Westchester Station - the assault Read online

  "We’ll be at your destination shortly. Please relax." Again there was no emotion in his voice.

  "I have a gun. I promise you I’ll use it." She opened her purse and frantically searched for it. Shit, I left it at the apartment.

  "That will be unnecessary, Miss Goldsmith. We have arrived. The doors are unlocked. Please exit promptly."

  Goldsmith. She shivered. She never used her real name. Even her bank accounts carried her alias. How can he know me? Then she looked out a side window and realized they had stopped. "I’m going to the police!"

  "Please exit promptly," he intoned again, ignoring her threat.

  "I’m more than happy to dothat ." She shoved on the door. It opened smoothly and she found herself staring at a figure shrouded by the unnaturally black night standing next to the cab. "What the hell is this?"

  "Come with me, Miss Goldsmith," the figure said and held out an arm.

  She jerked away from his grasp. "I’m not coming with you!"

  "Please. You are expected." Before she could react, he grabbed her single suitcase from the seat. "Follow me."

  "Come back here," she said, jumping from the car. "Give me my bag!"

  "It will be looked after. In there." And he pointed to a nearby building. The only building she could see.

  A single streetlight illuminated it. Small, square, with no lights showing from inside. "That’s not a station. That’s a diner! And closed! What the hell? I’m going to the airport!" But when she turned, she found the cab had already driven away. At least I didn’t pay the bastard.

  "Go inside." The voice from the uniformed man held more than a hint of desperation. It was also a voice that could not be reasoned with. "The door is unlocked."

  "I don’t think so." Then she looked around. There was nothing else here, no other streetlights, no buildings, no traffic. Just what appeared to be an abandoned diner sitting resolutely alone in the near darkness. Where have they brought me?

  "Westchester Station," the man—at least she assumed it was a man—answered her unasked question. "Inside, please."

  She looked at the man’s face but it remained hidden by darkness. All she could discern were two glowing red globes where his eyes should be. She shivered, turned and stared at the building another minute, then decided. Whoever had brought her here—and she was convinced now that she had indeed been brought here—had gone to a lot of effort. And, right now, after all she had just been through, she had nowhere else to go. Couldgo nowhere else. Taking a deep breath, she walked to the building and opened the door.

  ***

  At least I can get a Coke, Gannon thought as she studied the vending machine. There were no candy or snack machines nearby, but, she decided, a Coke and a cigarette might help calm her nerves. She deposited a quarter and was rewarded when the familiar red can slid into view. You’re never going to make a profit like this, charging only a quarter for a Coke, she thought as she retrieved her purchase.

  Turning, she spied a small stand selling magazines. Good. I could use a dip in the pages of Cosmopolitan or even Good Housekeeping right about now . She headed that way.

  The short, stout woman behind the counter greeted her warmly when she approached. "Good afternoon! How are we this lovely day?"

  You don’t want my answer. "Fine, I suppose." She studied the wares available. "Do you have Cosmo?"

  The woman frowned. "I’m not familiar with that title. Is that a magazine?"

  And you run a newsstand? "Cosmopolitan."

  "I’m not familiar with that magazine either."

  Gannon shook her head as she looked at the range of available titles. Captain Willy’s Whiz Bang, Krazy Kat , old Archie comic books. "Do you haveTime ? Newsweek?"

  "I won’t sell those," she said firmly. "Full of stories of death and despair. We have too much of that in our daily lives as it is. There is surely no reason to read about more."

  I won’t be doing any business here. She made one more attempt. "Any romance novels? Harlequin?"

  "I don’t sell books, only what you see here." The way she said it, it sounded as if any other possibility was beyond her.

  Gannon was beginning to lose patience. "I don’t suppose there is another newsstand."

  "Not in this section. But they don’t sell books, either."

  She muttered a soft curse. "I could do with a good book right about now."

  "Oscar’s Oddities might sell them. I’ve never been in his store so I’m not sure."

