“Well, there you go. He’s just an unfortunate man who’s hiding some scars. There’s no reason to assume the worst.”
“No reason to assume the best, either. He’s a madman, sure as your husband was. And he’s got the same knack for building things, and making things work.” Swakhammer seemed on the verge of saying something else. “I’m not saying that’s who he is, for sure. I’m just saying that lots of people think he might be.”
Briar sneered. “Oh, come on. If you folks really thought he was Blue, you’d have dragged him into the street and fed him to the rotters by now.”
“Mind your step,” he told her, indicating with the sweep of the lantern the way the tunnel was broken up into an uneven floor. “And it didn’t come to us all of a sudden—how we got thinking this stranger might not be such a stranger. It happened real gradual, over a couple of years. One day two folks who’d been thinking about it in private shared their thoughts, and from then on out, it was a runaway rumor that nobody could stop.”
“I could stop it.”
“Maybe you could; maybe you can’t. If you’re that sold on taking the trouble, I’d like to see you try it. Last few years, the old doctor’s been more trouble than he’s worth down here—useful instruments aside.” He patted at the Daisy and shook his head. “He does good work, but he does bad things with his good work. He’s got a bit of passion for being in charge.”
“You said yourself, nobody’s in charge down here except a man who died sixteen years ago.”
He grumbled, “I didn’t say that exactly. Come on. Not much farther, I swear. Can you hear it?”
“Hear what?” Even as she asked the question, she could hear strains of music. It wasn’t loud and wasn’t too melodic, but it was distinct and cheerful.
“Sounds like Varney’s playing, or trying to play. He can’t pound out a song worth a damn, but he’s doing his best to learn. There was an old player piano in Maynard’s, but the mechanism inside it rotted out. A few of the boys rigged it up so you could play it like a regular instrument. The poor machine hasn’t been tuned since before the walls, but you can probably hear that for yourself.”
“I’m surprised you’re comfortable with that much noise. I’d think you’d spend your days staying quiet. The rotters seem to have good ears.”
“Oh, they can’t hear us so well when we’re down here. The sound travels underground more than it carries up there.” He cocked his head at the ceiling. “And even if they do get a hint of what we’re up to, they can’t get at us. Maynard’s—well, most of the old square, really—is reinforced like nobody’s business. It’s the safest part of what’s left, I’ll tell you that much.”
She was reminded of Zeke, and again she offered a silent prayer to anyone listening that perhaps the boy had found his way to the fortress within the fortress. “And if we’re lucky, we’ll find my son there.”
“If we’re lucky indeed. Is he the resourceful sort?”
“Yes. Oh God, yes. Too much so for his own good.”
The music was brimming up louder, spilling out around the edges of a round door that had been sealed on both sides. Swakhammer picked at the flaps and fumbled for a latch.
Briar spied a mark on the door. It was geometric and sharp, a zigzagged line that reminded her of something. She pointed at it and asked, “Mr. Swakhammer, what’s that? What does that mark mean?”
“What, don’t you recognize it?”
“Recognize it? It’s only a jagged line. Does it mean something?”
He reached out for her and she almost backed away out of reflex, but she held still while he poked at her belt buckle. Using one finger, he tipped it up so she could stare down at it and see for herself. “It’s your own daddy’s initials, that’s all. It marks this place as a safe spot, for people who’ll keep the peace.”
“So it is,” she murmured. “And don’t I feel like a dummy.”
“Don’t feel too silly about it. The poor quality of Willard’s handwriting is a thing of legend. Stand back, if you don’t mind. These doors are sealed from both sides, just in case.” And he pulled the latch, tugged the door, and leaned on it to hold it open.
“In case of what?”
“In case there’s a breach. In case the bellows fail, or the cleared-out spots upstairs are busted open and contaminated. Just in case, that’s all. Around here, anything’s possible.”
She stepped through the door, and she believed him.
Fourteen
Except for the fact that there were no windows, the establishment looked every bit like a thousand others that operated aboveground. A big bar made of wood and brass hulked against the far wall, and behind it a cracked mirror had been installed. It brightened and reflected the warm-looking room, doubling the clustered candles alight on every square, squat table—and contributing a fractured luster to the scene.
