“Have there ever been any accidents in this tunnel?” I asked as we neared the portal.
Quinton looked back at me, startled. “Only a couple that I know of. Nothing spectacular and gory, though. No deaths or fires. Why?”
“I don’t see anything—that’s strange. This tunnel’s—what—a hundred years old or so?”
“About that,” he replied, ducking into the darkness.
I followed him, putting my left hand on the cement wall as I went. The cold was shocking, but not preternaturally so. I wished I had gloves on. The interior of the tunnel was like a freezer and I shivered as I went forward.
Once we were a short distance from the station, I heard Quinton’s coat flap and rattle. A light snapped on and he directed the beam against the corner where the wall met the floor. A few feet farther away a dark stain seemed to have grown on the wall. As we got closer, I saw it was a hole.
The cement lining the tunnel was about four feet thick at that point, but someone had managed to make a hole through it about two feet across and three feet high. Lying at the foot of the hole was a dead man, scruffily bearded and dressed in ragged layers of filthy clothing. One of his legs was missing from mid-thigh down.
I stepped back, repelled. “Damn, Quinton . . . He must have been hit by a train.” I’ve seen bodies before, but this one upset me more than I cared to admit. There was something wrong about its disposition that unnerved me and urged me to flee.
Quinton shook his head. “I don’t think so. There’s no blood. And if you look at the wound . . . it kind of looks . . . chewed.”
In spite of myself, I moved forward and peered at the poorly illuminated corpse. The leg ended in a gnawed stump, and though it was hard to be sure with the amount of dirt on his clothes, there truly didn’t seem to be any blood. He stunk of filth and smoke, but the guy hadn’t been dead very long. Even discounting the cold and the darkness and the indifference of the station crew, someone would have spotted him if he’d been lying there for more than a day. He also had a shroud of Grey clinging to him and raveling away into the hole.
I took another step closer and looked harder at the hole, professional curiosity fully engaged. The edges flickered with ethereal strands of something Grey, gleaming with a soft white and pale yellow luminescence. Although the pall of energy lying over the corpse was suitably black—black for death, I thought—the strands that led away from it and into the hole were a neutral gray that looked as soft as angora. I shuddered at the idea, but I reached out and rubbed a bit of the nearest strand between my fingers. To me, Grey material usually feels icy cold, alive, and electrified, but aside from a cottony sensation, I couldn’t feel anything this time. I touched my finger to one of the brighter bits adhering to the broken edges of the cement and got a mild tingle from it as it wriggled aside like a worm on a sidewalk. I tried to look into the hole, but I couldn’t get my head craned around far enough with the body lying where it was.
“It goes all the way back into the basement of the building on the other side,” Quinton said, watching me.
I glanced at him. “How do you know?”
He turned his face away from mine. “I crawled into it.”
“All right,” I said, straightening up. “I’d like to know how you happened to find him. This isn’t exactly a public thoroughfare.”
Quinton kept his mouth shut.
I sighed and thought of Will’s admonishments of the morning. “I’d better call the cops.”
“I’d rather you didn’t just yet.”
“What?”
A rumbling sound started far away and a rhythmic vibration set the gravel on the tunnel floor to chattering.
“Train. C ’mon!”
Quinton grabbed my wrist and hauled me along as he started running back the way we’d come.
We dashed out of the tunnel and cut to the side, pressing ourselves to the wall outside the opening, just a few feet ahead of a shrieking freight train. Something pale flipped and tumbled through the air from beneath the engine’s wheels, landing on the gravel barely a yard from us. It was an arm.
Quinton’s eyes widened and he looked sick. I wanted to gag but swallowed the urge. There was something particularly awful about that mangled, lonely limb lying on the gravel outside the Great Northern Tunnel, but puking wasn’t going to improve the situation.
“That’s it,” I said, pulling my cell phone off my belt. “I’m calling the cops.”
Quinton clamped his hand over mine. He was sweating, though I didn’t know how anyone could in that cold air. “No! Not now. Please.”
I shook his hand off mine and gaped at him. “Why the hell not? That’s a dead body—a dead person—in there—”
“He’s not the first!”
Damn it, I thought. I clipped my phone back on my belt and crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at him. It seemed like a better idea than screaming and trying to run away. I had trusted Quinton with secrets and lives—including mine—but I realized then that I knew very little about him. And now he was showing me bodies in tunnels and saying they weren’t the first. . . . I let one hand drift down my side toward my holster. “Talk fast,” I said.
“Just give me a chance to get out of sight,” he said. “I don’t want the cops to know I’m connected to this.”
“Connected to what? And what is it with you and cops?”
