The Sinister Mr. Corpse (22 page)

Hugh rolled Stanley on his stomach. He
struggled with all of his might, figuring that his situation wasn't
going to get much worse for misbehavior, but within moments Hugh
was kneeling on his back and holding him down firmly.

Tom placed the butcher knife against
Stanley's upper arm.

And began to saw.

It was a long, involved process, but
fortunately for Stanley, he was insane for most of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Stanley sat in the darkness, hurting and
miserable.

He missed his arm already.

They'd taken it away, laughing, and then
packaged it up and mailed it off.

He'd be okay. He was still alive, and Brant
would pay the ransom. Maybe with an extra splash of virgin blood
they could reattach his arm. Hopefully the thugs packed it
carefully.

No matter what happened, he wasn't going to
get depressed. He might cry and scream and pound his fists (well,
fist) against the floor, but he was going to remain upbeat. He'd
get out of this. Project Second Chance knew about the injection
deadline, so they wouldn't waste any time coming up with the
money.

Since handcuffs were somewhat ineffective on
an individual with only one hand, they'd tied his remaining arm
behind his back by wrapping the rope around his chest.

He tried to think happy
thoughts. After all, having only one arm wouldn't limit his
lifestyle all
that
much. What would he miss out on? Push-ups?

That was pretty much it. Push-ups. And
really, you could do one-handed push-ups if you had enough strength
in your arm, so he'd be losing out on nothing.

He'd be fine.

He could make a lot of jokes
about his disarming presence, and he'd have an advantage over
two-armed actors if they ever cast for a remake of
The Fugitive
, and maybe
he could even get a really cool prosthetic arm, one with superhuman
crushing abilities or a telescope built into the forearm or a laser
or something.

Then
he'd be fighting some serious crime.

He closed his eyes and wept.

* * *

He woke up, not sure if he'd actually been
asleep. He knew that Tom had come in and said something to him, but
he'd understood it to be something about lemmings and trampolines,
which was probably not the reality of the conversation.

He felt weak. He wasn't sure how long he'd
been locked in the room, but it may well have been twenty-four
hours or more.

He wondered when the oozing would begin.

He heard voices on the other side of the
door. He couldn't make out the words, but one of them was
definitely Tom. The other wasn't Hugh.

The door opened.

"Donald...?"

* * *

The scream had jolted Donald Mandigan out of
a very nice daydream involving the new makeup girl. She'd been
wearing a nurse outfit that would be unacceptable at any
state-approved hospital, and she kept dropping her thermometer.

He hurried out of his office and over to the
source of the scream. One of his interns was pressed against the
wall, pointing at the package she'd opened.

Donald rushed over and glanced inside.

An arm. A bluish-grey arm that looked a hell
of a lot like the arm that had been formerly attached to Stanley
Dabernath.

"Everyone stay calm!" he announced to the
other five people in the area. "Where did this come from?"

"It was in today's mail," the intern
explained.

There was an envelope taped to the lid of the
box. Donald pulled it free, opened it, and removed the handwritten
letter inside.

Donald Mandigan, we have
Mr. Corpse. If you want to see him
alive
again, bring twenty million
dollars to 313 East Arginine Blvd. at midnight tonight. Let nobody
follow you. Tell nobody. If you disobey our instructions, the next
package will contain his head.

"Did anybody else see this?" Donald
demanded.

The intern shook her head. Donald looked
around the room, and the rest of his staff shook their heads as
well.

"Okay, you're all under information lockdown.
There are raises for all of you if you keep quiet. Nobody is to say
a word to anybody, got it?"

The members of his staff nodded their
understanding.

Donald closed up the box, returned to his
office, and shut the door. He had to think about this.

* * *

Donald drove to the appointed address, a
briefcase resting on the car seat next to him. It did not contain
twenty million dollars. He didn't have that much. He did have
enough hundred dollar bills wrapped around stacks of one-dollar
bills that if the contents were not carefully inspected, it would
pass for twenty million dollars.

He hadn't told his producer because she would
freak if she knew he was putting himself in this much danger and
probably call the cops herself. Yes, it was a big risk, but the
story potential was immeasurable. And he didn't think he was
dealing with criminal geniuses, or else they would've mailed the
arm to Project Second Chance, not him. Then again, they were the
kind of sadistic bastards who would cut off somebody's arm, so he
had to be careful.

He spoke into his handheld recorder as he
drove. "If these are the last words I speak, I want the world to
know that I died to save a truly great American..."

* * *

He pulled into the driveway of a small,
decrepit home. It was about ten minutes until midnight.

He waited.

