rituals are geared towards fortunetelling. We’ve been looking at everything that way and getting nowhere. What if Mister X isn’t interested in fortunetelling? What if he’s looking for something entirely different?”
“Such as?”
“Don’t know. Yet.” Donovan slammed a right hook into the side of the bag and smiled. “But we’re trained for this. We’ll figure it out.”
***
When Charles C. Haight designed the New York Cancer Hospital for the west side of Central Park in 1884, he borrowed heavily from the great Renaissance chateaux of the Loire Valley. Two- and three-story buildings, all connected above and below ground by corridors and tunnels, surround a courtyard speared by a skyscraping smokestack. Five massive round towers, each four stories high, guarded the building corners. The shape of the towers was conducive to fresh air and sunlight, while the accoutrements of French design were hoped to have a beneficial effect on the psyches of terminally ill patients. In its era, it was one of the most impressive constructions on Central Park West.
Time and advancements in medical science eventually outdated the facility’s capabilities. The plan to convert it to residential space has long been bogged down, leaving it to the mercy of nature and vandals. Bordering plants have grown amuck, obscuring the detail work. The courtyard is choked with garbage and the structure fortified by bricked-up windows and a wooden fence topped with barbed wire. Its more modern neighbors on West 105 th and 106 th Streets heighten its incongruity. A castle whose vampires have left in search of more sanguine feeding grounds, it stands desolate, isolated…
…but not abandoned.
On the last block of 106 th Street before Central Park West, Valdes sidestepped into an alley between a rundown three-story building and that wooden fence. He carried four large shopping bags. Although the sun had gone down and the streetlights didn’t penetrate here, he knew where to push. A section of slats swung noiselessly inwards.
“No entry!” Immediately, a hulking shadow loomed over him. “I make the rules! The rule is: no entry!”
“It’s all right, Officer Burt. It’s me.”
Officer Burt, a bear of a man who reeked of old tension sweat, gazed blankly as he processed this information. When he did he stumbled back, nodding deferentially. “Oh, uh, sorry, Mister Valdes. The rule is: no one comes in but you or who you say.”
“That’s right.” Valdes passed over the shopping bags. “Have someone relieve you, and take these down to Bridget in the dining hall, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Officer Burt? Keeping us secure is important. You do a fine job of it.”
Officer Burt stood a little straighter as he shambled off. Valdes nodded, satisfied. In the past few months he’d been sorting through homeless men and women, selecting some to perform tasks mundane but necessary. By providing them with a marginally better existence than they’d known and a sense of belonging, Valdes had fostered fierce loyalty within them.
Loyalty I don’t betray .
He entered the shell of the hospital and descended three flights of stairs, guided by a string of bulbs that George—the mousy former high school shop/English teacher with a penchant for molesting his students—had rigged. At the bottom he made his way along a stained, dripping corridor to a shadowy doorway. He gave a cursory glance around as he unlocked the door but was confident he was alone—everyone knew not to come to this part of the hospital’s labyrinthine sub-basements.
Inside, the room was paneled with grimy, chipped tiles and a three-by-three section of metal squares that had once held rolling morgue drawers. There were a few items of furniture: a table and valet chair reclaimed from the junk heap by Melvin, the carpenter on the run from Jamaican authorities for his enthusiastic use of a machete, a standing mirror fogged around the edges by time and moisture, and a
“Such as?”
“Don’t know. Yet.” Donovan slammed a right hook into the side of the bag and smiled. “But we’re trained for this. We’ll figure it out.”
***
When Charles C. Haight designed the New York Cancer Hospital for the west side of Central Park in 1884, he borrowed heavily from the great Renaissance chateaux of the Loire Valley. Two- and three-story buildings, all connected above and below ground by corridors and tunnels, surround a courtyard speared by a skyscraping smokestack. Five massive round towers, each four stories high, guarded the building corners. The shape of the towers was conducive to fresh air and sunlight, while the accoutrements of French design were hoped to have a beneficial effect on the psyches of terminally ill patients. In its era, it was one of the most impressive constructions on Central Park West.
Time and advancements in medical science eventually outdated the facility’s capabilities. The plan to convert it to residential space has long been bogged down, leaving it to the mercy of nature and vandals. Bordering plants have grown amuck, obscuring the detail work. The courtyard is choked with garbage and the structure fortified by bricked-up windows and a wooden fence topped with barbed wire. Its more modern neighbors on West 105 th and 106 th Streets heighten its incongruity. A castle whose vampires have left in search of more sanguine feeding grounds, it stands desolate, isolated…
…but not abandoned.
On the last block of 106 th Street before Central Park West, Valdes sidestepped into an alley between a rundown three-story building and that wooden fence. He carried four large shopping bags. Although the sun had gone down and the streetlights didn’t penetrate here, he knew where to push. A section of slats swung noiselessly inwards.
“No entry!” Immediately, a hulking shadow loomed over him. “I make the rules! The rule is: no entry!”
“It’s all right, Officer Burt. It’s me.”
Officer Burt, a bear of a man who reeked of old tension sweat, gazed blankly as he processed this information. When he did he stumbled back, nodding deferentially. “Oh, uh, sorry, Mister Valdes. The rule is: no one comes in but you or who you say.”
“That’s right.” Valdes passed over the shopping bags. “Have someone relieve you, and take these down to Bridget in the dining hall, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Officer Burt? Keeping us secure is important. You do a fine job of it.”
Officer Burt stood a little straighter as he shambled off. Valdes nodded, satisfied. In the past few months he’d been sorting through homeless men and women, selecting some to perform tasks mundane but necessary. By providing them with a marginally better existence than they’d known and a sense of belonging, Valdes had fostered fierce loyalty within them.
Loyalty I don’t betray .
He entered the shell of the hospital and descended three flights of stairs, guided by a string of bulbs that George—the mousy former high school shop/English teacher with a penchant for molesting his students—had rigged. At the bottom he made his way along a stained, dripping corridor to a shadowy doorway. He gave a cursory glance around as he unlocked the door but was confident he was alone—everyone knew not to come to this part of the hospital’s labyrinthine sub-basements.
Inside, the room was paneled with grimy, chipped tiles and a three-by-three section of metal squares that had once held rolling morgue drawers. There were a few items of furniture: a table and valet chair reclaimed from the junk heap by Melvin, the carpenter on the run from Jamaican authorities for his enthusiastic use of a machete, a standing mirror fogged around the edges by time and moisture, and a
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