The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 33





‘Careful there. Please.’ Billy was whispering these words. Maybe others too. He wasn’t sure.

‘My block,’ 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.

Thinking of his parents again, his aunt and uncle, other relatives.

Lovely Girl, of course.

He was going to die, and like this? Wasteful, tragic.

The massive vice grip tightened. ‘Are you the one? I’ll bet you are. Who else would you be, of course? Of course.’

What was the response supposed to be to that?

Not to move, for one thing. Billy sensed that if he did, he’d feel a tickling pain beneath his jaw and, after the stroke, giddiness, as blood sprayed and sprayed. And then he’d feel nothing at all.

Billy said, ‘Look, I’m with the city. I work for the city.’ He nodded at his coveralls. ‘I’m not here to hassle you. I’m just doing my job.’

‘You’re not a reporter?’

‘With the city,’ he repeated, tapping the coveralls – very carefully and with a cautious finger. Then he gambled. ‘I hate reporters.’

This seemed to be reassuring to Bear-man, though he didn’t relax much. The razor was still held firmly in one massive, filthy paw. The other continued to press Billy painfully into the wall of the tunnel.

‘Julian?’ Bear-man asked.

‘What?’

‘Julian?’

As if the name was a code and Billy was supposed to respond with the counter password. If he got it wrong he’d be decapitated. His palms sweated. He rolled the dice. ‘No, I’m not Julian.’

‘No, no, no. Do you know Julian Savitch?’ Irritated that Billy wasn’t catching on.

‘No.’

Bear-man said skeptically, ‘No, no? He wrote that book.’

‘Well, I don’t know him. Really.’

A close examination of Billy’s face. ‘It was about me. Not just me. All of us. I have a copy. I got a copy that was signed. Somebody from the city—’ He poked the logo on the coveralls. ‘Somebody from the city brought him down here. Brought him into our block. Here. My block. Did you do that?’

‘I didn’t … No, I don’t even know—’

‘The law says I can cut you if I feel I’m in danger and the jury believes I really felt I was in danger. Not that I was actually in danger. But if I felt I was in danger. See the difference? That’s all I need. And you’re dead, buddy.’

The sentences ran into each other, clattering, like cars on a fast-braking freight train.

Billy asked calmly, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Nathan.’

‘Please, Nathan.’ Then he shut up as the razor scraped his throat once more.

Rasp, rasp …

‘You live down here?’ he asked Bear-man.

‘Julian said bad things about us. He called us that name.’

‘Name?’

‘That we don’t like! Are you the one who sent him down here? Somebody from the city did. When I find him I’m going to kill him. He called us that name.’

‘What name?’ Billy was thinking this was a logical question to ask and he wouldn’t incur the wrath of Bear-man by at least raising the issue, an apparently sensitive one.

The answer, spat out, was ‘“Mole People”. In his book. About us who live down here. Thousands of us. We’re homeless most of us. We live in the tunnels and subways. He called us Mole People. We don’t like that.’

‘Who would?’ Billy asked. ‘No, I didn’t lead anybody down here. And I don’t know a Julian.’

The razor gleamed, even in the dim light, lovingly kept. It was Bear-man’s treasure, and Billy understood the clean shave, not very common among the homeless, he guessed.

‘We don’t like that, being called that, moles,’ Bear-man repeated, as if he’d forgotten he’d just said it. ‘I’m a person like you and me.’

Well, that sentence hardly worked. But Billy nodded in agreement, thinking he was close to vomiting. ‘Sure you are. Well, I don’t know Julian, Nathan. I’m just here checking on the tunnels. For safety, you know.’

Bear-man stared. ‘Sure you say that but why should I believe you why why why?’ Words running together in a growl.

‘You don’t have to believe me. But it’s true.’

Billy thought he was actually about to die. He thought of the people he’d loved.

ELA

LIAM

He said a prayer.