He looked around, but no one was coming out of the station to investigate us, nor was anyone stopping on the icy sidewalk above us. Any pedestrians were too anxious to get out of the cold to pause and look down at the gravel by the tunnel mouth. “Look, this guy, he’s not the first dead body to turn up around Pioneer Square since the big storm. I knew some of them. And there was that article in the papers about the leg found in that construction site near the football stadium—you read about that, right?”
“Yeah. They never found the guy it came from. So?”
“Something nasty is happening and I’m afraid they’ll connect me to it.”
“Why? You wanted me to see this, but you don’t want it reported. What kind of connection do you have to this? What the hell is going on?” I generally prefer anger over fear.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I want it to stop and I don’t want the cops digging around in the underground over this—or at least not digging around me.”
“If you think someone is killing bums, that has to be reported to the police. That’s what they do—find the people who prey on other people.”
“What if it’s not a person?”
“What?” I demanded, feeling colder inside than out.
Quinton started to reply, but my phone burred and cut him off. I swore and snatched it from my belt, glaring at Quinton and pointing at him with my other hand. “Hold that thought.”
I flipped the phone open and answered it.
“Hey, Harper, it’s Will. You ready for lunch?”
“Will?” Crap. I sneaked a look at my watch. It was eight minutes past two. “I’m at the train station—”
“I’m just outside Zeitgeist. I’ll walk down there.”
“No!” But he’d hung up already. Zeitgeist Coffee was two blocks from the tunnel. With Will’s long stride, it wouldn’t take five minutes for him to reach the train station. He’d spot us on the gravel as soon as he came around the corner. And he’d spot the arm.
I jammed the phone into my coat pocket with stiff hands and looked at Quinton.
“We have a problem if you don’t want the cops all over this. I have to run into the station. You stay here and block the view so no one sees that arm. I’ll be right back and we’ll pick up where we left off. Don’t ditch me. If I have to hunt you down to get the rest of this story, you won’t like it.”
He nodded and shuffled closer to the arm as I scuffed back through the gravel to the station as fast as I could.
Will was just coming into the rotunda as I trotted across the main floor. He caught me by the shoulders as I reached him and frowned at me.
“Harper, you’re limping. Are you OK?”
“I had to take a look at something down here and the ground’s pretty rough. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.” Apologies don’t come easy and it must have sounded as strange to Will as it did to me.
His frown remained as he stared into my face. “You’re skipping out on lunch, aren’t you?”
I pulled in a slow breath. “I have to wait for the police.”
He blinked. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I can’t tell you yet. I have to talk to them first. I’ll call you when I’m done and we can do dinner instead.”
“I can wait with you.”
“No—” I stopped myself. If I just told him to go, he’d get balky. “It may take quite a while. It’s going to be ugly work and I know you don’t like this kind of thing. I’d be happier if you didn’t waste your day hanging around here.”
“How long will it take, this mysterious, ugly thing?”
“I don’t know. If it’s quick, then that’s great, but I just don’t know.”
Will sighed. Déjà vu. Just like our first date, with me running out on him for some mysterious errand. I knew it ticked him off and that ticked me off. “This job of yours . . .”
My turn to sigh. “Yes. I know. You wish I did something else.”
“No. No, I just wish—” He stopped and shook his head. “Dinner. We’ll get together for dinner. It’s fine.”
“Fine” it obviously wasn’t, but I’d have to deal with that later. Severed limbs and Grey holes in concrete walls had a higher priority to me than Will’s sense of betrayal over a missed lunch. Dating sucked.
“Thank you, Will.” I locked my arms around him as he started to turn away and pulled him down for a kiss. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” I felt like I was kissing ice that only started to warm up and flow at the end. Then he stepped back and walked off, giving me a quick wave and a thin smile as he went. My shoulders slumped and an unpleasant pricking of tears started behind my eyes.
I growled at myself. “Don’t be a jackass.” I straightened up and hurried back to the tunnel.
Quinton was crouching near the arm, facing away from it. He was tense and the Grey gathered around him in clinging sulfur-colored ropes. His expression was an anxious frown as he watched me return.
“So?” he asked, straightening up.
“I am going to call the police, but if you explain this to me, I may keep you out of it. Tell me why you don’t want the cops to know about you and what your connection is to the dead man.”
He drew a couple of long, deep breaths before he began, the tension in his face easing.
“I know him—knew him. There’ve been several deaths down here since the weather got crazy. They’ve all been homeless, street people, undergrounders like that guy in the tunnel. And I know them because I’m one, too. An undergrounder, that is. Homeless by choice.”
“Fugitive?” I asked. I had to wonder who I’d gotten hooked up with.