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Billy stopped too. 'You've got some righteous marking.'
'Yo. Thanks.'
In sub-Saharan African tradition this form of modification was done by cutting flaps in the skin and packing in irritating plant juices to raise welts, which hardened into permanent designs. Keloids serve several purposes: They identify the bearers as members of a particular family or tribe, they indicate fixed social or political positions, they mark milestones in life's transit, like puberty and readiness for marriage. In some African cultures, scarification indicates sexual prowess and appetite - and the scars themselves can become erogenous zones. The more extensive a woman's scarring, the more appealing she is as a partner because it implies she's better able to withstand the pain of childbirth and produce many offspring.
Billy had always appreciated keloids; he'd never done any. The ones on the young man's face were impressive, linked chains and vines. African skin art is largely geometric; rarely are animals, plants or people depicted. Never words. Billy was nearly overcome by an urge to touch the pattern. With effort, he resisted.
The local, in turn, regarded Billy with an odd gaze that embraced both curiosity and camaraderie. Finally he looked around and seemed to come to a decision. A whisper: 'Yo, you want brown? Moonrock? Sugar? Whatchu want?'
'I ...'
'How much you got to spend? I hook you up.'
Drugs.
Disgusting.
In an instant the admiration of the scarification turned to hatred. It felt like the young man had betrayed him. The skin art was ruined. Billy wanted to stick his neck with a needle, get him into an alley and ink a message on his gut with snakeroot or hemlock.
But then Billy realized this was just another incident that proved the Rule of Skin true. No surprise here. He could be no more upset at this than a law of physics.
He gave a disappointed smile, walked around the man and kept moving.
; 'Yo, I hook you up!'
A block east, Billy glanced behind him - he saw no one that was a threat - and stepped into a clothing store. He paid cash for a Yankees baseball cap and a pair of cheap sneakers. He tugged the hat on and swapped shoes. His old ones he didn't throw out - concerned that the police might search the trash cans and find a pair of Bass with his prints on them - but when the clerk wasn't looking he left one in a bin of discount shoes and the other on a rack, behind a row of similar footwear. He then stepped outside, striding fast toward his goal: the subway that would take him back to Canal Street, back to safety. Head down, once more, examining the congested sidewalks, filthy, marred with ovals of dog pee and dark dots of chewing gum, bordered with tired slush.
Yet no one looked at the coveralls, at the gear bag, no one glanced his way as if wondering: Is he the man who killed that girl in SoHo? The man who was nearly cornered and gunned down at the hospital in Marble Hill?
Walking fast once more, inhaling cold air rich with noxious exhaust. Of course he wouldn't take the Number One train, which had a Marble Hill stop, because it was so close to the hospital. He'd spent days studying the New York City transit system. He was making for a station farther east, even if it meant a fast walk through unpleasant weather and amid more unpleasant people.
Yo, I hook you up ...
And there were lots of them. The crowds were thicker now, more shoppers - taking advantage of the pre-Christmas season to stock up on presents, he guessed. Dressed in dark clothing, worn and shabby.
Doctor Moreau's Swine-men, Dog-men ...
Some police cars sped past, heading toward Marble Hill. None of them paused.
Breathing hard, chest hurting again, he finally approached the metro entrance. Here the trains were not underground but elevated. He swiped his Metrocard and walked nonchalantly up the steep stairs and onto the platform, where he huddled as the damp wind sliced around him.
He pulled his cap lower, swapped the reading glasses for some with different frames, then pulled his gray scarf up around his mouth; the air was frigid enough so that this didn't look odd.
Scanning for police. No flashing lights on the streets below, no uniformed officers in the crowds or on the platform. Maybe--
But wait.
He noted two men in overcoats about thirty feet away on the platform. One looked his way then turned back to his companion. They stood out here, being white and dressed in conservative clothing, white shirts and ties, under the bulky coats; most of the other passengers on the platform were black or Latino or mixed, and dressed much more casually.
Undercover cops? He had a feeling they were. They might not have been part of the actual manhunt - were here investigating a drug deal, maybe - but they'd heard the alert, and now believed they had the Underground Man.
One made a brief call and Billy had a feeling that it had been placed to Lincoln Rhyme. No basis for this, but instinct told him the cop was a friend and colleague of Rhyme's.
A train was approaching but was still two hundred yards away. The men whispered something to each other and then walked his way, steadying themselves in the wind.
He'd been so careful, so smart in escaping from the doctors' office building. Was he about to get caught because of a coincidence? Two cops who happened nearby.
