Tony grabbed the man.

Perhaps it was the booze. Perhaps it was the situation. It was probably both. Tony grabbed the cabbie's shoulders and shook him. The driver was not a big man. He grabbed onto Tony's wrists and screamed. Tony screamed back. The driver screamed louder. Tony shouted at him to shut the f.u.c.k up or he would be thrown out of the cab. The driver dove forward, reaching for something.

Tony snapped. He did not have time for this s.h.i.t.

With all his strength, he yanked the driver back and through the gap between the front seats. The man wore a seat belt. Tony swore and clamped his arm around the man's neck, while his other hand went for the seatbelt release b.u.t.ton. He found the b.u.t.ton and undid it without a problem. The driver screamed and clawed and moved to bite. Tony felt the enamel against his earlobe and instinctively smashed the side of his skull into the driver's face.

"You f.u.c.ker!" the driver screamed at him, one hand still on Tony's arm, while the other went for his jaw. Tony didn't care. He just wanted the guy to drive. Was that so f.u.c.king hard to do? Couldn't he see that he was in a G.o.dd.a.m.n hurry? Jesus H. Christ!

Tony hauled the driver's a.s.s between the front seats and into the back. He somehow opened the rear door and shoved the cabbie out. He held on to the door. Cursing, Tony climbed out and kicked the hand off. He slammed the door and pointed a warning finger at the cabbie on the pavement, who backed away from the crazy stealing his car.

Tony didn't give a s.h.i.t. He was on a mission from G.o.d, or at least Lucy, to find Death. He had found the f.u.c.ker, and G.o.d d.a.m.n him if he was about to let some s.h.i.thead taxi driver f.u.c.k up his pursuit. Tony jumped in behind the wheel and slammed the door.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he heard from outside. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Tony put the car into drive and stomped on the accelerator. He threw the seat belt back and swore at it. The headlights showed the road ahead and the curve. He gunned the engine, ignoring any pedestrians and hoping to Lord above they had the good sense to stay out of his way. Then again, if someone did get in his way and he accidentally ran someone down, they weren't going to die anyway.

The thought made him speed up.

Red tail lights ahead of him. Tony was sure it was the Taurus. He gunned his car, getting it up to a hundred and closing the distance quickly. When he got close enough, he flicked on his high beams. He was close enough to see three heads in the back seat. One of the heads turned about.

It was Frank.

Death.

And he was smiling.

The head next to Death also turned and squinted.

Target acquired, Tony thought, and brought his car in closer to the Taurus.

Chapter 41.

"Who the f.u.c.k is this guy?" Peters asked no one in particular.

The interior of the car was lit up from the car behind them. The two Hansons were up front, driver and navigator. The driving Hanson swore, reached up and turned the rear view mirror down to get rid of the glare. He hated tailgaters that hung onto his a.s.s.

Death continued to smile.

Peters, sitting on Death's right while Bull Wash was on his left, zeroed in on the smile. He came close to Death's ear.

"You know who he is?" Peters demanded.

Death winced. The Minion's breath reeked.

"He's my boy," Death announced, and distantly thought he should not have revealed that information. Not to these head lice. Then he reconsidered, and thought, f.u.c.kit. "My amigo. My aide. Probably saw you abducting me."

"Your buddy is he?"

"He's not my..." Death shook his head in annoyance. That was a slip. The Mundane wasn't his friend.

"Well, then," Peters smiled, "drive on."

"He's up our a.s.s," the driving Hanson complained. "I can't drive like this."

Peters looked back again. "Wait till we're out of town. Then, we'll do something."

Death did not like the sound of that. "What?"

"You just keep your f.u.c.king mouth shut," Peters warned him and suddenly smiled. "Please."

Death grimaced. The Minion's breath stank of decaying s.h.i.t.

"f.u.c.king mans.h.i.t," Peters swore, frowning at the way the car's interior was lit up. No wonder he wanted to burn this world down.

Tony realized they were heading out of town. That would not do. It was time to get a little more proactive in his pursuit. Baring teeth, he floored the accelerator and pulled out from behind the Taurus. He overtook and pa.s.sed the car, hazarding a long look to see who was inside. Death was there, looking stoned. There were four others as well, looking tons p.i.s.sed off.

Well, Tony thought, they sure as h.e.l.l won't like this.

He brought the car in front of the Taurus and immediately slammed on the brakes, red tail lights blazing in the darkness. The driving Hanson swore aloud as he reciprocated. The Taurus shrieked to a halt. He and his brother lunged forward and cracked their faces on the dash and windshield. In the rear, the men crashed into the backs of the fronts seats with grunts of surprise. No one had thought to wear a seat belt.

Tony got out of his car and marched towards the halted Taurus. He focused on the rear door, ignoring the slumped over figures in the front of the car. One of the rear doors swung open. That was good. He would not have to smash open a window to get to Death.

A figure got out. He straightened up, shaking off the daze of the sudden stop. It was a big man. The size of a pro wrestler. Perhaps he was. Tony didn't give a s.h.i.t. He shook his hands loose at his sides. If the monster wanted to get busy, he was up for it. The man looked down at Tony, black eyes shining with anger. Tony brought his hands up; it looked like there was going to be some action after all. The rising of his blood shoved aside the effect of the alcohol in his system. His body went into machine mode, and he looked to get some hurting done. Tony closed the distance and swung first, straight from the shoulder, his fist snapping out with bone-shattering force.