  Any port in a storm, she thought. "Where is that?"

  "The way you came. In the far right corner. I’m not sure if he’s open, though."

  "I’ll check it out. Thank you."

  "Of course," and the smile returned as she appeared not at all concerned that her customer was not one. "Travel well."

  ***

  Robert Winstead stood over the model of Westchester Station. It was fantastically detailed, with the various sections of the sprawling station, the tunnels that ran out from its sides willy-nilly, and the various shops and kiosks all clearly delineated. If one studied it through a magnifying glass, one could even see tiny figures moving within. If he cared to, he could even peer into his own office and watch himself...watching himself. He likened it to an elaborate security camera system, although he was the first to admit it was not as practical or efficient.

  His attention was focused on the farthest section ofWestchester. There was a cloud hanging over the very corner, obscuring what was below. A fire? It could even be rain. He had not visited that section of the station since his first time there, his duties as station master forcing him to remain basically in his office and the first section of the station. The guards had told him nothing, nor had the few travelers he had chatted with. But it had to be investigated.

  Winstead walked to his desk and picked up the blue phone. He often compared it to the famous Red Phone that linked the White House directly to the Kremlin. "Come," he said into it and hung up.

  Less than a minute later, one of the guards entered his office. Like the others, he wore a dark uniform and hat pulled down to disguise his features. All Winstead could see—all he had ever seen—were two glowing red eyes staring at him. He sometimes wondered if they evenhad faces, or just those two haunting eyes floating in jet-black space. Perhaps there really was only one guard, able to appear at different locations at the same time. WithWestchester being intertimensional as well as interdimensional, it could be possible. But the guard(s) would never tell him.

  "We need to investigate this," he said as he walked to the model. He pointed out the clouded area in the farthest region of the station. "Do you know what this might mean?"

  "It will be done," the guard said in his (or her—Winstead had always assumed the guards were male, but beyond an obvious lack of breasts there was no other proof) ominous deep voice. Then he turned and left without further comment.

  Winstead ignored him, and continued staring at the miniature Westchester Station. He knew without any real reason that the station was in danger.

  ***

  He set his spear down, then placed his hand on the wall, curious despite his fear. As he had hoped, the tunnel had led to another chamber. But this was unlike any he had ever seen. The ceiling was smooth, the walls were smooth, the floor was smooth. Like stone, but unlike any stone he had ever encountered. Light came not from a fire but from strange glowing panels above him.

  Were the others here? There was no sign they were. He listened but heard nothing. He sniffed the air and was surprised at how clear it was. There was no scent of prey or predators, of vegetation, of approaching rain or dung or blood. No smell of anything. All signs said he was alone. And that was not a pleasant prospect.

  He looked at the entrance to the tunnel he had just left. He could go back, but to what? If his tribe had truly fled their caves, he might never find them again. And he understood the inevitable fate of the solitary hunter.

  No, he decided. They might be here. Whereverhere was. He would look for th
em. Gripping his spear tightly, he headed cautiously into Westchester Station.

  ***

  The directions from the woman at the newsstand proved adequate and Gannon was able to find the second-hand store. No display window here, just a walnut door with a metal plaque proclaiming "Oscar’s Oddities." Below it, a smaller plastic sign said "By Appointment Only."

  "Shit," she said, her hand poised on the knob. Should she knock? Was anyone even there? she wondered. "What the hell." She turned the knob and was surprised and pleased to discover it wasn’t locked. I’ll just tell him I didn’t notice the sign, she thought and entered.

  And gasped. This was no simple antique store. The showroom stretched in all directions, as vast as the largest department store she had ever entered. She was assailed by smells and sounds that nearly overwhelmed her. After the near-hospital sterility ofWestchester, the sensory stimuli were enough to make her tremble both in awe and delight. Cinnamon. She was certain she smelled cinnamon. As well as pine, lavender, petroleum, burning leaves and manure. And the sounds—they mingled too greatly to be identifiable; indeed they almost became white noise, a hum that echoed until it surrounded her.

