CHAPTER 16

It turned out not to be so scary after all.

In fact, not nearly as scary as upside had been lately.

Down there, in the dreary, dirty sewers beneath the city, I realized how drastically my world had changed, and in such a small amount of time.

How could a beady-eyed, twitchy-nosed rat—or even a few hundred—compare to the Gray Man? What consequence raw sewage and stench next to one's likely fate at the hands of the Many-Mouthed-Thing? What significance ruined shoes or nails torn scrabbling over rocks in collapsing parts of the city's underbelly, when measured against the brazen theft I was about to commit? Against a man who'd taken out twenty-seven people in a single night just because they were in the way of his bright and shining future, no less.

We turned one way, then the next, through empty tunnels with unobstructed walkways, into ones fouled by slow-moving sludge. We sloped down deeper into the earth, veered up, and descended again.

"What is that?" I pointed to a wide stream of fast-moving water, visible beyond an iron grill mounted in the wall. We'd passed many such grills, though smaller and set lower into the walls. Most were affixed in sunken spots, with large pools of black water collected around them, but I'd seen nothing like this. This looked like a river.

It was. "The River Poddle," Barrons said. "It runs underground. You can see where it meets the River Liffey through another such grill at the Millennium Bridge. In the late eighteenth century, two rebel leaders escaped Dublin castle by following the sewer system to it. One can navigate the city fairly well, if one knows where things connect."

"And you do," I said.

"I do," he agreed.

"Is there anything you don't know?" Ancient artifacts, how to freeze obscenely large bank accounts, the seedy subculture of the city, not to mention the exact layout of its dark, dirty underbelly.

"Not much." I could discern no arrogance in his reply; it was simply fact.

"How did you learn it all?"

"When did you become such a chatterbox, Ms. Lane?"

I shut up. I told you pride is my special little challenge. He didn't want to hear me? Fine, I didn't want to waste my breath on him, anyway. "Where were you born?" I asked.

Barrons stopped short, turned around and looked at me, as if bewildered by my sudden spate of talkativeness.

I raised my hands, bewildered too. "I don't know why I asked that. I had every intention of shutting up but then I started thinking about how I know nothing about you. I don't know where you were born, whether you have parents, siblings, a wife, children, or even exactly what it is you do."

"You know all you need to know about me, Ms. Lane. As I do about you. Now move. We've precious little time."

A dozen yards later, he motioned me up the rungs of a steel ladder bolted into the wall and, at the top of it, I became instantly, deeply nauseated.

There was one extremely potent OOP—dead ahead.

"Beyond that, Barrens," I said apologetically. "I guess we're kind of screwed, huh?"

"That" was what looked like a bulkhead door. You know, the kind they use on bank vaults that are several feet thick, made of virtually impenetrable alloys, and open with that big spinning wheel thing like on submarine doors. It was just too bad "the handle" wasn't on our side. "Don't suppose you have a convenient stash of explosives on you somewhere?" I joked. I was tired and afraid and I was getting a little slap-happy, or maybe it was just the general, ever-increasing absurdity of my life that was making it difficult for me to take anything too seriously.

Barrons eyed the massive door a moment, then closed his eyes.

I could actually see the internal analysis he was performing. His eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids, as if scanning the blueprints of Dublin's sanitation system as they flashed across his retinas, Terminator-style, while he targeted our exact position, and searched for a point of entry. His eyes flew open. "You're sure it's beyond that door?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. I could puke right here."

"Try to restrain yourself, Ms. Lane." He turned and began walking away. "Remain here."

I stiffened. "Where are you going?" A single flashlight suddenly seemed grossly inadequate company.

"He's counting on natural barriers to protect it," Barrons tossed over his shoulder. "I'm a strong swimmer."

I watched his flashlight bob as he hurried down a tunnel to my left and disappeared around a corner, then there was nothing but blackness and I was alone in it, with only two batteries standing between myself and a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. I hate the dark. I didn't used to, but I sure do now.

It felt like hours, although according to my watch, it was only seven and a half minutes later that a dripping-wet Barrons opened the bulkhead door.

"Oh God, what is this place?" I said, turning in a slow circle, transfixed. We were in a rough-hewn stone chamber that was crammed with yet more religious artifacts displayed side by side with ancient weapons. It was evident from the high-water marks on the stone that the subterranean structure flooded occasionally, but all of O'Bannion's treasures were mounted well above the highest, suspended on brackets bolted into the walls or displayed on top of tall stone pedestals.

I could just see the dark, handsome, psychopathic ex-boxer standing here, gloating over his treasures, the frightening gleam of religious fanaticism in his heavy-lidded eyes.

Wet footprints led from an iron grate low in the wall, beyond which lay deep black water, straight to the door. Barrons hadn't even paused to look around when he'd entered.

"Find it, get it, and let's go," Barrons barked.

I'd forgotten he couldn't know which item it was. Only I could. I turned in a slow circle, stretching my newfound Spidey-sense.

I retched. Dryly. Fortunately, it seemed I was getting a little better at this. My supper stayed in my stomach. I had a sudden vision of O'Bannion coming down to discover his artifact missing, with neat little piles of puke all over the place and wondered what he would make of it. I snickered; a measure of how completely freaked out I was. "That." I pointed to an item mounted just above my head, almost lost amid the assortment of similar items surrounding it, and turned to look at Barrons who was standing behind me, just outside the bulkhead door. He was staring down the corridor. Now he turned slowly and glanced in.

"Fuck," he exploded, punching the door. "I didn't even see it." Then louder, "Fuck." He turned away. His back to me, he snapped, "Are you sure that's it?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, get it, Ms. Lane. Don't just stand there."

I blinked. "Me?"

"You're standing right next to it."

"But it makes me feel sick," I protested.

"Now's the perfect time to start working on that little problem of yours. Get it."

Stomach heaving all the while, I lifted the thing from the wall. The metal brackets suspending it popped up with an audible click when I removed its weight. "Now what?" I said.

Barrons laughed and the sound echoed hollowly off the stone. "Now, Ms. Lane, we run like hell, because you just set off a dozen alarms."

I jerked. "What are you talking about? I don't hear anything."

"Silent. Straight to every house he owns. Depending on where he is at the moment, we have little, or even less, time."

Barrons wasn't turning out to be a good influence on me at all. In a single night he'd gotten me to dress like a floozy, burgle like a common thief, and now he had me cussing like a sailor as I seconded his opinion. "Fuck," I exclaimed.

It occurred to me as I raced through the predawn streets of Dublin, with a spear longer than I was tall tucked beneath my arm, that I didn't expect to live much longer.