Porter held it up to the light—more than half of a fingertip. Enough for an ID. “Nice job, Thomas.” He dropped it into his pocket and turned to the sergeant. “Espinosa, is your radio working?”
The large man glanced down at his receiver and shook his head. “We lost communication the moment we descended those stairs. No cell service, either.”
“If we follow that tunnel, how do we keep from getting lost?”
Porter imagined dozens or more tunnels breaking off in numerous directions—an underground maze. He supposed the city had maps, but how accurate would they be? Particularly if some tunnels were constructed for bootlegging. There may be no record of them at all.
Espinosa pulled a small can of spray paint from a pouch on his pack. “Did I mention I used to be a Boy Scout?”
“All right then, lead the way.”
Espinosa went first, followed by Thomas and Tibideaux, then Porter with Brogan at the rear. Together they filed into the tunnel, squeezing past the railcar. The air immediately felt damp and cool. Porter figured the temperature must be in the mid-fifties. The tunnel walls were smooth, carved out of limestone. Even in today’s world, digging something like this would prove to be a difficult task. How had they managed such a feat more than a hundred years ago? How many men died down here?
At least one more soul joined them this week, Porter thought.
Water dripped from the ceiling in places. Not enough to be worrisome, but enough to make the ground slippery. Porter hadn’t dressed for spelunking; his black loafers offered little traction.
Twenty minutes later, when they arrived at a bend followed by an intersection, the five men stopped. Espinosa lifted his light high and pointed the beam down the three possible paths. “Any suggestions?”
Porter knelt down at the center. “Shine that down here?”
The light redirected, joined by flashlights from the others. Porter studied the tracks. Only one bore signs of recent use: the one veering off to the left. “That way.”
Espinosa gave his paint can a quick shake and drew an arrow on the wall pointing back the way in which they had come; then they continued.
Porter peered into the darkness at their backs. Pitch-black. Not a single hint of light poked through. He imagined the entrance to hell was something like this. What would happen if the tunnel collapsed behind them? The air felt thin, desperate. How cut off from the real world were they?
He looked down at his iPhone. No signal.
Espinosa raised his right fist and froze, pointing his weapon ahead. “I see light up there,” he told them in a low voice.
“Outside?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t think so; not bright enough. Come with me. The rest of you hold here for a minute.”
Porter crouched low, pulled the Beretta from his shoulder holster, and disengaged the safety, pointing the barrel at the ceiling.
What if bullets started flying around in here? The ricochet off these stone walls would be deadly. Although he wore a vest, that left plenty exposed for a bullet to wreak havoc. A quick inventory of the other men’s eyes told him they were having similar thoughts. Brogan had pulled a large knife from a sheaf on his thigh, favoring the close-quarters weapon to the MP5 slung over his back. Tibideaux held a Glock.
“Porter!”
From up ahead, Espinosa’s voice echoed off the smooth stone.
Porter rose and sprinted down the tunnel toward the light, the other men at his back. They found Espinosa and Thomas standing at the center of some type of chamber. A floodlight illuminated the space from high atop the wall, somehow tapped into city power. In the far corner, a ladder was bolted into the limestone. A manhole cover rested at the top. Espinosa was pointing his weapon at the ground. “There.”
Porter followed his gaze.
Three white boxes stood side by side, each sealed with a black string. A single word was scrawled into the top of the middle box. PORTER.
“Gloves?”
Tibideaux pulled some from his jacket pocket. Porter slipped them on and carefully pulled the string on the first box. Then he removed the lid—
A human ear lying on a bed of cotton.
“Oh, that’s foul,” Brogan said, taking a step back.
Porter opened the next box, revealing a pair of eyes. Blue. Part of the optic nerve still dangled from the end of one of them, shriveled and crusted, dried and stuck to the cotton by a thin trail of blood.
The final box contained a tongue.
Porter hadn’t checked the body at Mulifax for a tongue. The eyes and ear were both missing, but he assumed the rats had gotten them. “I’m guessing these belong to our victim back in the basement. We’ll have to get them back to the medical examiner to find out for sure.”
“Not it,” Brogan spat. “I’m not carrying those.”
“Me either, boss. That’s bad juju right there,” Tibideaux said.
“Fucking pansies,” Thomas said. He pulled three plastic bags from his pack and handed them to Porter. “If you bag them, I’ll carry them.”
Porter shook his head. “Leave them as is for now. I’ll get CSI to run this entire room.”
He stood and gestured at the ladder. “He wants us to go up there. No other reason to place them here. X marks the spot.”
“On it.” Espinosa slung his weapon over his shoulder and started up the ladder. “Cover me, Brogan.”
“Yes, sir.” Brogan knelt down at the base and pointed his MP5 at the manhole.
When he reached the top, Espinosa pushed at the metal cover. It was difficult to get leverage on the thick steel from that position. Porter knew from experience that they weighed about a hundred pounds. With a loud grunt, he slid the cover to the side. Daylight streamed in. Porter shielded his eyes.
Espinosa pulled a Glock from a thigh holster and readied the weapon, then in one quick, fluid motion he pulled himself through the hole and rolled off to the right.
Brogan stood at the ladder’s base, his weapon pointed at the sky.
“Clear!” Espinosa’s voice came back.
“Go ahead, Detective,” Brogan said.
Porter pulled his tired frame up the ladder, the warmth of the sun forcing the cold from his bones. As his head broke the surface, he found himself at the center of a residential intersection. There was no traffic, the houses still in various stages of construction.
“The Moorings Lakeside, I presume.”
39
Diary