Free Vespers by Jeff Rovin

usually duck into a shelter to stay cool, eat or drink, stay out of the wind, and hide from predators like cats, hawks, snakes, and owls. That could be the case here.”
    “As far as I know, we’ve never had a bat problem or even a bat sighting in my building before.”
    “Did you ever have a cockroach problem?”
    “Not much of one. And I’m right on the Hudson.”
    “I’m not a bug expert, but they could have been chased into your building from somewhere else. A small colony of bats in a subway tunnel might have found a pocket of them. Or they could have been chased in by an upswing in predation near the river.”
    Arvids Stiebris arrived as Joyce was speaking. The tall, powerfully built railroad officer clasped Gentry’s hand tightly. Arvids had been a rookie pitcher on the Metro North softball team during the season that just ended. Gentry had played left field from Midtown South and whiffed during three at bats in the last, crucial playoff game. The kid had an unhittable sinker. Robert Gentry was an okay loser and he admired talent, but the “Heroes from Westchester” profile Kathy Leung had done on Arvids really rankled him-“Hartsdale’s gift to Grand Central…and the pitcher’s mound.”
    Gentry introduced the officer to Dr. Joyce. Arvids fixed his dark eyes on her.
    “I saw you on TV last night with Kathy. That was great spin you put on the bats. Makes you almost want one as a pet.”
    “That wasn’t spin, it was the truth,” Joyce said. “If bat diets were compatible with captivity, they’d make wonderful pets.”
    “Maybe,” Arvids said. He started toward the ramp that led downstairs. “But I wouldn’t want one unless it was housebroken. That is one potent stench they produce.”
    “It’s no worse than that of any other animal,” she replied, “including humans. You’re just not used to it.”
    “I’ll take your word for that,” Arvids said.
    Gentry thought Joyce was being a touch defensive. But then, he didn’t like it when anyone outside of the department criticized cops. Stereotypes could be frustrating to people who knew better.
    “Anyhow,” Arvids went on, “I checked with station maintenance. No one’s been back in the tunnel to clean up the mound. Because this whole thing involved a medical situation, the health inspector has to do an on-site report. You know, tell everyone there’s no danger before they can clean up the guano. That’s supposed to happen later this afternoon.”
    “Not that I’m complaining but why are they waiting so long?” Gentry asked.
    “They just did a major rat sweep in the north end of Central Park,” Arvids said. “Quiet operation, ethyl chloride-every effective. But a lot of people are still in the field cleaning up the bodies.”
    Arvids led Gentry and Joyce to the lowest platform on the east side of the subway terminal. The clerk buzzed them through the service entrance. As they entered and made their way across the crowded ramp, Gentry got the same feeling he’d had earlier-that there was something “off” down here. Subdued. He couldn’t explain why he felt that way.
    They walked to the end of the platform. When they reached the far side, Arvids hopped down. Joyce jumped down after him. Gentry sat on the concrete and slid off.
    A moment later they were in another world.

Ten
    Grand Central Station is the largest train terminal in the world. It covers nearly fifty acres in the heart of Manhattan and is laced with tunnels stacked seven levels deep in places. The lowest of these tunnels lies more than two hundred and fifty feet underground.
    Dozens of the tunnels are used for either commuter or subway trains. Most of those are on the top two levels. On the other five levels are dozens more tunnels, many of which were begun but never finished. They were abandoned, sealed off, and forgotten when funds ran out, when walls or ceilings or floors leaked, or when needs or technologies changed. At least half of these dark, damp labyrinths