t be sure.

“Spare change?” Joe held out his dirty hand, palm up. He figured this was the last thing the guy would expect from a millionaire.

The man’s face tightened. He shook his head and looked away.

Joe stifled a smile and reached down for Edison. His hand landed on empty air. He looked at the spot and saw a dirty tile floor with dark spots of gum stuck to it. He was alone.

Worry for Edison rose up in him again, and he pushed it back down. Edison was in the best possible hands now. Andres would see to it. And once he got out of the vet’s office, he would lie by Celeste’s bed — Joe envied him — and be petted and spoiled until he could come home to Joe again.

For both of their sakes, Joe had to restore their world even though he’d been branded crazy. Starting with finding the truth, and then sharing it. He’d have to do it without Edison’s support, on his own.

What he wanted to start with was a warm shower, a soft bed, and a hot dinner. He knew where he could get some version of all three.

Home.