They rode against traffic, using every one of the five lanes of the wide avenue, filling the lane of destruction left by the runaway police cruiser. Some ten blocks down, the cruiser cut off a semitrailer, turning sharply right at about 46th or 45th Street. Mr. Lusk spun the Phantom’s polished wheel madly to avoid the truck as it slid to a stop diagonally across the intersection, costing them some time. When the Phantom finally negotiated the turn, the cruiser’s lights were no longer in sight, though its path of disruption was easy to discern.

The Phantom wheeled left, and at once screeched to an abrupt halt. Odessa, used to the bright-blue spinning lights, did not understand why they had stopped. Then she saw the cop car, side doors and rear fender crumpled from multiple impacts, its front grille smashed, steam rising out of the tented hood from the overtaxed engine. At first she thought the cruiser had broken down, but its lights had been switched off, as had its siren.

The Hollow had reached its destination.

Blackwood immediately exited the vehicle. Odessa followed, getting her bearings, craning her neck to the early-evening sky. She recognized a portion of Grand Central Station by the way the building disrupted the traffic pattern, so rare in the Midtown grid of New York City. The building nearest them was fenced off from the street, much of its twenty floors covered with scaffolding and safety netting, undergoing a substantial renovation. It looked currently abandoned, however; no lights in the glassless upper windows, no work being done. A city sign on the fence warned away trespassers, citing a shutdown of the work site per order of the city of New York.

“What is this place?” asked Blackwood.

“Maybe they ran out of money,” said Odessa, looking up at the sandstone façade. Suddenly its proximity to Grand Central sparked a memory. “Wait,” she said. “This is one of those university clubs. They were converting it into a big hotel here at Grand Central but they had to shut down the project. It was in the news about a month ago—big finding, then a scandal. They were excavating the club basement some thirty feet down and discovered centuries-old remains. It turned out to be part of a potter’s field for dead slaves.”

Hugo Blackwood turned and looked at Odessa with a look of astonishment. “Slaves?”

“It stopped construction. Now there are lawsuits flying back and forth. Trying to decide if they can reinter them or put up a plaque or if this kills the entire project.” She noticed Blackwood was still staring at her. She realized this meant something more to him than it did to her. “What?” she said.

Blackwood regained his composure, to the extent that he had ever misplaced it. “Devilry,” he hissed, producing his leather kit from inside his jacket, loosening its ties with sudden urgency. “Mr. Lusk?” he said.