Westchester Station - the assault Read online

  First he had needed to find a coat, but not just any coat. He had discovered it in a second-hand store run, most appropriately he felt, by a church. Heavy wool and festooned with metal buttons and zippers. It was certain to set off any metal detector, which was his plan. Unless it was x-rayed thoroughly, no one would suspect that he had added wires linked to explosives, both hidden under the lining. And while the security checkpoints at the airports would almost surely discover his secrets, the guards at the train stations were much more lax. Especially those at Grand Central Station.

  He had already made sure of that. Three times a week for the last four months he had gone there, ostensibly to catch a train to visit an ailing aunt elsewhere. Each time he wore the same coat; each time he boarded the same train and returned at the same time. As expected, his coat had caught the guards’ attention, but after setting off the alarm on the metal detector and being searched over a dozen times, he had been allowed to go on his way. Now he was so familiar to them that they were waving him through with just a nod and a wave of their metal-sniffing wand.

  Plank had only added the necessary wiring in the coat after his last train trip, then waited impatiently for the explosives to arrive. That had been the only time during his entire stay inNew York that he had felt any concern for himself or the success of his assignment. He could have made his own, but what he was to receive was much more powerful and compact. Early that week had received a birthday card, innocuous enough to prying eyes. The coded message provided instructions on where he could pick up his package. The claim ticket for the pawned article he found in his jacket pocket several days later while at work. Then it was a simple matter of paying for recovery of the boom box left at the pawnshop for safe keeping.

  The C-4 hidden inside wasn’t enough to destroy the train station, but it wasn’t meant to. The symbolic damage would be enough to let his supporters and enemies know that the war was not over, that the infidels could still be attacked at any time. He smiled at the thought of how many would find their trust and confidence restored by his actions. They would win in the end. He knew that without question.

  He didn’t bother cleaning up after his lunch. At worst, if he was discovered, he would activate the explosives immediately and become a martyr for his cause and country. If his plan succeeded, he was certain that between the security cameras and guards, his likeness would be on the front page of every newspaper. But that had been planned for as well.

  Before leaving, he turned on the news for the weather. He nodded as he saw the temperature; cool enough that no one would be overly surprised he was wearing such a heavy outlandish coat. Not that he would appear that unusual toNew York residents. He shaved quickly but thoroughly, removing all vestiges of his beard. He put on a sweatshirt, then the false beard he had fastidiously made to resemble his real one. Next came a pair of nondescript jeans and tennis shoes. That was carefully planned as well. His florid jacket would keep attention from what else he was wearing, increasing his chances for escape. He applauded the martyrs who gave their lives for their holy crusade, but too much time and money had been invested in his training for him to perish in the upcoming explosion if it could be avoided. At least he liked to think that.

  Next came the trigger mechanism—a small, thin electronic timer and remote control that would be activated by his watch. He hid it inside the pack of Kools. He always carried them even though he rarely smoked and preferred another, foreign brand in any event. Making and hiding it had been the most difficult task. He had cut a hole in one quarter to house the device, then sandwiched it between two others and super-glued them together. He had made it a habit to always have change in his pack of cigarettes, a habit that, again, the guards were accustomed to. Only if they looked closely would they notice the two holes on the rim of the center coin where the wires would later be attached. He put the cigarettes in his coat pocket, put on his weapon and was ready to strike.

  No one paid any attention to him as he took a bus to Grand Central Station. He had ridden it often enough and even recognized a few of the regulars. He smiled as he thought how surprised they would be when, within hours, he would become a resident of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. He quickly disembarked once they reached the station, then just a short walk to his destination.

  As expected, he was checked as soon as he entered. But the guards were bored and he was sure at least one of them recognized him. The metal detector reacted just as it always did, but the buttons and zippers on his coat and the coins in plain view in the pack of cigarettes were adequate explanation and they let him pass. His heart raced in anticipation as he forced himself to walk casually to one of the public restrooms. It was crowded but, again, no one paid any attention as he searched for an empty stall. Once inside he would remove the jacket, attach the trigger to the wires, flush his beard down the toilet and leave. All under two minutes. Once outside, he would activate the timer with his watch. It would give him five minutes to escape before setting off the C-4. And if someone was foolish enough to find his coat before it went off, then they would have become a nameless, faceless martyr for his cause.

  He knew that fortune was smiling upon him when he walked to the back wall and found two adjacent empty stalls. This was better than he could have hoped for. He closed the door to the one on the left and went into the adjoining one. He could lock the door and crawl under the panel to the next stall and exit. And, now wearing a sweatshirt and sans facial hair, the odds were much greater no one would recognize him. And no one would find his coat until it was too late.

  He closed and locked the stall door, then removed his jacket, attached the timer and draped the bomb across the toilet. The beard he just left on top of the coat. There was plenty of room for him to crawl under the partition and he did so in seconds. He stood and brushed himself off, then opened the door.

  And stepped into an empty restroom.

  Plank rocked on his heels as he stared at the unfamiliar room. Instead of a wall of stalls, there were only two. There was no line of urinals and only one washbasin. And he was alone.

