The World Beneath

Chapter 48

Dr. Dubois struggled out of the cab into the crush of humanity and honking horns that was Times Square. Billboards shouted for his attention, ads for musicals he’d never want to see, and junk food he shouldn’t consume. He stuck the crutches under his armpits and hobbled toward the hotel.

He was scheduled to meet Agent Marks at the Marriott Marquis hotel at 10 o’clock. He could still fix this. Tesla had the serum, and he had some information about it, but he was contained underground. Saddiq might already have killed him. If not, there was a good chance that he’d been caught by the police. The doctor had heard the gunshots as the train had started to move again. They were after Tesla. They would get him.

If not, he needed to get to his meeting right away. He intended to record it and use the recording as insurance should the CIA try to cut ties with him. Since the 500 series debacle, they had distanced themselves from him, but they knew that they had enough on the line to fill the tunnels with agents looking for Tesla. They’d back him up, especially if he had a little insurance.

The noise level in the square dropped, and several people turned to look at the Jumbotron. It looked dark among all the glittering lights. He stopped to catch his breath, straightened his glasses, and looked up at the giant screen.

A familiar face looked down on him. His crutch slipped, and he almost fell. Pain rippled up from his leg. He caught his balance and looked back up at the screen.

Joe Tesla’s image stared down at him, large as a building. His lips moved as if he were speaking, but there was no audio, of course.

Subtitles appeared against his shirt.

The doctor read them. They told how Joe Tesla was trapped underground in New York City, how he had uncovered evidence of a terrible series of experiments. The image changed to show the doctor’s briefcase, one of the yellow biohazard stickers standing out brightly.

He staggered back, crutch dropping to the ground unheeded as he read his own name.

Around him people had stopped moving. They stared at the Jumbotron. A man with a red hat held up his phone to film it. They knew. Everyone knew.

Tesla was giving Dr. Dubois all the blame. But he hadn’t done it alone.

A hand cupped his elbow and steadied him. “Dr. Dubois?”

Agent Marks looked down on him.

“I… yes. Let’s get off the street,” said the doctor.

Marks’s phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pants pocket.

The doctor gripped his remaining crutch.

A flicker of surprise passed across the agent’s face.

“What?” The doctor fought to keep panic from his voice. “What?”

“Nothing at all.” Marks handed him his dropped crutch. “Let’s get inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

The doctor’s galloping heart slowed. They would be able to find a solution.

Marks draped an arm across his shoulders. Something stung the doctor on the side of his neck.

His heart convulsed inside him, and he fell to the dirty asphalt.

“This man is having a heart attack!” called Marks. “Someone call 911.”

He’d never survive the wait for the ambulance. Pain radiated out from his chest, down his arm, but it wasn’t from a heart attack. He tried to reach the spot where Marks must have injected him, but his arm wouldn’t move.

Darkness crowded around the edges of his vision.

The last thing he saw was Tesla’s earnest face, with the doctor’s name printed beneath it. His own damning name.