No Mercy

to face down evil—the same attitudes

in the tailgate to operate. Jonathan

Dom said, finally. “Let’s hear it. In total, how many fewer souls will walk the

Thank God for a big engine and four-wheel drive. No mere mortal of a vehicle was designed to pull two adults and three hundred pounds of equipment up roads that were this vertical. Nearly eight hours and two tanks of gas had passed since they’d pulled away from the firehouse in the wee hours, and now that they were closing in on the last mile, even the Batmobile’s engine was beginning to show the strain.

“No, I never did,” Boxers confessed. “I never came close to liking her. And the way she treated you when she left, well, that didn’t help. But that don’t mean I don’t hurt when you hurt.”
This time, when Jonathan turned to face the big man, he allowed himself a gentle smile.
“You’re my friend, Dig. That makes you a rare friggin’ breed. I hate seein’ you in pain.”

“Do you want me to walk you through all the stages of grief, Dom? I know about the anger and the guilt and the denial. I’ve lived ’em all before, and I’m sure I’ll live them all again. Don’t crowd me.”
“You loved her, Dig.”

Venice looked as if she might have been crying. Dom looked as if he were about to. The priest stepped ahead to get to Jonathan first.
“What is it?” Jonathan asked, knowing the answer already.

Jonathan opened his eyes at 05:58 with the sensation of lying on a bed of ax handles. JoeDog had joined him during the night, and she was attempting to push his kidneys out through his navel while pretending to stretch. “Don’t forget to make up the bed,” he grumbled as he rolled out and put his feet on the floor. It was time for him to be up anyway.

Jonathan wandered his way and helped himself to the wooden William and Mary rocking chair. The slatted back was somehow easier on his twice-broken vertebrae than the really soft stuff.

for Jonathan it was the other way around—he sought sleep to avoid the reality of his days.
Tonight, the telephone sounded ultra-amplified, and he knew before he moved that bad news was on the way. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember a time when a phone call had brought good news. Add the fact that it was the middle of the night, and the sense of dread trebled. As he swung his head to look at the clock, the ghosts of last night’s eighth and ninth beers haunted him with bed-spins. The LED readout burned 9:10 into his retinas. Okay, forget the part about being the middle of the night.