My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped my keys twice trying to open the street door to my building. When I stepped into the hallway I hesitated for a moment, then walked back along the corridor that ran beneath the stairwell. Though the foyer and stairs were well-lighted, the hallway leading back to the basement door had been in a perpetual twilight for as long as I could remember. I hadn’t waited long enough for my eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness, so I hit the wall three or four times on the way back. The door to the basement was stuck, as always. Normally all it required was a healthy tug, but I found it nearly impossible now. I pulled as hard as I could, and my side burned as if I were being branded. When it finally swung open I was sure its trademark creak could be heard for miles. I stepped in and attempted to close it quietly behind me.
With the door closed I stood on the upper landing in absolute darkness. The pain in my side felt awful and I began to feel mildly dizzy. Crouching down and leaning my back against the cool, damp concrete wall seemed to help. I closed my eyes and, after a few minutes, the sharpness of the pain ebbed, until it became a vague throbbing over a large part of my upper body. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to look at the wound. I stood and walked gingerly down the wooden steps to the basement, pausing on about every other step for a few seconds to listen. The only identifiable sounds were typical old building noises, but that was little comfort in my state of mind. Every creak, or blast of hot air from the furnace, or muffled rush of water through the fossilized plumbing, had me jumping out of my skin. I was sure that either I’d been followed home, or that the people who had jumped me already knew where I lived.
Sunlight filtered in through the two small, dirty windows at street level, high up by the ceiling in the back. I made my way to the boiler, which took up a fair amount of space over in one corner, sitting almost flush against the staircase wall. Almost. As a very young kid I would hide behind it in warm weather, when the heat was off. It was my secret place: the entrance to the Hole in the Wall, where I’d stand shoulder to shoulder with Butch Cassidy and fight off lawmen, or an alley in a small French town from which to ambush Nazis. It was barely a foot wide. The furnace was running now, so just standing there was uncomfortable. I dropped the knapsack on the floor at the opening and pushed it as far as I could with my foot, until it was invisible in the darkness.
Next to the boiler two old army cots were folded up, leaning against the wall. We used to use them when my mother’s family stayed with us overnight, but that hadn’t happened since she died. They stank of mold and the canvas looked like it might tear under any weight, but the action was surprisingly smooth, and I was able to open one easily. I set it near the furnace, and sat down. The exertion caused another slight wave of dizziness. When it passed, I stretched out. I needed to figure out what to do next. I had to get in touch with my father, but I didn’t want to go upstairs and risk being seen by anyone until I knew who had been after me and why. The heat from the furnace felt soothing along my side, but I had difficulty concentrating on what I should do next. Within a few minutes, I drifted off.
I found myself lying on a cold, hard floor. I was in a room too vast and dark to define. Though any dimensions were beyond guessing, I knew there were walls and a roof. I thought it might be the basement of an enormous warehouse, or maybe an old airplane hangar. I could move around, but sluggishly, with the dull ache of having fallen a great distance.
I stood up. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I could see that I was in a huge cavern. I was surrounded on three sides by walls reaching a hundred feet to a stalactite roof. In front of me the cavern narrowed into a tunnel too long and winding to figure out where it went.
I started walking slowly toward the tunnel, and discovered that the lighted area I’d been standing in traveled with me. I picked up my pace and soon I was jogging. After a few minutes I looked back, but I’d lost sight of the cave completely. The tunnel sloped gently upward and a cool breeze was getting stronger the farther along I moved. I picked up speed. The sound my feet made slapping the stone floor was shocking because I felt nothing. I was conscious of my movement, but I felt as though I wasn’t expending any energy. The tunnel angled up more sharply, and again my speed increased. I noticed that the tunnel was getting smaller. I was really moving now; I felt like I was on a motorcycle with no helmet. It was a struggle to keep my head upright. I leaned into it. My arms and legs began pumping like a machine. The tunnel narrowed some more and up ahead I saw rock formations from roof to floor blocking the shrinking passage. I tried to veer around them, but discovered I couldn’t steer any more than I could slow down. I hit the first one and it shattered with a sound like a seven-ten split. I didn’t feel any pain, but I knew my body couldn’t take that kind of a beating. The tunnel was tight—impossibly small now—maybe three feet square. The grade had become almost perfectly vertical. I could not be running. I couldn’t even stand. I was flying. Flying face first toward a pinpoint of light directly above me. If I got out into the light before the tunnel closed I knew I would survive.
“You can do it.” The voice belonged to Shades.
“Nicky,” I screamed, but the rushing air pushed it back down my throat. The walls were so close that they were scraping both my shoulders, my arms were flat along my sides, hands gripping my thighs.
“You can do it.”
I couldn’t do it. There was one more outcropping of rock just before the opening. I was going too fast. I was a bullet. A stalactite jutted out from the rocks.
You can do it.
I was too close. Too fast. There was no way to dodge it. It was going to impale me. I closed my eyes. It tore into my left side. I screamed.
My father had his hand flat against my chest, holding me down on the cot. I screamed again.
“I know,” he said gently, “I know. But he’s gotta clean it.”