A hard hat was hanging on a hook inside the door. I pulled that over my wool cap and started into the tunnel.
The pipes curved away in front of me, following the shape of the stadium. I rounded the first bend and heard the door slam shut behind me. I turned on my heel, jogged back to the exit, turned the inside knob. The door had been locked again from the outside. I took out my picks, worked the tumbler, shoved hard. The door was wedged shut. Those mops, they had been put there to keep someone inside.
I drew back my hand to pound on the door, stopped. I’d been locked in here on purpose. Begging would waste time, energy.
I turned back into the tunnel and called Bernie’s name again, again heard nothing but the grunts of the pipes, the dripping of water along the route.
I put the flashlight into my belt, pulled out my phone. No signal in here, of course, but it had a brighter light than my pencil flash. I kept it in my left hand, the Smith & Wesson in my right, safety off. I kept my mind on small things: overhead pipes, flooring, shelving. Tried not to breathe too deeply around the sheets of asbestos that had unpeeled from the overhead pipes. I sidestepped the cables snaking along the floor, looked behind pillars, little things to keep bigger things like rats, or Uzbeki mobsters, at bay.
I paused every few yards and called Bernie’s name. I thought I heard noises louder than vermin would make, steps retreating from me up the tunnel.
My fingers had lost all feeling, my forehead ached with cold. I couldn’t tell if I was moving forward or if the damp, slime-coated walls were sliding past me. Time had disappeared, everything, my life, the planet, the Universe, all compressed to this tiny point, numb body in a cavern.
The wall angled past me again and great steel cantilevers slid into view, bracing wall and ceiling. I looked up and saw steel nets holding slabs of concrete. Above them more pipes, joists, a faded box of Cracker Jacks. Water dripped past the slabs of concrete and spread along the floor. I turned to shine the light farther ahead of me, wondering how much farther the tunnel stretched, moved too quickly, slipped and fell into the slime. Gun and phone skittered away from me. The light went out. I fumbled for the flashlight in my belt loop and cut my finger: the plastic shield and the bulb had cracked in my fall.
Near me I heard creaking, the ceiling net or the joists or the wood panel, they all could be giving way. I imagined an army of rats gathering on the overhead pipes, preparing to hurl themselves onto my head. I drew my knees up to my face, arms clutching them, sweat coating the slime on my face.
Lache, Bernie had called me. I was a coward if I was going to give in to night noises. A coward to let a few rats drive me to gibbering. Let loose your fingers, spread your arms, ignore the jolt of pain through the right shoulder, take in a breath, a slow deep breath, let it out, unlock the brain. The phone and gun had slid away from me. Reimagine the sound, figure out the direction they’d gone. In front of me. All I had to do was go forward on hands and knees and feel the ground; I’d come to them.
Deep breath in, deep breath out, hand patting sludge, hand touching snakes, hand recoiling. Not snakes, V.I., cables.
“Vittoria, vittoria, vittoria, mio core,” I started to sing.
My voice came out in a reedy quaver. Not good at all. Gabriella and Jake would be so disappointed, all their careful coaching coming to nothing. I sat up on my haunches, took a deep breath and belted it out. Victory, my heart! No more weeping, no more vile servitude! My voice bounced against the walls and pipes, creating a tinny echo.
Back onto my hands and knees, a hand out, patting the slime. And a crash, and a cry of pain somewhere behind me. No rat created that noise.
“Bernie?” I said. “Are you there?”
No response.
“Are you alive? Can you move your arms and legs?”
Muffled groaning. I moved cautiously toward the noise. Banged into a steel panel. The sounds were coming from behind it. I felt my way around. Ran into the soft warm body that was Bernie.
“Hey, girl. Hey, I’m here.” I was so sick with relief I could hardly speak.
I felt along her body. Her hands were tied behind her and there was duct tape across her mouth. I pulled that off. She gave a little whimper of pain, swallowed it.
“Vic? Vic? Is it you? Oh, help me, help me. He’s crazy. Where is he?”
“Let’s see about getting you untied, carissima. Let’s make that happen. I don’t know who ‘he’ is or where he is. I think he locked us in here, but one thing at a time.”