And he saw exactly where the thing went. He thought he would probably have to bring all the Runners together to explain the situation, though. This was not business as usual; this was beyond business as usual in every respect. They’d need to know exactly what they were up against.
Time was wasting, though – sure, the creature had lumbered into the old tunnels, but it could probably move fast if it wanted to, and could be anywhere by now. But the same way he’d felt Palermo was dead – deep in his gut – he sensed that the thing had retreated to the tunnels because they were a good hiding spot, tough to maneuver, tough to track through. You don’t go into a nice dark hiding spot just to pop out again into the bright sunlight and keep running – not unless you’re a complete idiot (especially not if you’re as tall as a streetlamp), and Marcton knew the creature was anything but that. He sensed a great intelligence in those eyes, in those mannerisms.
He’d told Eckel to call him ASAP with whatever he discovered, but he hadn’t heard a thing and they were almost back to the warehouse. What the fuck was the holdup? Just go in, poke around, see if any of the bodies inside matched the pictures of Palermo that Marcton had asked dispatch at the warehouse to email, then confirm or deny. No reason it should be taking this long. No reason for–
They were just pulling into the driveway of the warehouse when Marcton’s phone rang; he picked it up before it even finished the first ring.
“Yeah.”
“Bodies inside, but none of them Palermo’s.”
Marcton closed his eyes. Relief flooded through him. But then–
“However…”
“However? However what?”
“I did a quick sweep of the surrounding streets, too, and found Palermo’s body next to a tree. Back broken, head pulped.”
“If his head was pulped, how do you know–”
“We go way back, kid. Tattoos matched.”
Silence on Marcton’s end, then:
“Thanks,” he said. Hung up.
Marcton steered the Hummer around the back of the warehouse, cut the lights, cut the engine, said one word: “Dead.”
No one said anything. Just listened to the engine tick as it cooled.
* * *
There were about thirty steps leading down into the subway tunnels. Water-stained, crumbling, and slippery, every one of them.
Milo picked Faye up off the concrete at the mouth of the entrance, started down those steps, twice nearly losing his tentative grasp of how gravity worked. But each time he righted himself before tumbling down the steep steps – a trip which likely would have resulted in them both breaking their necks, or at least an arm or two.
As he got closer to the bottom, his mind wandered momentarily and he found himself wondering why such a clearly dangerous area wouldn’t be cut off from the public. But when he reached the final step, he saw that, sure, you could maybe get drunk and fall down some wet stairs, but that’s as far as you’d roll: a gate with thick bars ran across the actual entrance to the tunnels themselves. Or, rather, used to run across the entrance; nearly every bar had been bent out of shape, as though something massive and incredibly strong had passed straight through this spot – which, of course, it had.
And, he noticed now, as his eyes adjusted, that the stairs had been boarded up at street level, but someone had kicked – or otherwise split – the board in half and thrown it down here.
Milo imagined Henry squeezing his frame through this opening. He must have been on his belly, crawling. No other way he’d’ve fit.
Milo heard the hiss of air again, looked up toward the sound. His eyes had adjusted to a certain extent, but they seemed unable to penetrate deeper than a few feet into the dark.
“Henry?”
The telltale eyes were no longer visible. Maybe his back is turned? Milo thought. Once beyond the bars, the station opened up much wider and could easily have accommodated Henry turning around, even standing up. Partially, anyway. Only inside the tunnel where the subways actually used to run would he be able to properly stand – if he were on the tracks themselves.
A choking sound came from the dark.
“Henry, it’s Milo, where are you? I can’t see you.”
Another choking sound, then something shuffled, scraped along the ground. Milo imagined Henry dragging his arm or leg into a different position along the concrete.
“I can’t see shit in here, Henry. We need light. Can you say anything at all? Are you stuck or something? I hear you moving, so I’m just going to walk in that direction, OK? Don’t make any sudden moves or you’ll flatten me.”
Milo checked on Faye again where she still lay in his arms, made sure she was OK. Her breathing was shallow, and she would need medical attention soon. Or at least some materials that she could work with herself, with Milo’s help. Her leg wound had stopped bleeding for the most part, but the bullet had lodged in her body and he had no way of knowing how much damage it had done.
Milo set Faye down, said, “I’ll be right back. We’ll get you help soon. I promise.”
He knew she couldn’t hear him, but he felt, perhaps absurdly, that his voice could help her in some way.