The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) by Rebecca Cantrell Read Free Book Online Page B

never true. You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen—like butterscotch syrup with strands of honey gold.”
    “Remember the chocolate syrup at my parents’ house in the Hamptons?”
    “Till my dying day.” Messy for the sheets, but worth every frantic second of cleanup after.
    “It should have been butterscotch.”
    He closed his eyes and wished that he could arrive on her doorstep with a jar of butterscotch syrup and a smile. Of all the things the agoraphobia had taken from him, this was the worst.
    “Joe?”
    “Just thinking.” He would order a butterscotch sundae sent to her penthouse apartment. It was New York City, and he was a multimillionaire, how hard could it be? It wasn’t what he most wanted to do with that syrup, but it was better than nothing.
    “Any progress on breaking out of your prison?” she asked.
    He hesitated. She rarely spoke of his illness, or of her own. “You have it a million times worse. I know that.”
    “Do I?” she asked. “Everyone pities me and cares for me, and no one ever blames me for this. No one tells me to buck up and stop being such a pussy. Even when I am a pussy.”
    “I’d trade you,” he said.
    “Only because you want to cure me, because you’re a hopeless romantic.”
    “Hopeful romantic,” he said.
    She sputtered into the phone.
    “You OK?” he asked.
    “The nurse Googled seagulls,” she said. “Times Square? You rogue.”
    Joe smiled. The risk of the hacking had been worth it to hear lightness in her voice again.
     

Chapter 5
    November 28, 12:49 a.m.
    Platform 23, Grand Central Terminal
     
    Rebar reached the half-empty train platforms. The numbers twenty-three and twenty-four told him he’d found the right place. He liked to go down into the tunnels from Platform 23. It felt right. He ducked to the side, away from a familiar silver train with blue stripes, and made for the far end of the platform, centering himself between the rows of fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling next to the tracks and avoiding the yellow stripes installed on the floor to tell people when they were getting too near the trains. He didn’t like the color yellow anymore, although he couldn’t remember why.
    In Cuba his door had been painted yellow. Maybe that was it. There, the doctors had called him Subject 523, but here, in the tunnels and streets of New York City, the homeless called him Rebar. He liked the name. Ramrod straight, hard iron, invisible—but at the center of everything, giving it shape and strength.
    Not a lot of folks came down here this late. Once the train left, the platform would be empty, and no one would notice what he did. He walked by people stumbling on to the train. Late-night smells assailed his nostrils—beer, onions, and wet wool.
    A couple leaned against the railing by the entrance with their arms around each other and their tongues down each other’s throats. The sheer animal need of them brought memories—girls he’d kissed and girls he hadn’t. He hadn’t kissed enough of them.
    He walked until he reached the end of the subway platform. The train made ready to leave, and the amorous couple hurried aboard. Two men slurred insults at each other, but neither seemed to have the energy or the passion to act on them. He made himself small against the wall and waited.
    It was warm here, and safe. Maybe he should just sit here for a while. He was tired all the time since Cuba. Maybe he just needed rest.
    The train pulled out and away, red taillights growing small.
    The platform was empty. He could have dropped a grenade in here without hurting anyone. White light beat down on flattened gum, forgotten newspapers, an empty paper cup.
    He dozed and woke with a jerk. He had to go down. It was his mission. Without checking to see if anyone had come onto the platform, he vaulted the metal divider and trotted down the stairs without breaking stride. No shouts behind him, but he didn’t slacken his pace until he was fifty yards in