At the piano a gray-haired man in a long green coat sat on a stool and banged away at the keys, each one of them yellowed like old teeth. Beside him, a large-boned woman with only one arm tapped her foot in time to the tune he was struggling to produce; and at the bar, a thin man served up a sickly yellow substance that must be the disgusting beer.
Three men sat at the bar, and six or seven more were scattered throughout the tavern, seated here and there—except for a fellow who was sitting unconscious on the floor beside the piano. Something about the mug in his hand and the drool on his chin suggested he’d passed out there, not fallen victim to some more exciting event.
At the sight of Swakhammer, several patrons tipped a mug in a passive greeting; but upon seeing Briar, the place fell silent except for the determined, simple tune.
Even the music stopped when the one-armed woman noted the newcomers.
“Jeremiah,” she said in a cigarette-rough voice. “Who’ve you got there?”
From the look of anticipation on the faces of Maynard’s patrons, Briar was able to guess many things. She was trying to frame a gentle way of disappointing them when Swakhammer did it for her.
“Lucy,” he said to the barwoman—and by telling her, he told the room, “she’s not that kind of visitor.”
“Are you sure?” asked one of the men at the bar. “She’s prettier than the usual crew.”
“ ‘Fraid so.” He turned to Briar and said, with a note of apology in his voice, “Once in a while, working girls find their way down here. They can make a fortune in a week, but you know how it is. They’ve got to be pretty desperate to give the walls a try.”
Briar said, “Oh.”
Swakhammer said, “All right then, let me make an introduction or two. That’s Lucy O’Gunning over there at the bar. She’s in charge of the joint. Going around the room, that’s Varney on the stool; Hank on the floor by the piano; Frank, Ed, and Willard at the bar; Allen and David at the far table; Squiddy and Joe over there playing cards; and down front there’s Mackie and Tim. I think that’s everybody.”
Then he said, “Everybody, this is Miss Briar Wilkes.”
A sudden hum of low-pitched chatter filled the room, but Swakhammer kept talking. “She got a ride from your friend and mine, Captain Cly, and thought she’d visit our fair and fine vacation destination here inside the walls—and I couldn’t think of a better place to begin than here at the spot named for her daddy. She’s got a few questions she’d like to ask, and I hope you’ll all be good enough to treat her nice.”
No one rose or offered any objections or accusations, so Briar dove headlong into the point of her visit. “I’m looking for my son,” she blurted. “Has anybody seen him? His name is Ezekiel, and he’ll be going by Zeke. Zeke Wilkes. He’s only fifteen, and he’s a smart kid aside from the stump-stupid idea to come in here. I was hoping maybe someone here had seen him. He’s…”
No one interrupted her with helpful information. She kept talking, and with every word she became more certain of what the outcome would be, but that only made her ramble longer.
“He’s about as tall as me, and thin as a rail. He’s got a few of his grandfather’s things; I guess he meant to barter them, or use them as proof of who he is. He would’ve gotten here yesterday sometime. I’m not sure exactly when he left, but he came up through the water runoff system before it collapsed in last night’s quake. Have any of you…” She met a few eyes, but none of them held a yes. She had to ask anyway, so she did. “Have any of you seen him?”
No one spoke, or blinked.
“I thought—that is, Mr. Swakhammer said—that maybe someone would’ve brought him here, since Zeke is who he is. I thought…”
They didn’t need to answer. She knew the answer, but she wished someone would reply, anyway. She hated being the only one talking, but she was going to keep going until someone stopped her.
Lucy finally did. She said, “Miss Wilkes, I’m real sorry. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. But that don’t mean he’s come to harm. There’s more than one sealed spot here in the walls where he might’ve holed up and taken rest.”
Briar must’ve looked closer to tears than she hoped, because the older woman came forward, adjusting her shawl. “Honey, you’ve had a hard day, I can already tell it. Let me get you a drink and sit you down, and you can tell us the whole thing.”
She nodded and choked on the lump that was swelling in her throat.
“I shouldn’t,” she began to argue. “I need to keep looking for him.”
“I know you do. But give us a minute or two to freshen you up and get you some clean filters, and you can tell us all about it. And maybe we can help you out. Let’s see. Has Jeremiah there offered you any beer?”
“Yes, but no; no thank you. And I already have some extra filters; I just haven’t had a chance to use them.”