The Lightning Rule by Brett Ellen Block

above and below ground, using cars that were similar to street trolleys. At its height, the system covered seven lines, operating from Newark to Bloomfield, Caldwell, East Orange, Jersey City,Montclair, and Orange, hence the name “Seven Cities.” Emmett had vague memories of the trolleys from his childhood. For a nickel fare, they were as close to an amusement park ride as he and his brother could get. Sadly, service on the streetcar routes was short-lived. They were eventually discontinued and converted to buses, all save one—the Number Seven, which looped through Newark. Most residents had been sorry to see the trolleys go, Emmett included. The cars brought a certain charm to the city, and they were a symbol of what Newark could have been. Their departure marked a kind of demise, a step in the wrong direction. It wouldn’t be the last.
    “You’ll need this,” the older officer said. He handed Emmett a flashlight.
    “Wait. The body’s inside the tunnel?”
    “Yes, sir. Conductor noticed it this morning.”
    The patrolmen hopped off the platform onto the tracks. Emmett followed tentatively. He hated tunnels. His phobia was born when he was a boy, when being afraid was something he thought he would outgrow. This was a fear he hadn’t shed.
    “Watch your step, Detective,” warned the younger officer, boldly leading. “Once we get into the tunnel, you can barely see your hand in front of your face even with the flashlights.”
    As they passed from the lighted section of the station into the mouth of the tunnel, the wall tiles transitioned into concrete. The deeper they went, the dimmer it got. Soon the darkness swallowed them. They snapped on their flashlights, casting wide arcs of light that glinted along the iron tracks. The sound of their footsteps bounced off the vaulted walls. Panic was swelling in Emmett’s chest. He gripped the flashlight so it wouldn’t betray his shaking hands.
    “Least it’s cooler in here,” the older patrolman commented.
    “Yeah, there’s a little breeze.” The other mopped his neck with a handkerchief.
    A thin wind blew through the tunnel, swirling wisps of dust. It was no relief to Emmett, nor was the chitchat. “How much farther?”
    “Right up ahead, sir. See?”
    Their flashlights illuminated the outline of an immense figure lyingfaceup on the ground, straddling one side of the tracks. When Emmett got closer, he saw that the leg between the rails had been severed and rolled away from the torso. At its center, a white pearl of denuded bone glowed in the dark. The sight of the mangled body diverted his anxiety and helped him hold it under wraps.
    “I was told the victim was a boy. This looks like a grown man.”
    “He had a student movie pass in his pocket,” the older patrolman explained. “Name’s Ambrose Webster. This address was paper clipped to the pass.” He rattled off an apartment number in the Hayes Home projects.
    “Did you call it in and confirm that was his address and not somebody else’s?”
    “Sir?”
    “You assumed the address was his.”
    “I get it,” the younger patrolman said, proud of himself. “Why would the guy have his own address in his pocket?”
    The body lying on the tracks was either that of the real Ambrose Webster or of a John Doe who stole the movie pass from him. Emmett hoped for the latter. Only the infirm or the mentally ill would keep their own addresses on their person, and this victim didn’t appear to fall into the first category.
    “So you didn’t confirm it?”
    They shook their heads. “No, sir.”
    Emmett traced the length of the victim’s massive, muscled body with his flashlight. He was about Emmett’s height, but a hundred pounds heavier. Even in death, he was menacing. It would have taken tremendous courage or coercion to get the upper hand on someone that large.
    “Ten to one this kid played high school football,” the older officer mused.
    “Five to one he was a linebacker. He’s the size of a