I'll start over. Two times two is eleven.

No, that's not right.

What was I trying to remember?

I give up.

My mouth tastes funny. Metal. Weird. Hmph. I can remember what metal is, why can't I remember what time it is?

It sure is dark.

There's that sound again. It's like a motor running. I wonder what it is?

Fear.

Cold terror.

Muted sirens were warbling in a frantic bid for attention, and they were filtering into my ears. I was cold, and I felt myself physically shiver. I was laying flat on my back, and there was something resembling a thin layer of permeable warmth draped over me. It felt like it might be a blanket, but it definitely wasn't the one I had on my bed at home.

So if I wasn't at home in my bed I guess that ruled out this whole day being a nightmare.

My shirt felt damp along my right side and across my shoulders. My pants weren't much better. The chill seemed to seep in deeper and even drop a few degrees lower in the places where the wet clothing touched my skin.

I twitched and felt a fork of pain spread from one end of my body to the other.

My head was pounding. My shoulder was aching. My knees hurt. My face wassore... And, it didn't stop there. I finally gave up on taking inventory once the individually identifiable aches and pains advanced past ten.

A familiar metallic tang had parked itself somewhere in the region of the back of my tongue. On the front half, my taste buds were being assaulted by the unmistakable woody flavor of a tongue depressor. All of it was underscored by the salty taste of blood.

Quiet voices and the crackle of a two-way radio eased in beneath the sirens, and an occasional thump or bump would fill in the gaps. There was an overwhelming sense of motion vibrating through my prone body, and I decided that I must be in the back of an ambulance. It was a new experience for me and I had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed logical considering the sensory input I was working with.

I heard myself groan and then felt my stomach turn a quick flip as my body pitched to the side. At first, I thought I was going to fall, but then I felt myself pressed against straps that crossed my chest and legs. My muscles tensed anyway, and I paid the price as my various aches snapped to attention, letting me know beyond any doubt that they were still intact and intent on continuing to produce the agony for which they were conceived.

I groaned again.

"You awake, Row?" I heard Ben's gravelly voice over the melange of sounds bouncing around the inside of the vehicle.

I started out by slowly opening one eye and rolling it around until I found his face.

Then I opened the other and gained at least some sense of depth perception. I focused in and just stared back at him mutely.

My friend looked pretty much as he had when I'd last looked at him. Soot streaked and well worn. He peered back at me with a tired expression. "You gotta stop this shit, white man," he told me.

"What?" I croaked, my voice just as raw as his.

"Floppin' around like a fish outta water," he said.

"Yeah," I agreed softly. "I think you're right."

"Was it one of those outta body things?"

"Yeah."

"Just checkin'. You weren't sure last time."

"I'm pretty sure this time."

"Get anything from it?"

"Bad taste in my mouth," I replied.

"I would too."

I didn't bother to explain that my comment wasn't intended as a metaphor."Mister Gant?" A different voice called my name.

"Yeah?" I grunted. "Who wants to know?"

"Mister Gant, my name is Rick," the voice returned. A pair of surgical-glove-sheathed hands came into view and were followed by the face of a paramedic. "How are you feeling?"

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Are you having any trouble breathing?" he continued, ignoring my sardonic query.

"No," I returned.

He adjusted a plastic tube beneath my nose then stole a glance at his watch. After a few seconds, I realized that he had taken hold of my wrist. Once he finished taking my pulse, he scribbled something on a clipboard. "Try to relax Mister Gant. We're only about seven minutes out."

"Yeah, sure," I answered.

I rolled my head slowly to the side and brought my eyes back to Ben. He was sitting on the bench across from the gurney, still holding his bandaged hands limply in his lap. He had leaned back against the wall and had his eyes closed. His chin was tilted up, and his jaw was set tight. I watched as he reflexively reached up with his right hand and started to smooth his hair back then winced before dropping the appendage back down. He let out a heavy sigh and frowned even harder.

"Porter got away didn't he." I finally made the matter-of-fact statement.

"Yeah," my friend answered dully. "Yeah, he got away."

"Any leads?" I asked.

He shook his head slowly and then opened his eyes as he lowered his chin and looked over at me. "He dumped the van five blocks away. They're doing a house to house, and they brought in a canine unit, but nothing yet."

"He's not stupid," I offered. "He had an escape plan this time around."

"Yeah, I know."

"What about the officer he hit?"

"Broken arm and prob'ly a concussion. Looks like he's gonna be okay."

"Good."

"Asshole wants you in a bad way, Row. And he doesn't care who gets hurt in the process. Not this time."

"Yeah," I muttered.

It was bad enough that I had to live my life under a rock because of a demented killer, but everyone around me now seemed to be at risk. Pagan or not. It definitely was not a good feeling."Any word yet on Carl?" I asked.

His voice had a distant quality when he answered. "No. Not yet."

