The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“Maybe you’re right. I need to talk to Mason again later and I want a clear head for that.”

“I’ll stay here. If anything changes, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks,” I say. Then, “How’s Allegra doing with all this?”

“Not well. She feels responsible for both the poisoned potion and Candy’s escape.”

“I still think there’s an Angra mole in the Vigil. Could there be one at the clinic?”

“The only ­people who work there regularly are Allegra, Fairuza, Rinko, and sometimes Candy. But patients go in and out all day. I suppose one of them could have done it.”

“We’re not going to figure anything out tonight. I’m getting out of here.”

“Rest easy, my friend.”

“Next lifetime.”

Later, when I’m asleep, I don’t dream about Candy. I dream about the Angra. I’m back in the cavern, but it’s not like the last time. Ten Thousand Shadows doesn’t talk to me. I just see the meat chapel and hear something faint and faraway, like noise from an old sitcom. The sound of someone laughing at me.

I’M TEMPTED TO go and see Mason early in the day, but I want him to stew for a while, so I stay in bed and don’t go in until nearly two. Kasabian has his door propped up over the entrance to his rooms. He’s built a little barricade around it with boxes of discs. A nine-­year-­old could get through it, but I guess it makes him feel better, so I don’t say anything.

I step through a shadow and come out in Vigil headquarters and head straight for Mason’s cell.

This time, before letting me in, a guard goes over me with a metal detector. It must be some special Vigil tech because not only do they find the Colt, but they spot the black bone blade. I don’t want to waste time arguing, so I hand over my weapons. It’s not like I can’t snap Mason’s neck with my hands, but it feels weird. I’ve hardly been without a weapon for going on twelve years. I feel a tad underdressed. Heading inside to see Mason, I’m feeling already a little fucked with.

He’s at the table again. This time he’s cuffed, but his hands aren’t bolted down. ­People know I’m here to play games with the psycho.

I look back at the door and see Wells watching us. No pressure, kids.

Mason smiles at me, but doesn’t speak. I pull up a chair and sit down across from him.

“What’s the game today? Old Maid? Crazy Eights?”

“It’s still the Infinite Game. If you keep thinking we’re playing different games, you’re going to lose.”

“You never said where you learned the Infinite Game.”

He looks away, like he’s thinking.

“You’d be surprised what you hear when you’re alone long enough in Tartarus. I knew I was going to be rescued before it happened because they told me.”

“The Angra?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Someone in Hell sent them to me because they knew I could help their cause.”

“Stop. I can’t deal with your bullshit without a drink. What’s today’s game?”

“Billy Flinch.”

Billy Flinch is a favorite game among the highly intoxicated and the clinically insane. It’s William Tell, only you play it by yourself. Take potshots at the far wall and try to ricochet a bullet so that it breaks the glass on your head. Most ­people only play Billy Flinch once. It doesn’t have an Old-­Timers League.

“They took away my gun, so forget it.”

“That’s disappointing,” he says.