Holy Moly doesn’t manage to shake us loose. The baby tears through the tunnels, but we keep it in our sights. Sometimes we even get close when it pauses to study some obscure outcrop of rock or other.
I think we’re being toyed with. I know how fast the babies can run, and these tunnels are their playpen. Holy Moly could disappear within seconds if it truly wished to lose us. I’ve got a feeling we’re being led into another trap.
I consider sharing my suspicions with Owl Man, but why bother? Apart from my friends, I don’t care about any of this lot. Let them run into a pit full of stakes if that’s what the baby has lined up. It would probably be for the best if they did. Get them all out of harm’s way nice and swiftly. I’d die too, of course, but I’ve no problem with that, not if I can take the doc and his crew down with me.
There are occasional attacks from stray mutants or zombies, but nothing like the concentrated strikes that we had to endure on our way to the cavern. Most of our enemies seem to be massed round the doomed soldiers. Or else they’re with Mr. Dowling, waiting for us up ahead.
I expect Holy Moly to lead us to the clown’s base, maybe even his personal chambers. I figure that’s the sort of place where my unhinged husband will want to end this. But instead we veer away from the central part of the complex, down a series of tunnels that are new to me.
The others are worried. They think the baby might be leading us off into the middle of nowhere.
“Maybe it wants to protect Becky and steer her clear of the danger areas,” Owl Man says.
“Should we abandon the chase and focus on finding Albrecht?” Master Zhang asks.
“No,” Dr. Oystein snaps. “The baby knows where the vial is. If we can get hold of that, everything else is irrelevant. We will stick with the pursuit until we catch up with or lose sight of the child.”
The doc’s excited. He senses victory. Owl Man looks as inscrutable as always. Hard to tell what he’s thinking. Rage is chuckling softly at some personal joke and tapping the head of an axe that is hanging by his side. Everyone else looks nervous, even the normally cool Master Zhang.
We turn another corner and spot Holy Moly waiting for us. The baby puts a finger to its lips and makes a shushing noise. Then it starts to creep ahead.
Dr. Oystein hurries after the baby. Owl Man reaches out to stop him. “This is an unusual situation,” he murmurs. “Are you sure you wish to proceed?”
“What choice do we have?” Dr. Oystein replies.
“There is always a choice,” Owl Man says.
“No,” the doc retorts. “In this case there isn’t.”
We follow Holy Moly round a few more bends, no longer racing to catch up, taking it slowly, letting the baby guide us. The troops are readying their weapons, wiping blood or dirt from their foreheads and cheeks, preparing for battle.
Finally we come to a door. I spot Ivor pushing forward, looking interested—he gets a buzz when presented with a new kind of lock. But then Holy Moly jumps, grabs hold of the handle and pulls down, swinging in with the door as it opens, and Ivor sees that there’s no lock to pick. He falls back, disappointed, as the baby lets go with a giggle and trots into a large chamber. As we enter, I see that the walls are painted with blood and excrement, and decorated with links of guts and limbs, the trademark interior design of the twisted Mr. Dowling.
And there, at the center of the room, stands the crazy clown. He’s bent over a table, chewing a corner of a map, surrounded by mutants and babies. Kinslow is by his master’s side, pointing to an area on the map, discussing something with his fellow mutants. Claudia, the girl whom Owl Man spared in the pub in Wapping, is with them, though she isn’t saying much.
Nobody spots us as we fan out. We thought this was a trap, but it looks like we aren’t expected. I’m confused, and I can tell that Dr. Oystein is too. Maybe our foes are only pretending to be unaware of us, to lull us into a false sense of security.
I keep waiting for the floor to open beneath us or nets to drop from overhead, but nothing happens. The mutants carry on their conversation as if we aren’t there, and we study them incredulously, nobody wanting to be the first to break the bizarre spell.
Holy Moly bounds up to Mr. Dowling and leaps onto his back. The clown pats the baby absentmindedly and carries on chewing.
“daddy,” Holy Moly says.
Mr. Dowling ignores it.
“daddy,” Holy Moly says again.
“Not now,” Kinslow says with surprising sweetness. “Daddy’s busy. He’ll play with you later.”
“but i brought mummy to see him,” Holy Moly says, and the mutants fall silent.
Kinslow half-turns to stare at the beaming baby. “What?”