  She didn’t know how long she stood at the doorway staring, but she was certain it took several attempts before she heard someone say, "Can I help you?" She turned almost reluctantly to find a short balding man standing near her. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and an ill-fitting suit and suffered from a severe overbite.

  "I’m sorry," Gannon said when she had gathered her senses. "I don’t have an appointment."

  "Oh, that." He shrugged. "I just post that to keep the riff-raff away. You are always welcome in my emporium, Mrs. Gannon."

  Another one knows my name? This was becoming tiring, but she wasn’t going to challenge him. But shewas going to have a long talk with that station master very soon. "I was told you might sell books."

  "I might. I do. Come this way."

  She followed him through seemingly endless aisles of merchandise, the salesman making constant comments as they walked. "The Argo," he pointed to an ancient wooden ship suspended from the ceiling. "Unfortunately I have yet to recover the Golden Fleece. But I’m working on it."

  She gave it only cursory attention. She certainly wasn’t going to be burdened bythat . A shiny ornate brass lamp on a nearby table did catch her eye and she paused before it. "Aladdin’s lamp," he answered her questioning stare. "Unfortunately it no longer works. The genie appears to be indisposed for some reason."

  So that’s your gimmick, she thought as they walked on. Pretending your wares are something else so you can jack up the price. For what she wanted, he wouldn’t be able to do that. They passed statuary, tables piled with jewelry, even a collection of caged animals. "A pyctoderm," he pointed out one unusual creature. "The only one of its kind."

  She studied it dutifully. It looked like an elephant in miniature and she wondered if it was mechanical or had somehow been stunted in growth. "I’m interested in books," she said, turning away as the beast looked at her forlornly.

  "Of course."

  She scolded herself as they continued. He was just trying to entertain me. And it wasn’t like she had anything better to do, her train several hours off. Play nice, Jeanne .

  It took them nearly ten minutes to reach the bookcase but he maintained a pouting silence the entire way. His mood brightened, however, when they stopped before it. "My library. A collection of the rarest books in the universe or elsewhere." He pulled one volume out and handed it to her. "The originalNecromicron . Very few copies exist."

  She looked at it and shuddered. To her nurse’s eye, there was no doubt what the binding was made of. It was human skin, and she returned it quickly.

  He smiled as he replaced it. "I suspected it wouldn’t interest you. Let’s see, let’s see. The original diary of Prester John? The lost gospels of St. Matthew? The Universal Dictionary? Fodor’s Guide to Atlantis? A must if you ever visit."

  Her interest was fading fast. "I need something ...lighter. A trashy romance. You know, something to read at the beach."

  He shook his head. "I’m sorry, but I deal with the unusual, not the mundane."

  She made a moue. This was not going as plannedat all . "I’m sorry as well. Do you mind if I look around?"

  "Not at all. If you have any questions, please call me."

  She nodded and started back. This place is a veritable museum, she thought. Even if she didn’t buy anything, shopping was an excellent way to pass the time. And, she thought wryly, buyng was never a prerequisite to enjoy shopping. She ignored the caged animals, more interested in looking at the bracelets and rings she had passed earlier. After a few minutes, she determined most were too large or gaudy or justold to be of any use to her.

  "These are interesting," the owner said, suddenly standing beside her. He held up a strand of small pear-shaped jewels. "The Tears of Iophee."

  She held them at eye level. She could see why they were so named. Theywere shaped like tears, nearly translucent, like but unlike a strand of pearls. She touched one of the smooth stones but couldn’t determine its composition. "Theyare beautiful," she said, returning them to their place on the table.

  "A tragic story lies behind them. One of lost love, unbearable jealousy and loneliness, treachery and death."