Bear- not Mole-man gripped Billy harder. The razor stayed in place. ‘You know, some of us don’t choose to live here. We don’t want to live here. Don’t you think that? We’d rather have a home in Westchester. Some of us would rather f*ck a wife every Thursday night and take her to see the in-laws on nice spring days. But things don’t always work out as planned now, do they?’

‘No, they don’t, Nathan. They sure don’t.’ And Billy, desperate to forge some connection between them, came seconds away from telling Bear-man about the tragedies of his parents and Lovely Girl. But, no. You didn’t need a Modification Commandment to remind you not to do stupid things. ‘I’m not helping authors write about you. I’m here to make sure the tunnels don’t collapse and there are no water or gas leaks.’ He pointed up to an array of pipes running along the tunnel’s ceiling.

‘What’s that?’ Nathan was tugging up Billy’s sleeve. He was staring at the centipede with a child-like fascination.

‘A tattoo.’

‘Well, now. That’s pretty nice. Pretty good.’ The razor drooped. But didn’t fold away. God, Nathan’s hand was huge.

‘It’s my hobby.’

‘You did that? You did that on yourself?’

‘I did, yeah. It’s not that hard. You like it?’

Nathan admitted, ‘I guess I do.’

‘I could give you a tattoo, Nathan. If I do that would you move that razor away from my throat?’

‘What kind of tattoo?’

‘Anything you like.’

‘I’m not going up top.’ He said this as if Billy had suggested strolling through a nuclear reactor core that was melting down.

‘No, I can do it here. I can give you a tattoo here. Would you like one?’

‘I guess I might.’

A nod at the backpack. ‘I’ve got my machine with me.’ He repeated, ‘It’s a hobby. I’ll give you a tattoo. And how ’bout some money? I’ve got some clothes too. I’ll give you all that if you move that razor and let me go.’

My Lord, he’s strong. How could he be that strong, living down here? Nathan could kill him with his hands; he hardly needed the shining blade.

Eyebrows flexing closer.

Nathan was kneading the razor, then gripping it harder, Billy thought. The blade moved as twitchy and train-clattery as Bear-man’s sentences.

‘Nathan?’ Billy asked.

The man didn’t answer.

‘Nathan. I didn’t know this was your block. I just was doing my work, checking the pipes and valves and things. I want people to be safe down here.’

The razor hovered.

And Bear-man’s breathing seemed harder now as he stared at the centipede. The red ink. The face, the fangs, the segments of the body.

The indecipherable eyes.

‘Nathan?’ Billy whispered. ‘A tattoo. You want that tattoo?’

Because what utility worker doesn’t cart around an American Eagle tattoo machine to ink people on a whim?

‘I’ll give you my best tattoo. Would you like that? It’ll be a present. And the clothes and money I told you about? A hundred dollars.’

‘It won’t hurt?’

‘It’ll sting a little. But not bad. I’m going to get my backpack now. That’s where the money and clothes are, and my tattoo machine. Is it all right if I reach into my backpack?’

‘I guess you can,’ Nathan whispered.

Billy slid the backpack closer and extracted the parts to his machine. ‘You can sit down there. Is that all right?’ The razor was still not far away and was still open. God or Satan or the ghost of Abraham Lincoln might tell Nathan to kill this interloper at any moment. Billy moved very slowly.

Hmm. It seemed that Nathan was receiving transmission from on high.

He laughed and whispered an indecipherable string of syllables.

Finally he dropped into a cross-legged position and grinned. ‘Okay. I’ll sit here. Give me a tattoo.’

It wasn’t until Billy too squatted on the packed-dirt ground that his breathing steadied and his thudding heart began to tap more slowly.

As Nathan watched carefully, Billy finished assembling his American Eagle. He extracted several vials and set them on the ground. He tested the unit. It hummed.

‘One thing,’ the man said ominously, the razor rising slightly.

‘What’s that?’

‘Not a mole. Don’t tattoo me with a mole.’

‘I won’t do a mole, Nathan. I promise.’

Nathan folded the razor and put it away.