His foe brought up his forearms and absorbed the punch.

Tony snarled, and in the next second, threw a jabbing left, aiming for the midsection of the giant. He hit it and felt hard flesh. He hit it again and again in rapid succession, and sidestepped, throwing another punch towards the big man's face. The monster blocked it. Tony roared, feeling a fighter's rage now, an urge to inflict pain, and punched the man in his kidneys, twisting his fist for greater force. It landed hard. He threw another body-jarring punch into his target's right side, then unloaded a salvo of battleship sh.e.l.ls square into his foe's mid-section, roaring as he did so.

Then, without warning, his world exploded.

He came to, lying on cold asphalt, staring up into a starless night sky. He was on his back, splayed out, and it slowly occurred to him that he had been hit. What was worse, he had been knocked out. He tried to move something, but all of his limbs were offline. He tried to lift his head, but his neck would have none of it. His jaw ached as if it were impaled on a tuna hook. His awareness suddenly switched viewpoints on him to gaze down on his p.r.o.ne form in the road. Then, he was looking at the sky again, forcing himself to stay awake.

He felt grip the front of his shirt. He was lifted up, like a weightlifter curling an easy warm-up rep. Tony's toes tiptoed on the asphalt, and instinct fed him no bulls.h.i.t as to how serious his situation was. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to stare into eyes so black he thought they were burnt out sockets. His vision focused a little more, and he saw the icy flecks of life within them.

Bull Wash smiled at the man thing. He let Tony's feet touch the ground and held him upright with one hand clamped iron tight around his throat. Wash's other fist, the size of a meteor, came in and gently touched Tony's nose. Bull Wash pulled his fist back. Tony saw the c.o.c.ked fist, reached up weakly with both hands, seeking the thumb of the hand that held him so that he could try a joint lock and escape. He groped at fingers of steel. Bull Wash let him, wondering for a moment what the little man was trying to do.

Then, the fist smashed into his face, and Tony's consciousness imploded into the blackness of his skull.

"What are you doing?" Peters stuck his head out the window and yelled Wash held his victim up with one arm. He punched Tony's body and face again and again, methodically, like a chef tenderizing a meaty, but still-b.l.o.o.d.y steak.

"Better kill him," Bull Wash replied, loading up to punch his victim again.

"You can't kill him, you f.u.c.king moron," Peters wailed.

Bull Wash turned about, his features darkening. In answer, Peters gestured to the man sitting inside the car. The giant's head went back in understanding. "Ooooh, yeah. That's right."

"Besides, you wail on him anymore, you might bring the other one on." Peters warned him. "And we don't need that right now."

Bull Wash ceased punishing his man-shaped punching bag. "We leave him, then?"

Peters thought it over for a moment. "Put him in the back seat." He regarded Death smugly. "Your amigo is gonna wake up in 'f.u.c.ked up' land."

"You guys are f.u.c.king t.i.ts you know that," Death said. He could see the beating Tony was taking through the windshield. It bothered him to see it. It shouldn't have, considering it was the Mundanes that drove him to this in the first place. This whole situation was beginning to bring down an otherwise great buzz. Death started to question the wisdom in allowing himself to be abducted. "Stupid p.r.i.c.ks."

He had Peters' attention.

"Didn't they tell you about me? Who I am?" Death flung at the Minion.

Peters scowled at the man beside him. He didn't like this a.s.shole's att.i.tude. Maia had said to take precautions, but, thus far, Peters could not fathom why. Death struck him as being a drunken wuss. Then, on impulse, he rammed his forehead into Death's face. The boatman's eyes rolled up and shut, and he slumped forward in the car. Peters let him. So much for that experiment.

Death fell from conscious thought then, but in his descent, he heard a receding voice.

"I know who you are," the voice said.

Then, oblivion.

Chapter 42.

The snow was still coming down as forensic pathologist Jordy Garlich arrived at the Bellevue City Hospital, New York. He was bundled up in a black trench coat with several layers of cotton sweaters underneath. He was of average height, wore round John Lennon gla.s.ses, and was in a bad mood. It was night time, and he hated being called in at night, especially in the winter. Once he retired, in another fifteen years, he was hauling up the family and heading to Florida. He looked forward to adopting an alligator.

He pulled his hat off as he strode towards the hospital mortuary, revealing a head of light brown hair only getting lighter as time went on. Garlich briskly made his way to the front desk, identified himself to the nurse stationed there and asked for directions to the morgue. Garlich thought she wasn't in a particularly cheerful mood. He thanked her and headed for the stairs. The mortuary was two levels down in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

He entered the stairwell and descended, not really paying attention to the bright light and the cement all around him. Garlich had the day off tomorrow, a nice thing, and he should be home with his wife, in bed, his front to her back and a handful of soft breast. But, as he faced the door to the mortuary, this wasn't to be. At least not right away. He knocked on the door before entering.

