Hard Road by Barbara D'Amato Page A
Authors: Barbara D'Amato
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women Private Investigators, Chicago, Chicago (Ill.), Illinois, Oz (Imaginary place), Marsala; Cat (Fictitious character), Festivals
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Cat."
6
CURSES! SOMEBODY ALWAYS HELPS THAT GIRL
The three of us walked steadily on, taking a right at another place where the tunnel diverged. At this point, I really had no idea whether we were going north, south, east, or west, but if we ever had to find our way back, I needed to keep alternating choices in a regular manner.
Where were we now? We could be under Grant Park or under Michigan Avenue. Unfortunately, if we kept going long enough, we could be almost anyplace under the central city. Several years ago, a company driving pilings in the Chicago River broke through the roof of an abandoned freight tunnel that ran under the river. They flooded half of downtown. Millions upon millions of dollars of damage resulted. Why hadn't they known the tunnel was there? Because they didn't have good maps. Why hadn't the city inspectors checked the site before permitting the piles to be driven in? Well, the inspector who was supposed to inspect didn't get there when he should have because he couldn't fi nd a parking space!
You gotta love Chicago.
Anyway, that was the first time many Chicagoans, myself included, realized how extensive the tunnel system under the city really was. If you had a decent subterranean map, you could go almost anyplace anywhere in the downtown area without ever coming up where the daylight shines.
Unfortunately, there was no map down here with me and my buddy.
We hit another split, where we took a left, and I could feel my stomach muscles tightening from fear, a little more all the time. The tension in my neck was painful. Responsibility for this lovely, brave little child was almost freezing my ability to think. Did he want to ask me, Aunt Cat, do you know where you're going? Probably he did, and was just too nice.
Thank God for the occasional functioning lightbulb.
"Jeremy, what's that?"
"That noise?"
"Yes. That rumble."
"It sounds like cars. Up there." He pointed at the stained cement roof.
"I think so, too."
We were under a street. That was good. People are on streets. Help was maybe just a few feet away.
Above us. Through solid concrete.
"Let's think, Jeremy. If we're under a street, sooner or later, there's got to be a manhole."
Hope I'm right. Very much happier, I walked forward. The best thing was that as we walked, the automobile rumblings continued, which meant that we weren't walking away from the street into some deserted backwater, but along under a major throughway.
The tunnel went on and on and on. And in this section there were very few working lightbulbs. We could hardly see the bulb behind us now, and none had appeared ahead yet. The dark was wetly oppressive, the damp like being in a wet paper bag.
"Aunt Cat!"
I jumped inches.
"Aunt Cat. Look up there!"
In the almost total darkness, his sharp young eyes had seen thick, staple-shaped wire metal brackets, set into the wall to form a ladder. And where there's a ladder, there ought to be someplace it goes. "Great, Jeremy!" I climbed up.
What I saw was exciting and daunting at the same time. A round iron manhole cover was visible in the low light, primarily because it was a dark red-rust color against the gray cement. From the circular collar area around it depended stalactites of yuck. The yuck was probably a mixture of road salt and street cruddies. From the crisp, crusty look of the stuff, it could have been accumulating there for a decade, sealing the opening.
I pushed the round iron lid.
The manhole cover wouldn't budge. I pushed and pushed at it, but I was standing seven steps above the tunnel floor with my feet wedged uncomfortably onto a metal bracket. If I pushed up with all my might, the bracket cut painfully into the bottom of my arches. I tried standing sideways to the ladder, placing my feet along the bracket instead of across it, but
6
CURSES! SOMEBODY ALWAYS HELPS THAT GIRL
The three of us walked steadily on, taking a right at another place where the tunnel diverged. At this point, I really had no idea whether we were going north, south, east, or west, but if we ever had to find our way back, I needed to keep alternating choices in a regular manner.
Where were we now? We could be under Grant Park or under Michigan Avenue. Unfortunately, if we kept going long enough, we could be almost anyplace under the central city. Several years ago, a company driving pilings in the Chicago River broke through the roof of an abandoned freight tunnel that ran under the river. They flooded half of downtown. Millions upon millions of dollars of damage resulted. Why hadn't they known the tunnel was there? Because they didn't have good maps. Why hadn't the city inspectors checked the site before permitting the piles to be driven in? Well, the inspector who was supposed to inspect didn't get there when he should have because he couldn't fi nd a parking space!
You gotta love Chicago.
Anyway, that was the first time many Chicagoans, myself included, realized how extensive the tunnel system under the city really was. If you had a decent subterranean map, you could go almost anyplace anywhere in the downtown area without ever coming up where the daylight shines.
Unfortunately, there was no map down here with me and my buddy.
We hit another split, where we took a left, and I could feel my stomach muscles tightening from fear, a little more all the time. The tension in my neck was painful. Responsibility for this lovely, brave little child was almost freezing my ability to think. Did he want to ask me, Aunt Cat, do you know where you're going? Probably he did, and was just too nice.
Thank God for the occasional functioning lightbulb.
"Jeremy, what's that?"
"That noise?"
"Yes. That rumble."
"It sounds like cars. Up there." He pointed at the stained cement roof.
"I think so, too."
We were under a street. That was good. People are on streets. Help was maybe just a few feet away.
Above us. Through solid concrete.
"Let's think, Jeremy. If we're under a street, sooner or later, there's got to be a manhole."
Hope I'm right. Very much happier, I walked forward. The best thing was that as we walked, the automobile rumblings continued, which meant that we weren't walking away from the street into some deserted backwater, but along under a major throughway.
The tunnel went on and on and on. And in this section there were very few working lightbulbs. We could hardly see the bulb behind us now, and none had appeared ahead yet. The dark was wetly oppressive, the damp like being in a wet paper bag.
"Aunt Cat!"
I jumped inches.
"Aunt Cat. Look up there!"
In the almost total darkness, his sharp young eyes had seen thick, staple-shaped wire metal brackets, set into the wall to form a ladder. And where there's a ladder, there ought to be someplace it goes. "Great, Jeremy!" I climbed up.
What I saw was exciting and daunting at the same time. A round iron manhole cover was visible in the low light, primarily because it was a dark red-rust color against the gray cement. From the circular collar area around it depended stalactites of yuck. The yuck was probably a mixture of road salt and street cruddies. From the crisp, crusty look of the stuff, it could have been accumulating there for a decade, sealing the opening.
I pushed the round iron lid.
The manhole cover wouldn't budge. I pushed and pushed at it, but I was standing seven steps above the tunnel floor with my feet wedged uncomfortably onto a metal bracket. If I pushed up with all my might, the bracket cut painfully into the bottom of my arches. I tried standing sideways to the ladder, placing my feet along the bracket instead of across it, but
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