The cats were not entirely happy with this subway ride. The calico was flatly terrified. Ears laid back, tail straight and fluffed out, she leaned into Bagabond's side. The black gingerly kneaded the floor of the car. The texture was only partially familiar. He wondered at the heat and the confusing scent all around him.
Bagabond tried to focus on the interior of the dark car. There were no sharp angles here. Dim shapes seemed to change form subtly in her peripheral vision. I've felt nothing like this, she thought, since the acid trip. She extended her consciousness beyond the cats and Jack. She couldn't define the who that she briefly contacted. But she felt the overwhelming comfort, the warmth, and the protectiveness that surrounded them here.
Cautiously she settled back in her seat and stroked the calico.
"This is it," said Jack.
He had recovered sufficiently to lead their small party through the City Hall station, beyond a bewildering succession of maintenance closets, and into another labyrinth of unused tunnels. He'd rigged sections of the passages with lights which he turned on and off as needed as they proceeded toward his home. When he opened the last door, he stood aside and waved Bagabond and the cats inside. He smiled proudly as they stared around the long room.
"Wow, man." Bagabond flinched as she took in the opulent furnishings and decor. The immediate impression was of red velvet and claw-footed divans.
"You are younger than you look. That was my reaction too. Reminded me of Captain Nemo's stateroom…" "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea."
"Yeah, right. You saw it too. One of the first movies I ever saw over to the parish theater." They walked down the crimson-carpeted stairs flanked by gold stanchions and plush velvet ropes. Both cats ran ahead of them, the calico using the Victorian armchairs as hurdles. The electric light was augmented by flickering gas flames that gave the room an atmosphere out of the last century. The black cat trotted over the Persian carpets to the edge of the platform and looked back at the two humans.
"He wants to know what this is and what's behind that door." Bagabond steadied Jack as they moved slowly down the staircase. "You need to lie down."
"Soon enough. This is my home and behind the door is my bedroom. If we could head in that direction…" They started across the room. "This was the first subway in New York, built by a man named Alfred Beach back after the War Between the States. It only ran for two blocks. The Boss Tweed didn't want it so he shut it down, then they forgot about it. I found it a while after I started working for the Transit Authority-one of the benefits of the job. Don't know why it held up so well, but it's a good place for me. Just took a little cleaning up, is all." They had walked to the other end of the room and Jack reached out to turn the handles on the ornate cast-bronze door. The center circle swung open. "This used to be the entrance to the pneumatic tube."
"I didn't expect this." Bagabond was surprised to find that the interior of the tunnel was sparsely furnished. There was a homemade bed constructed out of pine boards, an equally homemade bookcase, and a plank chest.
"All the comforts of home. Even my complete collection of Pogo books." Jack looked innocently at Bagabond and she laughed, then seemed surprised at it.
"Where's your iodine?" Bagabond looked around for a first aid kit.
"Don't use that stuff. Can you get me some of those?" Jack pointed up at the spiderwebs.
"You're kidding."
"Best poultice in the world. My grandma taught me that." When Bagabond turned back to him, he had pulled on a pair of shorts and had a shirt in his hand. She handed over the spiderwebs and helped him bandage the worst abrasions.
"So how did you end up down here?" Jack lay back on the bed, wincing slightly, while Bagabond perched gingerly on the edge.
"You're sure not like those social workers." Bagabond watched the cats outside the door as they chased each other around the room. She turned back to him with an appraising look. "And they like you."
"They let me out a while ago and I ended up back in the city. No place else to go. Met the black, started talking to him, and he talked back. So did a lot of the other animals, the ones that aren't human, anyway. I get along. I don't need people, don't want people around. People always mean bad luck for me. I can talk to you, too, when you're that other one, you know? Out there they call me Bagabond. I had another name once but I don't remember it much."
"They call me Sewer Jack." Jack said it bitterly, in contrast to Bagabond's flat recitation. The burst of emotion she caught held screams, bright lights, and fear, and the haven of the swamp.
"It was here-the creature. What are you?" Bagabond was confused; she had never before met this mixture of man and animal, with whom she could only sometimes communicate.
"Both. You saw."
"Do you control it? Can you make yourself change?"
"Did you ever see Lawrence Talbot as the wolfman? I change when I lose control or when I allow the beast to take over. I'm not cursed by the full moon; I'm cursed all the time. The loup-garou is a legend where I come from. The Cajuns all believe in it. When I was young, I did too. I was afraid I would hurt someone, so I went as far away as I could go. New York was a foreign country; no one would know me or bother me here."
His eyes focused on her now instead of the past. "Why the act? You can't be over forty-five."
"Twenty-six." She looked down at Jack, wondering why it mattered. "It keeps them from bothering me so much." Jack glanced through the open door at the railway clock on the opposite wall. "I'm getting hungry. How about you?"
Rescuing C.C. What had seemed to be a wonderful idea had turned into a nightmare. Rosemary had followed some derelicts into the steam tunnels beneath Grand Central Station. At first she tried asking anyone she met about C. C. But as she moved farther into the dank passages, those living there scuttled away. There was only occasional light from gratings in the street above, or from the derelicts' smoky fires. Her fatigue and fear began taking their toll; she fell again and again into the muck on the tunnel floors.
One horrible moment, she was attacked by a filthy creature who clawed at her, cackling. She fought him off but her purse was gone now. Rosemary was hopelessly lost. She heard occasional sounds that seemed to be gunshots and explosions. I'm in hell.
Ahead were two glowing spots that glared at her through the darkness. They receded as she came nearer. The iridescent green lights mesmerized her.
The spots came into focus and Rosemary saw the cat crouched in the darkness. Retreating a few feet and growling, it watched as Rosemary approached a wounded cat, the comrade it guarded. Chest crushed, one leg nearly severed from its body, the injured cat was dying. The guardian would allow no more pain to be inflicted. When she heard the low crying, she ignored the eyes and knelt beside the injured cat.
Rosemary realized there was nothing she could do, but she held it. The cat began to purr before it choked and died. The guardian lifted its head and howled a eulogy before pivoting and running into the gloom.
Rosemary laid the body on the ground in front of her and placed its head and legs in comfortable positions,. sat back, and began sobbing. It seemed as if she cried forever before she started walking toward the sounds of the guns, gasping from her sobs.
After raiding the refrigerator-Bagabond could understand why Con Ed never noticed the power tap, but how did he ever get the refrigerator down here?-Jack went back into his bedroom to get some sleep. Bagabond and the cats explored Jack's domain, which included making sure they could get out the door he had locked behind them.
They quickly discovered the limits. Bagabond sat down on an overstuffed horsehair sofa. The black joined her while the calico continued her game of crossing the room without touching the floor. Bagabond pondered and, for the first time in years, the black was not invited to join her. Bagabond was amazed at the way Jack lived. It made her life of moving from one temporary home, a pile of rags, to another, suddenly seem wrong and filled with discomforts she had previously ignored.