The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“We’re not here to slaughter. We’re looking for information and to capture anyone carrying out extranatural activities in the tunnels, whether it’s Saint Nick or an Angra sect.”

“Looks like you killed them pretty dead anyway.”

“Yes. A lousy necessity,” he says. He shouts down the tracks. “Does anyone have a live one?”

A voice comes down the tunnel.

“A ­couple over here, sir.”

“Right. Bag them and get them back to Vigil headquarters right now. I want the Shonin to have a look at them.”

“Want to hear a theory? Two really,” I say.

“Make them fast,” says Wells.

“The Shonin said the chop-­shop bodies might be something to house Qliphoth. The way the crazies were moving, remind you of anything?”

“It was a little strange. What are you getting at?”

“Eaters and Diggers. Two of the most dangerous Qliphoth. They’d be good guard dogs if you wanted to keep something safe.”

Wells watches his team wrap up the prisoners. They use some kind of expansion foam instead of cuffs on the arms and legs. Slide a harness with a rubber bit over each of their heads so they can’t bite. Then zipper them into body bags with ventilation holes.

“You could be right. We’ll let the Shonin decide.”

They set the prisoners on hoodoo platforms like floating stretchers and glide them down the way we came, four agents holding on to the body and two riding shotgun.

“Want to hear the second theory?”

“Go on.”

“We were ratted out.”

Wells sighs. A few of his ­people continue to steal looks at me as they work.

“This again. You just said these things were guard dogs. You don’t warn guard dogs. You just leave them in the junkyard for kids climbing over the fence.”

“But what if they’re not here all the time? What if they were here just for us?”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it does. A little, sir,” says Sola. “This is a maintenance spur. Crews must work here all the time, but none of them have reported any trouble. Yet when we showed up, the creatures attacked without hesitation.”

Wells looks up and down the track like he’s trying to see into the dark and find something to shoot down the theory.

“Without further evidence I don’t want either of you talking to anyone about this. Things are hard enough for these ­people without putting the idea of a traitor in their heads.”

“Yes, sir,” says Sola.

Before I can say anything, one of Wells’s ­people shouts down the tunnel.

“We have something up here.”

We move up to the marshals. One is staring at a video monitor. She guides a flexible line with a camera on the end into a hole in the wall. There isn’t any dirt or dust on the debris around the hole. It’s fresh. I know Wells notices it too because he gives me a “Don’t say a word” look.

“You see anything?” he says to the marshal.

“No activity, but markings on the walls. There’s a lot of debris. Some of it looks like bones. Some . . .” She stares into the monitor, studying the scene. “It could be more human remains, sir. Wait. Damn.”