West smacked his head on a low-hanging truss for the third time. “Curse this infernal darkness. Whatever his name is, the Moleman certainly can’t be well adjusted. No man in his right mind would spend so all his time in such a wretched underground maze.”
A far off shuffling froze West in his tracks. He clamped his mouth shut and swiveled his neck. But the sound had stopped. He swore the shuffling increased whenever he raised his voice. “Best keep quiet from here on out.”
The shuffling returned.
West clapped a hand over his mouth.
The noise ceased.
He exhaled. “There, it’s gone again.”
Of course it returned.
“Confound it. How can a man keep quiet by his lonesome in such a queer place as this. Everyone knows I find silence vexing. It’s why I went into politics!”
This time the shuffling grew to a chatter before dissipating.
West picked up his pace, one hand above his head and the other held in front. A chill shot through him. The air underground was dry and warmer than the Norther above ground. West shivered none the less. He knew in his gut someone had been tracking him for several minutes.
The obvious suspect was the foul, double-talking Earl. “What kind of self-respecting Irish mobster goes by the likes of Earl?” West spoke out loud to keep himself company, and he kept up the guessing game to occupy his thoughts.
Shuffling and stalking—those weren’t Earl’s style. “Who else could it be?”
West felt a breeze brush the backs of his hands and guessed he’d come to a juncture. He squeezed his eyes tight, then opened them. Of course he still saw absolutely nothing. He considered flipping open his lighter again, but the paltry flame only frustrated his larger desire to see sufficiently.
“I’m starting to think the police would be a preferable option.”
“Oh yes, preferable.”
West jumped at the croaking voice and smacked his head on the tunnel ceiling.
“Always someplace preferable to this.”