The room was lit up brightly, despite what one would see in a vampire or zombie movie, and a wall of steel freezers shone. Gurneys were pushed off to the one side in a non-designated gurney parking lot, and the rest of the room was filled with tables containing sheet covered bodies. The air was cold down here and smelled of chemicals. Two men in white examiner's coats were behind a single desk with a computer. One man was standing, the other sitting. Both looked in his direction when he entered.

"Jordy!" One man greeted anxiously and came forward. "Sorry about this. I wouldn't have called you if I didn't think it was really important. Extremely important."

He had sandy hair and a bad complexion as if he had fallen asleep in a chicken coop and the hens had pecked him without remorse. But the man's smile was warm and bright. He shook Garlich's hand, pumped it twice and indicated the man sitting behind the desk.

"This is"

There was a groan in the room then, a low sound of air escaping lungs but ending in a tired note of pain. Garlich looked to Aaron Roeder, the man greeting him, and Aaron merely c.o.c.ked his head uneasily before nodding that, yes, he heard it too, and, no, Garlich wasn't imagining things.

It came from a huge examination table, where a ma.s.s of something was covered by a dark grey sheet. Another table was set up beside it. An a.s.sortment of instruments lay on the table: shiny scalpels, bone saws, rib cutters-the heavy shears used to cut through rib cagesand hammers with specially fitted hooks to remove the tops of skulls.

The man behind the desk slowly got to his feet and made meaningless motions with his hands as if he didn't quite know what to do with them.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" Garlich asked in a quiet voice.

Roeder's smile disappeared. "That's the reason why I called you here tonight. Seems we have" he gestured to the other man, "something of a puzzle, I guess you could say."

"Someone presumed dead woke up?" Garlich asked in all seriousness. It happened once, back in the '90s. A young skateboarder who had been electrocuted suddenly came to life on the medical examiner's table.

Roeder didn't respond right away. He forced a smile. "Something like that. This is Ted Myer. He's the Medical Examiner on duty here tonight."

Garlich shook the man's hand. He then faced Roeder. "So, why are you here?"

"Ted called me in, just after the, uh, deceased started making noises."

It was usual for bodies to sigh or make "last breaths" as organs released pent up oxygen. Garlich focused on Roeder. The man was a senior, experienced doctor that knew all about what a body usually did or didn't do after death. Garlich usually called him up to ask for advice if he had something different or just to confirm a hunch. Not the other way around.

Garlich was not a person to a.s.sume much of anything. "Like what we just heard?"

Both men nodded. They looked like s.h.i.t. Myer had the nervous ticks of a person in bad need of nicotine. Roeder didn't smoke, or drink as far as Garlich knew, but he looked as if he needed a shot of something.

"What have you got?" Garlich asked.

Roeder and a quiet, nervous looking Myer led him to the table on the other side of the room. Roeder switched on the overhead examiner's light while Myer took a hold of the grey sheet and pulled it back.

Garlich blinked. A heavy sigh escaped him, and he dearly wished Roeder had called someone else. There was no way he was going to sleep this night. It was the worse death he had seen in a while, and he saw the remains were actually on two examiner's tables pushed together. Given the condition of the corpse, it was easy to see why.

It was a woman. An older woman, that much Garlich could tell. Her body and skull had been crushed by some G.o.d-awful weight. Myer unravelled the sheet back, all the way to the corpse's toes. Her body ma.s.s had been flattened out as if she had been aged cookie dough mashed by an uneven rolling pin.

Garlich pursed his lips together. He straightened up as he beheld the sight before him. "When was she brought in?"

Myer spoke. "Two days ago. Early morning. I wasn't here and there was a backlog. I came on today."

Garlich gave no reaction. He leaned in close to the corpse. The woman had been crushed to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp. Shards of bone stretched black skin up towards the light, and in some case, raw bone splinters had punched through tissue. The smell of blood and gut was not so strong. The Diener had done a good job in cleaning her up. Garlich inspected the carnage of the body. There were sections that had been crushed, but flesh and tissue matter had risen to create grooves. He was reminded of Sat.u.r.day morning cartoons his kid watched, where the character that gets squished by an anvil walks away with the shape of the anvil in its body. The cause of death was obvious. Someone had run her down, and kept on running her over.

"Cause of death looks to be homicide in nature," Garlich declared. This wasn't a hit and run. This was a hit and mash. He touched the woman's ruined ribcage. "What tests have you"

The corpse groaned again. Garlich froze. The hair on the back of his neck p.r.i.c.ked up like needles, and his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es drew up. He took one step back from the woman on the table and stared in fascination at her destroyed face. Half a red jaw had pierced her cheek. White jelly from destroyed eyes surrounded it. The other half of the jaw was missing, probably pulverized.

Garlich stood and stared, listening. When no other sounds came from the body, he started to breathe again.

"What was that?" he calmly asked the men present.

Roeder had long come to respect the steel of Garlich. In his time, he had witnessed a few forensic people lose their lunch or nerve when examining bodies. Not Garlich. The man was Mr. Spock.

"That," Roeder informed him, looking him in the eye, "is the reason why I called you down here. She's not... quite dead."