  Just what I want to wear to liven up a cocktail party. She turned her attention to an item that had caught her attention as they passed on the way to the books. "What about that leather vest?"

  "Ah yes, a most interesting story behind that," he said as he removed it from its display. "Of course, most of my wares have interesting stories behind them." He handed it to her. "It is reputed to have been worn by Gilgamesh."

  The name meant nothing to her. The vest was surprisingly heavy, but also well made. She looked for the label but saw none. "This is brand new?"

  "Hardly. Centuries old."

  She shook her head as she admired it. The leather was smooth, unstained, unwrinkled and unworn. "Has to be new."

  He shook his head vehemently. "I do not lie. According to the legends, this vest could never become dirty, no matter how severely it was abused."

  Let him stick with his story, she thought. "Mind if I try it on?"

  "Of course not! Come." He led her down a side aisle to a full-length mirror. "The Magic Mirror should tell you what you need to see."

  She smirked as she put the vest on. It was loose, but not overly so. Then she looked at the mirror. "Do I have to say ‘mirror, mirror’ or anything?"

  "No. That’s only a fairy tale."

  She studied her reflection. Maybe it was her new hairdo, but the vest actually accented her appearance. She had never been one for leather, but for some reason the vest just feltright. She pirouetted, then decided. "How much?"

  "Thiswas worn by Gilgamesh."

  "And I have some ocean front property inIdaho. How much?"

  "For you, Mrs. Gannon, a mere $200 for an intriguing and, dare I say, attractive and practical piece of history."

  A bit steep, but not much more outrageous than the prices she endured in some fashion stores, she decided. And she had drawn enough money from their joint account before leaving that morning that the cost wouldn’t severely strain her budget. She removed the vest. "$120 is the best I can do."

  "Obtaining that was both difficult and fortuitous."

  "Perhaps. But it is worth no more than that to me."

  He took the vest and returned it to its display. "You do need that, you know."

  Not really, but I would like it. She opened her purse and counted out $120. "I suspect you might need this."

  He looked at the money and she noticed him tremble ever so slightly. Yet when he looked at her, she saw only sadness in his eyes. "I would like to accept that, but I cannot—$200 it must be."

  She looked at the vest hanging on the display. Plain was the kindest thing one could say about it. But when she wore it, it seemed to become a part of her. "I’ll regret this." She placed
four more twenties on the pile.

  He beamed. "I assure you, you won’t." He quickly removed the vest from the display and helped her put it on. "Wear this in good health. Especially while you are atWestchester."

  She gave it a tug and was surprised that it seemed to fit her even better this second time. "I will, and thank you."

  "My sentiments exactly. Travel well." With that he headed toward the bowels of his emporium.

  Strange man, she thought as she made her own way to the entrance. But what aboutWestchesterStation is not?

  ***

  Robert Plank finished making the last connection, stepped back from the table and smiled. Under two minutes. Which was about all he dared allow himself. Otherwise the risk of discovery was too great.

  His real name wasn’t Robert Plank, but his passport, driver’s license and credit cards assured the world he was. It had been so long since he had used his given name, in fact, that he often had to force himself to remember what it was. He had used so many aliases over the years that now he could slip from one identity to another as easily as donning a coat.

  He glanced at his watch. A simple electronic watch, yet one he had searched for weeks to find. One of its features was a remote control for televisions. When he had first found it, he had occasionally amused himself by surreptitiously changing the channels while relaxing in a bar. Today it had more important uses.

  He noticed it was not quite eleven. Good, he thought. He had plenty of time to enjoy some coffee and a light lunch. It could possibly be his last. While his hot plate warmed up a can of spaghetti, he looked down on the streets below. He had chosen to live in this area ofNew York City because the residents were often transients, accustomed to minding their own business and respectful of one another’s privacy. He had been here for six months, working days as a dish washer at a nearby diner—one owned by secret sympathizers to his cause—while staying to himself most nights. And preparing for today.