  What is going on? He staggered back and suddenly found himself sitting on the toilet. Which was just as well; he wasn’t sure he could stand owing to his shock and fear.

  He tried to imagine the possibilities. Was he in heaven? Had the bomb gone off prematurely? This certainly didn’tlook like the awaiting paradise he had been promised. Once again he ducked under the separating panel, but his coat was still there. He immediately determined that until he knew where he was and what had happened, he couldn’t dare activate it. Reluctantly he disconnected the timer, put the lethal jacket back on and walked out of the other stall, then out of the bathroom entirely. The entire time not having any inkling what he might find.

  ***

  "Help for the blind. Help for the blind."

  The voice and the ringing bell stopped Gannon in her tracks. Thanks to the echoes, it took her a minute before she saw the man huddled in a dark corner. As she approached, she noticed how ragged and dirty his denim shirt and jeans were. He wore tennis shoes that were falling apart and a baseball cap pulled low so the shadow from the bill hid most of his face. The last reminded her uncomfortably of the station guard and she hesitated.

  He had heard her approaching footsteps, however, and turned his face toward her. "Help for the blind, madam. Help for the blind," he said in a voice as ragged as his clothing.

  She hesitated. With his hat that low, she couldn’t see his eyes. "How do you know I’m a woman?"

  "Your walk. The walk of a woman, especially one wearing heels like you are, is distinct from a man. Your shoes click when you walk. A man’s stride is longer, the sound of his footsteps deeper. Help for the blind, dear lady?"

  She noticed the tin cup at his feet. And another, filled with pencils. "Is that it? I get a pencil for my, ah, donation?"

  "Of course. I am no beggar."

  "How much?"

  "Whatever you wish to pay."

  She opened her pu
rse. Even with the purchase of the vest, she still had plenty of money. And she planned to visit an ATM long before her husband knew she had left and could cancel their credit cards. "For the blind," she said and placed a ten in his cup.

  "You are most generous."

  Perhaps too generous, she thought and started to walk away.

  "Don’t forget to take one of my pencils."

  She hesitated. She didn’t really need one. "How do you know I didn’t take one?"

  "The sound," and he smiled. "I heard no rattle of my cup. Take one. You never know when you might need it."

  "You should save those so you can sell them to someone else."

  "Please. I have enough. You paid for it. Please take a pencil. I amnot a beggar, you understand."

  "Of course you’re not. Since you insist." She took one and dropped it in her purse. Then she paused. "Is there anything else you need? I can get you a cola if you wish."

  "You’ve already helped me enough. Travel well."

  Gannon shrugged and started back to the vending machines. Now that she had thought of it, she could use another Coke herself. On the way she took out the pencil. Pretty useless like this, she thought as she noticed it wasn’t sharpened.

  Then she noticed something else. The pencil had no lead.

  "You son of a bitch!" He wasn’t blind—she was sure of that now. "I’m going to stick this up your ass, you lying bastard," she said as she started back. But when she got there, the blind man was gone.

  She grimaced. Hustled, that’s what she had been. She was ready to throw the pencil away in disgust, then changed her mind. He couldn’t have gone far. She walked on, vowing to find him and get her money back.

  ***

  "And what is your name?"

  Joe Green looked at the unfamiliar surroundings. He had followed the tunnel to what he had hoped was his escape in the nearby woods. Instead he had found himself...here. A man in an unusual uniform had met him at the tunnel’s end. "Come," he had said and Green found himself following obediently—not even thinking of any other option—to this room. The white man seated across from him was dressed in clothing he had never seen before. In fact,nothing he had seen since escaping that tunnel was familiar. "Master Parsons named me Joe Green."

  The stranger raised his eyebrows. "He named you? Not your father or mother?"

  Yes, they had. But that was his secret name, a name of history and power. One he would not share with a white man, especiallythis man. "Master Parsons names all his..." He paused. "Servants."

  "Really?" Winstead said nothing else. Instead he looked at the manifest on his desk. There was no one listed by the name the man gave him. Judging by his attire, a ragged shirt and pants, no shoes, he and his clothing covered with dirt and burn marks, Winstead guessed the stranger to be from more than 100 years in the past. But why is he here? And why wasn’t I informed?

  That troubled him the most. First the spreading darkness on the model ofWestchester. Now a stranger from a bygone era appearing in the station. Are you the only one? Or the first of many? More importantly,what does this mean? But he knew this man could answer none of those concerns. "Are you hungry?"

  Green swallowed heavily. He hadn’t eaten in hours. He was also exhausted, and still aching from his escape down the narrow tunnel. He hurt in a hundred places from where burning cinders had hit him. What he really wanted was a long bath. "Yes, master."

  "Don’t call me master. My name is Robert Winstead. Winstead will do. Mister Winstead if you insist."

  He bowed his head, afraid to meet the stranger’s eyes. "Mister Winstead." Then he jerked erect. "Are you going to take me back?"

  "Back? Where?"

  "To the plantation."

  So that’s it. "We no longer have slaves. Well, not in the most common meaning of the word," and he chuckled softly. "You are safe here, Mr. Green." At least, I think you are.

  Green looked down at his mud-caked hands and damp, stained clothing. "Is there a place I could clean myself?"

