“Well,” Duffy said reluctantly, “someone could go underneath the Main Shunt and turn off the valves manually. But it would be a dangerous operation. I don’t think those manual workings have been used since the automated system went on line. That’s at least a dozen years. And forget stopping the Reservoir inflow. We’ve already got eight-foot aqueduct pipe bringing down millions of cubic feet from upstate. Even if you succeed in closing those valves manually, you couldn’t stop the water. When it enters the Reservoir from the north, it’ll raise the level over the banks. Everything will just pour into Central Park and—”
“I don’t care if you create Lake Ed Koch. Take Waxie, get the men you need, and do it.”
“But sir,” Waxie said, eyes wide, “I think it would be better if…” his voice trailed off.
Duffy’s small moist hands were working busily at nothing. “It’s very difficult to get down there,” he babbled. “It’s directly beneath the Reservoir, suspended under the valve works, and there’s rushing water and someone might get hurt—”
“Duffy?” Horlocker interrupted. “Get the hell out of here and shut those valves. Understand?”
“Yes,” Duffy said, his face paler than ever.
Horlocker turned toward Waxie. “You started it. You stop it. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Waxie said.
“What?”
“I mean, no, sir.”
There was a silence. Nobody moved.
“Get your asses moving, then!” Horlocker roared.
Margo stepped aside as Waxie lurched to his feet and followed Duffy reluctantly out the door.
= 48 =
THE ENTRANCE TO the Whine Cellar—one of a new breed of swank basement clubs that had begun sprouting up around Manhattan over the last year—was little more than a narrow Art Deco doorway, placed like an afterthought in the lower left corner of the Hampshire House facade. From his vantage point beside the door, Smithback could make out a sea of heads, stretching east and west down the avenue street, punctuated by the ancient gingko trees that lined the entrance to Central Park. Many people were bowed in silent reverence. Others—young men in rolled-up white cotton shirts mostly, with their ties tugged down—were drinking beer out of paper sacks and high-fiving each other. In the second row, he noticed a girl holding up a poster reading PAMELA, WE WILL NEVER FORGET. A tear rolled slowly down one cheek. Smithback couldn’t help but notice that in her other hand, the girl held a copy of his recent article. While a hush had fallen over the closest rows, in the distance Smithback could hear the shouts and yells of marchers, mingling with the even more distant crackle of bullhorns, wail of sirens, and honking of car horns.
Beside him, Mrs. Wisher was now placing a candle beside the large portrait of her daughter. Her hand was steady, but the flame flickered wildly in the cool night breeze. The silence deepened as she knelt in private prayer. Then she stood and moved toward a tall bank of flowers, allowing a series of friends to move forward in turn and place their own candles next to hers. A minute went by, then another. Mrs. Wisher took a final look at the photograph, now encircled by a bracelet of candles. For a moment she seemed to stagger, and Smithback quickly caught her arm. She looked at him, blinking in surprise, as if she had suddenly forgotten her purpose. Then her eyes lost their faraway look; her grip grew briefly firm, almost painful; and easing off his arm, she turned to face the crowd.
“I want to express my sorrow,” she said clearly, “to all mothers who have lost children to crime, to murder, to the sickness that has gripped this city and this country. That is all.”
A number of television cameras had managed to squeeze toward the front of the crowd, but Mrs. Wisher simply raised her head defiantly. “To Central Park West!” she cried. “And the Great Lawn!”
Smithback stayed close to her as the crowd surged westward, propelled as if by its own internal engine. Despite all the drinking by some of the younger marchers, everything seemed under control. It was almost as if the crowd was conscious of participating in an unforgettable event. They passed Seventh Avenue: an unbroken string of red brake lights, motionless, receding almost to the limits of vision. The sound of police whistles and horns was now one long continuous wail, a steady background noise that came from all directions. Smithback dropped back a moment to consult the Post timetable, treading on the handmade shoes of the Viscount Adair as he did so. Almost nine-thirty. Right on schedule. Three more stops, all along Central Park West. Then they’d turn into the Park for the final midnight vigil.
As they made the grand sweep around Columbus Circle, Smithback glanced down Broadway, a wide gash of gray between the unbroken rows of buildings. The police had moved more quickly here, and he could see that the road was barricaded and deserted as far south as Times Square, looking strangely vacant, the pavement shining black beneath countless street lamps. A few cops and squad cars were manning the far end; the rest of the police force was probably still mobilizing, scrambling to find ways to control traffic and keep the march from growing even larger. Maybe that’s why more of them weren’t on the scene yet. He shook his head, amazed at how this one diminutive woman had brought all of Midtown to a virtual standstill. There was no way they could ignore her after this. And no way they could ignore his articles, for that matter. Already, he’d mapped everything out. First, an in-depth report of the event, written literally at the right hand of Mrs. Wisher, but naturally with his own special slant. Then a series of profiles, interviews, and puff pieces, leading up to his book. Figure half a million bucks in royalties for domestic hardcover sales, perhaps twice that for the paperback, and with foreign rights bringing in at least—
His calculations were interrupted by a strange rumbling noise. It stopped, then came again, so deep it seemed more vibration than sound. The noise level around him dropped for a moment: apparently, others had heard it, too. Suddenly, two blocks down the long empty length of Broadway, Smithback saw a manhole cover lift from the asphalt and fall back onto the street. A cloud of what appeared to be steam drifted skyward; then an impossibly dirty man clambered up, sneezing and coughing in the glare of the streetlight, filthy rags of clothes fluttering loosely around his limbs. For a moment, Smithback thought it was Tail Gunner, the haunted-looking man that had taken him to Mephisto. Then another figure emerged from the manhole, blood flowing freely from a cut on his temple; another followed him, then another.
There was an audible intake of breath at Smithback’s side. He turned and saw that Mrs. Wisher had faltered, staring in the direction of the wild-looking men. He quickly drew alongside her.
“What is this?” she said, almost in a whisper.
Suddenly, another manhole cover popped free closer to the march, and a series of gaunt figures clambered out, disoriented and coughing. Smithback stared in disbelief at the bedraggled group, unable to tell age or even sex beneath the matted hair and crusted dirt. Some held pipes or ragged pieces of rebar; others carried bats and broken police batons. One was wearing what looked like a brand-new police cap. The crowd of marchers nearest Broadway had stopped and were staring at the spectacle. Smithback could hear a low undercurrent of sound: worried muttering from the older, elegantly dressed people, scoffs and hoots of derision from the young white-collar turks and desk jockeys. A cloud of green mist sighed out of the IRT station beneath the Circle, and more homeless emerged, scurrying up the steps. As additional bodies clambered out of manholes and the subway, a ragged army began to form, looks of blinking bewilderment quickly turning to hostility.