shrubs. It looked like whoever filled the channel between the two islands had lost interest in the area where it joined the Harlem River. Amid piles of overgrown rubble, slivers of water had yet to be filled with debris. Ducks sliced the mirror surface of the slim ponds, moving quietly away from Barney’s approach. A stone seawall delineating the edge of the filled channel was still intact, forming one boundary of the parking lot. As Barney looked along the wall, he could see the bay where it joined the Harlem River and made a big lazy curve north. A fancy modern-looking footbridge had been erected across the bay. It connected the parking lot to a fence that dead-ended at the mental hospital grounds on the other side. Someone had had the bright idea to install little nature trails that meandered from the ramp of the footbridge down through the rubble and saplings. He wondered who came out to walk the trails in this no-man’s-land.
But it was there that he would find the
Bunker Hill
.
He slid over a downed section of flimsy wood slat fence, and into the scrub. It would be a little rough getting the drill rig in there, but the Pazzos were resourceful and would be undaunted by such obstacles. When he came to the edge of one of the ponds, he turned on the GPS and waited for it to pick up a signal. Because of all the terraforming, all the clutter, and overlapped infrastructure, it was hard to picture what the channel had looked like when it flowed beneath the Triborough Bridge’s legs.
Barney unfolded a blueprint entitled “U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, East River Land Reclamation Project: CLOSURE OF LITTLE HELL GATE CHANNEL (August 1943)” to help get his bearings. It was a crude plan view of Randall’s Island, Ward’s Island, and Sunken Meadow—formerly a grassy shoal at the channel’s east terminus.
X
s on the plan showed where a line of boulders had been placed across the channel, around Sunken Meadow, and to the far side of Randall’s Island. Also shown, with little detail, were the Triborough Bridge skyway to the west, the trestle to the east, and the channel passing below both. Numerous faint symbols resembling crosses were shown in Little Hell Gate Channel. Lowercase italics identified these as “wrecks hauled for fill.”
Barney strode slowly away from the parking lot, into the brushy rubble, eyes on the GPS, and came to a stop when it beeped. He knelt and put a hand to the ground. The
Bunker Hill
would be deep, and hard to detect using his magic touch. On his hands and knees, he crawled under some brambles, checking the tortured ground with his palm, trying to feel a void. It wasn’t a vibration or a mental picture that he hoped to sense, but the lack of either. Like putting one’s hand on an egg and knowing it’s empty or full, soft- or hard-boiled.
He pursed his lips, looked at a spot on the ground, and reached into his bag. He cleared away a tangle of twigs and leaves so he could drive a stake into the earth. But then he paused. His eyes latched on a glint in the dirt below, and instead he used the stake to pry a soda can from the soil. Just a gold soda can, not a pocket watch. Not the gold ring from the treasure box of an orangutan potentate he imagined it might be. He looked at it, and the secret smile grew on his face.
Barney was ten years old again, in the Japanese garden, and he could see Mr. Faldo’s eyes twinkle as he said:
Be happy with useful work and what you have now, for you will not always have either. It is the path to a life of truth.
C h a p t e r 7
T he fete was held at a grandiose town house in the upper east 60s, practically walking distance. But BB and Karen took a limo. It was noon and lightly snowing, as it had been all morning.
The event? An opening for Xavier Gliche, the neoconstructivist hailed in
Newstime Magazine
’s spring “Art!” issue as the very latest genius of modern art. The gallery? Osman Strunk
But it was there that he would find the
Bunker Hill
.
He slid over a downed section of flimsy wood slat fence, and into the scrub. It would be a little rough getting the drill rig in there, but the Pazzos were resourceful and would be undaunted by such obstacles. When he came to the edge of one of the ponds, he turned on the GPS and waited for it to pick up a signal. Because of all the terraforming, all the clutter, and overlapped infrastructure, it was hard to picture what the channel had looked like when it flowed beneath the Triborough Bridge’s legs.
Barney unfolded a blueprint entitled “U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, East River Land Reclamation Project: CLOSURE OF LITTLE HELL GATE CHANNEL (August 1943)” to help get his bearings. It was a crude plan view of Randall’s Island, Ward’s Island, and Sunken Meadow—formerly a grassy shoal at the channel’s east terminus.
X
s on the plan showed where a line of boulders had been placed across the channel, around Sunken Meadow, and to the far side of Randall’s Island. Also shown, with little detail, were the Triborough Bridge skyway to the west, the trestle to the east, and the channel passing below both. Numerous faint symbols resembling crosses were shown in Little Hell Gate Channel. Lowercase italics identified these as “wrecks hauled for fill.”
Barney strode slowly away from the parking lot, into the brushy rubble, eyes on the GPS, and came to a stop when it beeped. He knelt and put a hand to the ground. The
Bunker Hill
would be deep, and hard to detect using his magic touch. On his hands and knees, he crawled under some brambles, checking the tortured ground with his palm, trying to feel a void. It wasn’t a vibration or a mental picture that he hoped to sense, but the lack of either. Like putting one’s hand on an egg and knowing it’s empty or full, soft- or hard-boiled.
He pursed his lips, looked at a spot on the ground, and reached into his bag. He cleared away a tangle of twigs and leaves so he could drive a stake into the earth. But then he paused. His eyes latched on a glint in the dirt below, and instead he used the stake to pry a soda can from the soil. Just a gold soda can, not a pocket watch. Not the gold ring from the treasure box of an orangutan potentate he imagined it might be. He looked at it, and the secret smile grew on his face.
Barney was ten years old again, in the Japanese garden, and he could see Mr. Faldo’s eyes twinkle as he said:
Be happy with useful work and what you have now, for you will not always have either. It is the path to a life of truth.
C h a p t e r 7
T he fete was held at a grandiose town house in the upper east 60s, practically walking distance. But BB and Karen took a limo. It was noon and lightly snowing, as it had been all morning.
The event? An opening for Xavier Gliche, the neoconstructivist hailed in
Newstime Magazine
’s spring “Art!” issue as the very latest genius of modern art. The gallery? Osman Strunk
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