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Then he glanced at his left arm. The red centipede.
The creature was about eighteen inches long. Its posterior was at the middle of his biceps and the design moved in a lazy S pattern to the back of his hand, where the insect's head rested - the head with a human face, full lips, knowing eyes, a nose, a mouth encircling the fangs.
Traditionally, people tattooed themselves with animals for two reasons: to assume attributes of the creature, like courage from a lion or stealth from a panther. Or to serve as an emblem to immunize them from the dangers of a particular predator.
Billy didn't know much about psychology but knew that, between the two, it was the first reason that had made him pick this creature with which to decorate his arm.
All he really knew, though, was that it gave him comfort.
He dressed and assembled his gear, then ran a pet roller over his clothing, hair and body several times.
His wristwatch hummed. Then the other, in his pocket, made a similar noise a few seconds later.
It was time to go hunting once more.
Okay. This is a pain.
Billy was in a quiet, dim tunnel beneath the East Side of Midtown, making his way toward where he was going to ink a new victim to hell.
But his route had been blocked off.
In the nineteenth century, he'd learned, this tunnel housed a connector for a narrow-gauge spur line linking a factory with a rail depot around 44th Street. It was a glorious construction of smooth brick and elegant arches, surprisingly free of vermin and mold. The ties and rails were gone but the passageway's transportation heritage was still evident: Several blocks away, Billy could hear, trains moved north and south out of Grand Central Station. You could hear subways too. Overhead and under. Some so close that dust fell.
The tunnel would have led him very close to his next victim - if not for some inconsiderate laborers who'd bricked off the doorway in the past twenty-four hours, some construction work Billy hadn't planned on.
A pain ...
He surveyed the murky passageway, illuminated by light filtering in from runoff gratings and ill-matched manhole covers. From cracks in some of the nearby buildings too. How to get around the wall, without having to climb to the surface? The Underground Man should stay, well, underground.
Walking another fifty yards, Billy noted a ladder of U-shaped iron bars set into the brick wall. The rungs led, ten feet up, to a smaller passage that looked like it would bypass the obstruction. He shucked the backpack and walked to the ladder. He climbed up and peered inside. Yes, it seemed to lead to another, larger tunnel that would take him where he wanted to go.
He returned to the floor to collect his backpack and continue his journey.
Which was when the man came out of nowhere.
The shadowy form charged him, enwrapped Billy in a bear's grip and pressed him against the tunnel wall.
Lord, Billy prayed. Save me, Lord ...
His hands shook, heart pounded at the shock.
The man looked him up and down. He was about Billy's size and age but very strong. Surprisingly strong. He stank, that complex aroma of unwashed human skin and hair and street oils. Jeans, two Housing Works shirts, white and pale blue. A tattered plaid sport coat, originally nice quality, stolen or plucked out of a Dumpster in this fancy neighborhood. The man sported wild hair but was clean shaven, curiously. His dark eyes were beady and narrow and feral. Billy thought immediately of Doctor Moreau.
Bear-man ...
'My block. Here, it's my block. You're in my block. Why are you in my block?' His predator's eyes dancing around.
Billy tried to pull away but stopped fast when Bear-man flicked open a straight razor expertly and touched the gleaming edge to Billy's throat.
CHAPTER 33
'Careful there. Please.' Billy was whispering these words. Maybe others too. He wasn't sure.
'My b
lock,' Bear-man was repeating, apparently not the least inclined to be careful. The razor scraped, scraped on the one-day growth of beard on his throat. It sounded like a car transmission to Billy.
'You,' the man growled.
