The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

'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 fuck 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.