"Sometimes feelings can be wrong, Ben," I offered.

"Let's hope you're right."

"We'll be at the hospital in just about five minutes," Rick offered as a lull fell into the halting conversation.

"I never did call Felicity," I lamented.

"I called 'er," Ben told me.

"What did she say?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Is she mad?"

"You wanna think about that question and ask it again?"

"Stupid question, huh," I grunted.

"You said it, not me, but yeah, stupid question," he returned. "Gotta give her credit though, she seemed like she stayed pretty calm considerin'."

"That's a plus."

"Yeah, I guess, but she didn't sound too good, white man."

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "She just didn't sound good, that's all."

"Is there something you're not telling me?" I pressed.

I waited, but he didn't answer.

I moved on to the next question. "So can you get someone to pick her up?"

"Mandalay's already bringin' her," he offered. "The way Constance drives they're probably already there."

I tried to chuckle and it hurt. I winced, then coughed, and then winced again.

"What're ya' laughin' at this time?" Ben asked.

"You talking about Mandalay's driving," I told him as I forced myself to relax in an attempt to deal with the aches. "Which one are you, the pot or the kettle?"

"Gimme a break." He rolled his eyes and then sat quiet for a moment before taking on a serious tone once again. "So listen, Kemosabe, I need to talk to you about somethin'."

"I'm sorry," I told him. "I didn't mean to insult your driving."

"Not that." He scrunched his face and waved a gauze-covered hand at me. "I think we need to get you and Felicity outta town for a while."

"You mean you think I should run from this," I said."The wingnut's on a mission, Row," he returned. "I think it would be the best way to go. Not just for you but for Felicity and everyone else too."

I was chagrined. "So, it's more like you want to get me out of the way before someone else gets hurt."

"Yeah," he admitted. "Maybe. I guess that's part of it. But mostly it's for you and Fire Hair."

"What aren't you telling me, Ben?" I asked.

"Man..." he let his voice trail off for a moment. "Row... Jeez... Listen to me, Felicity's with Mandalay so she's safe, okay?"

I couldn't keep the sharpness out of my voice. "Tell me what's going on Ben."

"The S.O.B. had already called Felicity's cell phone when I got ahold of her. He told her you were dead and that she was next."

Chapter 20:.

I suppose it was a good thing that I had been strapped to the gurney. Not that anyone in the immediate vicinity was in any physical danger from me of course, especially considering the shape I was in; but what my friend had said produced a result similar to that of mixing fire and gunpowder.

By the time it was all said and done, I couldn't begin to remember everything I had said-or to be more accurate-screamed. What I could recall were several targeted expletives and a devout promise that I would kill Eldon Porter as soon as I had the chance. My rant lasted from its inception in the back of the ambulance, through the lobby of Emergency, and right on into the treatment room. It had finally taken the threat of sedation to get me to calm down.

In reality, all the threat did was get me to shut up because calm I definitely was not.

"Jeezusaychchrist!" Ben made the exclamation in an almost monosyllabic burst as he jerked away from the doctor who was treating him. "Do ya' think you stuck that damn thing in there far enough?!"

My friend had not allowed himself to be separated from me. He insisted that we be treated in the same room and had staunchly refused to have his sidearm secured anywhere other than within his immediate reach. As long as Porter was loose, he didn't plan to take any chances, and he was less than trusting of the hospital's security staff. In fact, he publicly referred to them as rent-a-cops, and he didn't mean it in a good way. Not that it was any great consolation, but so far, he hadn't been doing any better at making friends than me.He was currently sitting in a chair with his hand resting on a small, wheeled table.

The doctor was seated across from him and peering at the appendage through a magnifying lamp while working with a pair of tweezers. Fortunately, for Ben, those were the least dangerous looking of the stainless steel implements he had laid out on the side. Of course, that is probably one of the reasons that until his most recent exclamation Ben had kept his eyes focused on the door instead of the procedure in front of him.

I was sitting on the end of the examination table watching the pair with only passing interest. Truth be told, I wasn't really paying that much attention. I was still stewing about Porter's call to my wife, and my brain was splitting its time between formulating a plan for revenge and processing the sensory input. Neither one seemed to be winning out, and all I was truly accomplishing was making my headache worse.

Just in case that wasn't enough to deal with, for some reason there was a song playing in the back of my head, and I was having a hell of a time attaching a name to it. I knew I'd heard it before, but the title, artist, and everything else was escaping me.

I thought for a moment that if I gave up trying to place it then it would probably come to me. That's how things always seemed to work. Unfortunately, the more I thought about not thinking about it, the more I dwelled on it. Once again, a prime example of how things always seemed to work.

I staved off another twinge of pain from somewhere around the back of my grey matter and decided to ignore the tune. For the moment, paying closer attention to the goings on before me seemed the most logical way to do so.