Chapter 31

Rupert Innes crawled on his hands and knees along an underground passage. Pieces of rock, dirt, and cement fragments pressed into his palms and kneecaps, keeping them from staying in one place too long. The air was stagnant and thick with dust and age. He had moved far enough that no one would hear if he got into trouble and called for help. Every few feet or so, he moved wires or scrap metal out of his way. In the distance, a lantern had been forgotten, or perhaps abandoned. The path was littered with plastic caps, trash, and decaying insects.

Shit, he thought, surprised. What was that? The largest cockroach I have ever seen!

In an instant, everything went dark. The top of the flashlight came off and lay in pieces in the dirt. As he fumbled to assemble it, he stopped and peered into the darkness. He could hear something moving toward him. He was underground, alone, and blind. In the darkness, it was as if every sound was amplified. Finally, he managed to get the light on again and continued to the end of the passage.

The tip he’d gotten from another junkie that there were remnants of a secret tunnel, leading to something cool and hidden, turned out to be a forgotten staircase that led nowhere.

Almost everyone had heard something about the secret tunnels under San Francisco. And while some might say they were an urban legend and didn’t exist, Rupert knew for sure they did. They were his home, a safe haven from, thieves, murderers, and other addicts strung out so far they would kill for the smallest bit of smack. There weren’t many still alive that were willing to share what they knew. The younger generation had only heard rumors or whispers about the tunnels and the ones who did know never admitted it to a stranger. If there were any of these secret locations still undiscovered, they were surely being used for things that were illegal or profitable, and, therefore, private.

Many had stories or experiences that proved, at one time or another, that there were plenty of tunnels that connected different locations. After years of building, expansions, and earthquake retrofitting, the number of these passageways was dwindling. There might be a few tunnels left, but the misfits who ruled them were not quick to advertise their whereabouts.

San Francisco had a relatively short history, compared to other great cities of the world. But in its brief existence, it had had a sordid past. Everyone agreed that Chinese immigration, brothels, and speakeasies ran rampant in this city, at one time or another.

Rupert’s previous home was a tunnel that had been located in 1940 by city engineers who were starting construction for a new Nob Hill hotel. The entrance was discovered in the foundation of a mansion that belonged to a prominent family. Engineers followed the tunnel, well below street level for fifty yards. It was nine feet wide and nearly the same height, the ceiling was bricked in an arch shape. It had possibly been lit by lanterns or torches at one time. The tunnel stretched straight and long under California Street and ended at another mansion.

Rupert and his friend, Dink--he never knew his real name--were run out of there shortly before Dink died of an overdose. The tunnel was closed by the city. Rupert had no idea what purpose the tunnel originally served. Rumors spread that it was built because someone was having an affair and used it to more easily visit his mistress. Others said that sort of elaborate passageway could only have been built for something illegal. However, all ideas were only speculation, and the true secrets remain buried in the tunnel.

Rupert shined his flashlight about his new home. It was more like a concrete bunker. Asian graffiti lined its stained walls. Damn these panda trainers and butter heads, he thought. They all should be run out of Chinatown. He lit a small candle he’d found in a dump and doused his flashlight. He worried about the unseen killer of living underground--gas. Methane and hydrogen-sulfide gas were produced by decaying organic garbage and were a constant threat to anyone in the tunnels for an extended period. The hydrogen sulfide smelled like rotten eggs. He had known of people who went to sleep in a tunnel and never woke up. Not from their drugs. The gas killed them.

A sound came from the entrance of the tunnel, the way he came in. It was a shuffling sound. Someone or something was moving through the trash-strewn passageway.

Moving toward him.

He needed a fix soon and had brought the stuff with him. But the sound coming closer worried him. If it was another druggie, Rupert would either have to fight or share, and he didn’t have a weapon. There was no place to go, for he was at the end of the tunnel. He shined his light around and noticed what looked like a manhole in the ceiling at the far end. He had no idea where it led, but if he could climb up there, he might be able to wait until whoever was coming left.

He crawled below the manhole and, holding his flashlight in his mouth, pushed on the cover. It didn’t move. Rusted shut, he thought.

The cover had three holes in it just large enough to allow his fingers. He gripped the cover once more and, with much effort, attempted to jerk it free. The shuffling sound was louder, and he thought he heard grunting. Raccoon? he thought. Those varmints were all over Chinatown. They must like fortune cookies.

Rupert tried again to loosen the manhole cover but was unsuccessful. He turned around to confront whatever was coming down the tunnel--and stared into the face of the unworldliest thing he had ever encountered.

***

Harry sat at the breakfast table, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. He thought about looking through the want ads to see if there were any interesting jobs listed but decided against it. He was still waiting for the IAA to call. Hopefully, it would be today.