  "My private bathroom is over there," Winstead said, pointing to a door on the right wall. "You’ll find towels and such. You’ll have to wear some of my clothing, I suppose. But you look about my size."

  He is actually going to help me? Green stared at Winstead, unsure what to do. When the man continued to ignore him, he slowly rose and started walking to the bathroom door. "What was that?" he asked when the station master called out.

  "I said you may be unfamiliar with our plumbing. I better help you." Winstead joined Green and led him to the bathroom. Green staggered when they entered. The glowing globes on the wall provided light, but it was too even to be from oil. His host turned on the water at the sink and he marveled that both hot and cold water came from the tap, instead of it being brought in with buckets.

  Winstead watched him as he washed. Westchesterwas home to people of other times, other cultures. Even other realities. But they had been here when he arrived, perhaps had always been there. This man was different, the first he knew of to come to Westchester from the past. He knew Westchester could easily prove dangerous to him simply through his lack of knowledge of the modern world. Reluctantly, Winstead made a decision. "You are going to be my servant," he told Green when the escaped slave was finished cleaning up as best he could. "You will stay here with me."

  Green stared at Winstead, his heart sinking. All this effort to escape and I am again a slave, he thought. But, he realized, at least he wasn’t a field hand. On the plantation, the position of a house slave was coveted above all others. And when I can, Iwill escape. "Yes, master," he said meekly.

  "No. Just Mister. Consider me your employer. Come. Let us find you some clothes."

  ***

  Magdya neé Sarah Goldsmith staggered as she stood in the doorway to Westchester Station. It must be all underground, she thought as she stared at the tableau before her.

  She was standing on what was essentially a balcony. Wide stairs led to the floor far below, marble stairs with a brass railing. She grabbed the rail and felt it throb gently, as if connected somehow to some giant engine. Yet it was quiet in the station, a surprise to her considering its size. She turned. Should she go back? No; she was certain whoever orwhatever had met her was still outside. If she was going to escape, she would have to do it another way. With unsteady steps she made her slow way to the floor far below.

  Magdya was nearly out of breath by the time she reached it, and not just from the walk down. The presence that had attacked her during the séance—she could sense vestiges of it here. Not within the building, but nearby. Lurking. Waiting impatiently. She shivered as she started toward the end of the building. So many questions she wanted to ask, but she had no ideawho to ask. Who was the driver who had brought her here? Why was she brought here? Where exactlywashere, since there was certainly no train station like this built underground inPhiladelphia.

  But she had more important concerns, such as finding an escape. I need to buy a ticket, she decided and went off in search of the ticket booth. Not many passengers, she thought as she made her way through the station. They must be losing money hand over fist. She noticed a hanging sign pointing to the ticket booth, but when she got there she discovered it was closed, with a sign saying it would reopen at2:00 p.m. Two? She shook her head; it had been evening when she had fled her store. Surely it hadn’t takenthat long to get here. In her haste to escape, she hadn’t worn a watch. There has to be a clock around here somewhere. After a few minutes she found one on a nearby wall. Magdya cursed softly as she approached, however. Is this some kind of joke? Its face was surrounded by stone dragons, interlocked like an Escher print. The dial had too many minutes, too many hours to be a real clock. And it couldn’t be just after midnight as the clock insisted. I can’t leave here for another 14 hours? Impossible. The clock has to be wrong. "I’ll have to find someone with a watch."

  She looked around the concourse. There were very few people waiting for trains this late in the evening. But she did notice a man dr
essed in a maintenance uniform slowly pushing a broom across the marble floor. "Excuse me," she called out as she approached him.

  He stopped and leaned against his tool. "Yes?"

  "Can you help me? I need to know the time and that clock," she pointed, "is out of order."

  "Time? Time is all the same to me."

  She grimaced at his response. "That may be fine and good, but it isn’t for me. Do you have the time?"

  "Time for what?"

  I’m not in the mood to be jerked around. She forced herself to remain pleasant. "I need to catch a train. I’d like to have some idea how long I have to wait."

  "As long as you have to."

  Is he just playing with me? She looked closely at the man. He was old, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he had been working here since he was a teenager. Gray hair struck out from under his hat and gray whiskers were scattered across his wrinkled face. Yet his expression was as sober as the tone of his voice. "I’m sorry if I interrupted your work. Is there another clock in here? One that works?"

  "A clock that works? And what kind of work does a clock do? A collection of gears and springs that in some fashion measures time? Time can’t be measured, any more than you can measure the drops in the ocean, the stars in the sky. Time is continuous, not something doled out in finite amounts, like slices of a birthday cake."

  As he talked he leaned casually against his broom for support. Magdya decided he was enjoying this break from his routine. "That may be true, but Ineed to know the time."

  "Not really. You’ll know when it’s time to leaveWestchester."

  "Westchester?"

  "You are in Westchester Station." Suddenly he tensed. "Didn’t the station master tell you?"

  "What station master?"

  His calm expression dramatically changed. "You haven’t seen him?"

  She shook her head. "No. The cab dropped me off and some weird dude in a uniform told me to go inside and I found myself here."