= 53 =
D’Agosta moved forward, crouching low in the water, his revolver nosing ahead into the inky darkness. He had turned off his flashlight to avoid betraying his position. The water flowed briskly between his thighs, its smell of algae and lime mixing with the fetid reek of the creature.
“Bailey, you up there?” he whispered into the gloom.
“Yeah,” came Bailey’s voice. “I’m waiting at the first fork.”
“You’ve got more rounds than I. If we drive off this motherfucker, I want you to stand guard while I go behind and try shooting off the lock.”
“Roger.”
D’Agosta started toward Bailey, his legs numbing in the frigid water. Suddenly, there was a confusion of sounds in the blackness ahead of him: a soft splash, then another, much closer. Bailey’s shotgun went off twice, and several people in the group behind him started whimpering.
“Jesus!” he heard Bailey yell, then there was a low crunching noise and Bailey screamed and D’Agosta felt thrashing in the water ahead of him.
“Bailey!” he cried out, but all he could hear was the gurgle of running water. He pulled out his flashlight and shined it up the tunnel. Nothing.
“Bailey!”
Several people were crying behind him now and somebody was screaming hysterically.
“Shut up!” D’Agosta pleaded. “I have to listen!”
The screams were abruptly muffled. He played the light ahead, off the walls and ceiling, but he could see nothing. Bailey had vanished, and the smell had receded once again. Maybe Bailey had hit the fucker. Or maybe it had just temporarily retreated from the noise of the shotgun. He shone the flashlight downward, and noticed the water flowing red around his legs. A torn shred of NYPD regulation blue cloth floated by.
“I need help up here!” he hissed over his shoulder.
Smithback was suddenly at his side.
“Point this flashlight down the passage,” D’Agosta told him.
D’Agosta probed the stone floor with his fingers. The water, he noticed, seemed to be a little higher: as he bent forward, reaching down, it grazed his chest. Something floated by beneath his nose, a piece of Bailey, and he had to turn away for a moment.
There was no shotgun to be found.
“Smithback,” he said, “I’m going back to shoot off the lock. We can’t backtrack any farther with that thing waiting for us. Feel around in this water for a shotgun. If you see anything, or smell anything, shout.”
“You’re leaving me here alone?” Smithback asked a little unsteadily.
“You’ve got the flashlight. It’ll just be for a minute. Can you do it?”
“I’ll try.”
D’Agosta grasped Smithback’s shoulder briefly, then started back. For a journalist, the guy had guts.
A hand tugged at him as he waded through the group. “Please tell us what’s happening,” a feminine voice sobbed.
He gently shook her off. D’Agosta could hear the Mayor talking soothingly to her. Maybe he’d vote for the old bastard next time.
“Everyone get back,” he said, and positioned himself in front of the door. He knew he should stand well back from the door to avoid potential ricochets. But it was a thick lock, and he’d have a hard time aiming in the dark.
He moved to within a few feet of the door, placed the barrel of the .38 near the lock, and fired. When the smoke cleared, he found a clean hole in the lock’s center. The lock held fast.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, placing the muzzle of the revolver directly against the hasp and firing again. Now the lock was gone. He heaved his weight against the door.
“Give me a hand here!” he called out.
Immediately, several people began throwing themselves against it. The rusty hinges gave way with a loud screech, and water gushed through the opening.
“Smithback! Find anything?”
“I got his flashlight!” came the disembodied voice.
“Good boy. Now come on back!”
As D’Agosta moved through the door, he noticed an iron D ring on the other side as well. He stood back and ushered the group through, counting. Thirty-seven. Bailey was gone. Smithback brought up the rear.
“All right, let’s shut this thing!” D’Agosta yelled.
Against the heavy flow of the water, the door groaned slowly shut.
“Smithback! Shine one of the lights here. Maybe we can find a way to bar this door.”
He looked at it for a second. If they could jam a piece of metal through the D ring, it just might hold. He turned to the group. “I need something, anything, made of metal!” he called. “Does anyone have a piece of metal we can use to bar this door?”
The Mayor passed quickly through the group, then came up to D’Agosta, thrusting a small collection of metal items into his hands. As Smithback held the light, D’Agosta inspected the pins, necklaces, combs. “There’s nothing here,” he muttered.