Dixie ambled into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat and smiled at him. “Good morning, sweetie.”

“What’s so good about it?” he said. He didn’t feel like having a cheerful conversation at the moment.

“Look outside,” she said. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Come on, honey, cheer up. Things will look up soon enough.”

He threw the paper on the table and poured himself another cup of coffee. Why was it when a man wished to be alone with his own thoughts and misery a woman always tried to cheer him up? He could tell her it was useless, but it would be to no avail, for he had done exactly that several times in the past few days. He gazed at her bright eyes, her dimpled cheeks. How could she be so naive? He was no good unless he could get his career back. “When?” he said.

“When what?”

“You said things would look up soon enough. I want to know when.”

“How should I know? Listen, Harry, I don’t wish to be a nag, but you’ve got to get a grip on yourself. You’re letting this thing get you down, depressed, and it’s just not worth it.”

“Yeah? How should you know? You weren’t the one fired from his job.”

“Honey, I understand that depression, anxiety, and malaise aren’t just a case of the blues to snap out of. I know these things will sap your confidence and impact your ability to think and act, making it difficult to sell yourself as the best and brightest candidate for a job. Trust me, I understand.”

“Do you realize how long it’s been since I interviewed for a job?” he said through narrowed eyes. “I’m out of practice.”

“Well, I could practice with you,” Dixie said, still smiling over her cup of coffee.

“Not the same,” he replied in a monotone. He didn’t make eye contact with her now.

She set her cup down and got up.

“I’ve got laundry to do,” she said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

She disappeared, and he heard her bustling about in the laundry room. Soon he heard the washing machine begin its cycle.

He returned to the newspaper and thumbed through its back pages. Buried among the articles was one that caught his attention. A homeless heroin addict had been found murdered in a Chinatown tunnel. Boys playing in the area had been drawn to a foul odor and discovered the tunnel. A city sanitation crew entered the tunnel and found the body of Rupert Innes who had been viciously murdered. His face was torn away by some savage force, and his skull was crushed. So sad, thought Harry.

As he read farther, the article stated that the method of Innes’s murder matched two others in Chinatown in the past two weeks. They too had their faces torn away and their skulls crushed. All victims had multiple gaping wounds over their entire bodies and bore bite marks that did not appear human--as if a monstrous animal had done the dastardly deeds.

Those two words caught his attention.

Monstrous animal.

Three murders in a short period of time, all with the same method of killing, as if a monstrous animal had been the attacker.

Harry’s mind was in a whirl. He took the paper into the next room where Dixie was working.

“Look at this article,” he said, handing her the newspaper. He pointed to the one and waited while she read it.

Finished, she looked up. “Who would do such a thing?” she said.

“I draw your attention to those words monstrous animal the article referred. Sound like anything?”

She looked at him, shook her head.

“How about our chimera, Millie’s chimera?”

“Roku?” she said.

“Why not? He certainly would be capable by now. Big enough. Part of him is a Yeti, remember. And we don’t have a clue as to his whereabouts.”

Dixie’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped.

“My lord,” she said. “It certainly is possible, I guess.”

“And all these murders occurred in Chinatown,” Harry said, now animated. “Roku could be hiding somewhere in Chinatown. We don’t know where Millie is or even if Roku is still with her.”

“If he had escaped her care, he could be lurking, hiding in the various parks in Chinatown,” Dixie said, “and only coming out when he was hungry in search of food.”

“And he fed on these poor victims. Don’t you see, honey? It does make sense. It is possible.”

“You--you--called me honey.”

“What?”

“You haven’t called me that in many days,” she said. She put her arms around his neck. “What now?”

“I’m calling Jacoby. I want to give him this lead.”

Later, when he had the agent on the phone, Harry’s spirits rose again.

“I just talked to the Medical Examiner,” Jacoby said. “He performed all sorts of measurements on the latest victim’s wounds and bite marks and compared them with the other Chinatown autopsy results. It is his expert opinion that the wounds were not caused by a human but by some sort of animal, whom they are now trying to identify. But here’s the kicker, Dr. Olson. There was saliva on the last victim, Mr. Innes, and the DNA analysis was inconclusive.”

Harry sat back in his chair.

“What do you mean, inconclusive?” he said.

“I mean there were some human DNA elements in the saliva. There were also some elements that could not be identified. Some DNA in the saliva was not human.”

“That’s him, Agent Jacoby. That’s our chimera, Roku,” Harry said. He jumped up, pacing the house while he talked.

“That’s what I thought,” Jacoby said. “We are making up fliers with a description of it along with Miss Harbaum’s picture and will distribute them throughout Chinatown and the surrounding neighborhoods. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe someone has seen them.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Right now you can hope for the best.”

Harry hung up and returned to his chair. If they find them, he thought, Roku is as good as dead.