Underground by Kat Richardson Page A

his other hand. “Hi.”
     
     
    “Hi,” I replied, taking his offered hand.
     
     
    “Sorry if I scared you.” I wasn’t quite sure from his expression and voice, but the sparks that danced around his head made me think he wasn’t entirely sincere. Some turmoil boiled beneath his blank surface.
     
     
    Touching him sent a feeling of disquiet through me and I released his hand. “No, you’re not,” I said.
     
     
    He made a wheezing, barking sound and glanced at Quinton. “Where’d you find her?”
     
     
    “Couple of blocks up, on the skid.”
     
     
    “Pig shit.”
     
     
    “Absolute truth. Hey, you know about the vigil for Jan and Go-cart?”
     
     
    “Yeah.”
     
     
    “Good. Where’re you sleeping tonight? It’s pretty cold.”
     
     
    Tanker seemed to glower at Quinton, though it was hard to tell in the gloom. “Got a place in the bricks.”
     
     
    “You better be careful down there. That’s where Jan was staying before he kicked it.”
     
     
    “Nothing’ll bother me. Not with Bella.”
     
     
    “Lass is probably staying down that way, too—”
     
     
    Tanker interrupted him to say, “That little turd. Better keep his distance or I’ll tell Bella to rip his throat out.”
     
     
    “That’s why I’m telling you to keep an eye open. Lass is flipping out about things following him around—”
     
     
    “Man’s a freak, what d’you expect?”
     
     
    “So,” Quinton went on as if he hadn’t been cut off again, “I gave him a stunner. I told him to keep away from you and Bella, but you know how Lass gets when he’s off the juice.”
     
     
    “He should drink till he croaks.”
     
     
    “Tanker, I know Lassiter’s a head case, but I’m not sure he’s just hallucinating. You see anything strange down there since the storms? Notice anything, anybody missing?”
     
     
    “Aside from Tandy? And Hafiz and Go-cart and Jan?” Tanker asked with a snort. Then he turned aside and looked into the open door of the mission.
     
     
    We’d come up the door as we’d been talking, and now Tanker stopped and looked at the mission worker inside. The man held out a small paper box, like restaurants give you for the leftovers.
     
     
    “Can’t bring the dog inside, Tanker,” he said, looking nervous, “but we put some bacon aside for her and a couple of the guys brought some dog food samples.” He held up two small bags of dry kibble with green labels declaring the food within to be “natural” and “healthy.” Looked like the dog ate better than the people.
     
     
    Tanker mumbled thanks and took the bags and the box and stepped out of line. We followed him a few feet away to an alley mouth where he put the box on the sidewalk and opened it before ripping open the bags and pouring them in. Bella sat still and stared at Tanker, though her eyes shifted toward the food once or twice before he said, “OK, Bella. Eat.”
     
     
    Bella leapt for the food and began crunching it down. We watched for a few moments. I noticed the ease with which the mutt reduced even the hardest-looking kibble to dust and thought I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of her jaws.
     
     
    “I saw a hand,” Tanker said, still watching his dog, “down in the stairs by the record shop.”
     
     
    “You mean Bud’s? On Jackson?” I asked.
     
     
    “Yeah.”
     
     
    “You’re sure it was a hand?” I questioned.
     
     
    Tanker glared at me and a swirl of black fury roiled around him. “You think I’m stupid? Think I don’t know what I see with my own eyes? It was a hand, sister. A hand just like yours.” He slapped my left hand with his right, and the dog stopped eating, going tense and alert, staring at us. “I seen body parts. I see body parts flying through the air like crazy birds. A freakin’ hand!”
     
     
    Bella had begun to growl low in her throat.
     
     
    Quinton, keeping an eye on the dog, grabbed Tanker by the shoulder. “Hey, hey. She’s not dissing you.