A couple of minutes after midnight, a man
approached the car, pointing a gun. "Come out with the money," he
said.

Donald picked up the suitcase and got out of
the car. "I'm unarmed," he lied.

The man grinned. "So is Mr. Corpse."

"Funny. Where is he?"

"He's safe."

"How do I know that?"

The man gestured at him with the gun. "Put
the suitcase on the car and open it, slowly."

Donald set the suitcase down and popped the
lid.

"I said slowly!"

"That was slowly."

"Slower."

Donald very slowly opened the lid, revealing
the bills inside. He picked up the stack on the upper right corner,
flipped through it, and extended it to the man. "Do you want to
count 'em all?"

"Damn, that's a lot of bills. Why didn't you
use thousand-dollar bills?"

"Because they don't exist."

"Sure they do."

"No, actually, they don't."

The man grabbed the stack of bills from
Donald, flipped through it, and handed it back. "Is that the twenty
million?"

"No. Twenty million dollars would be two
hundred thousand bills, which is unlikely to fit in this suitcase.
This is two million. You get the rest when I see Stanley." Donald
replaced the stack, one of six that was entirely made up of
hundreds, and closed the suitcase.

"That wasn't the deal."

"The deal was vague."

The man seemed to be thinking about whether
it might be worth it to just take the two million and run, so
Donald spoke up. "You take me to get Stanley, and then the three of
us can go to where the rest of the money is hidden."

"How do I know there aren't cops there?"

"If a cop shows up, you can shoot me."

The man considered that. "Fair enough."

"Should I ride with you, or just follow
you?"

"You can ride in my trunk."

Donald sighed. "All right. Let's go."

* * *

Donald looked horrified as Tom shoved him
into the room. "My God, Stanley, what did they do to you?"

"Shot me in the head, sawed my arm off, let
rats nibble on me...but at least there was no mental torture."

"Glad to see you've kept your sense of
humor."

"Enough talk," said Tom. "Hugh, get the
corpse guy up and let's get them out to the car. Mandigan, you're
going to help carry."

* * *

"Stop shoving," said Stanley.

"I'm not shoving, I'm being jostled. It's not
my fault he can't drive."

The trunk was not built for two, even with
Stanley taking up less room thanks to his missing arm. Donald had
protested the arrangement, but the gun that Tom pressed against his
nose had apparently convinced him that the discomfort was worth
it.

"Were you awake when they did it?" Donald
asked.

"Did what?"

"What do you think? Cut off your arm."

"Sort of. The bullet is still in my brain. It
makes me go kinda loopy at times. You took good care of my arm,
right?"

"I'm using it as a lamp."

"Were you always this funny?"

"No. I'm just trying to distract myself from
the idea that they might open the trunk and riddle us with bullet
holes. Ooops, didn't work."

"Ha ha."

"Your arm is in my refrigerator. It looks
about as bad as it did before it came off."

"So why'd you come to get me?"

"Extra fame."

"No, really."

"Extra fame."

"No bond of friendship?"

"Nah. I always thought that you were kind of
a jerk, to be honest."

"I tried not to be, and look where it got
me."

"At least you'll only be able to flip people
off half as often."

"Yeah, there's that."

"Don't worry, Stanley. We'll be okay. I've
got a plan."

"Good plan or shitty plan?"

"Shitty plan, but that's better than no plan.
I've got a gun."

"You mean the one that fell out when you got
in the trunk?"

Stanley couldn't see Donald, but he was
pretty sure that he wasn't wearing a smile.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"I take it you don't have the rest of the
money?"

"I didn't have the money they think they've
already got. There's not anywhere close to two million in that
suitcase. But I've got a sniper ready and waiting."

"What if they check the money?"

"They won't."

"I dunno, that seems like something they
might be inclined to do."

Stanley still couldn't see Donald's
expression, but he was pretty sure it continued to not be a smile.
"Well, I hadn't intended to be riding in a trunk. I figured I could
keep them from going through the money if I were actively talking
to them."

"So we're screwed."

"No. They won't be pawing through a suitcase
filled with money while they're driving and somebody could
see."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sixty percent sure."

The car turned, slowed, and stopped.

"We've only been driving for fifteen minutes
or so," said Donald. "It should've taken us half an hour."

"Maybe they stopped for a potty break."

"Okay, I have a really bad feeling about this
all of a sudden," said Donald, his voice panicked.

"Do you want to use me as a shield if they
start shooting?"

"No, seriously, I don't think this is good.
Aw, Christ. What the hell was I thinking?"

The lid of the trunk opened. Tom had his gun
pointed at them, and did not look happy.

"Get out," he said. "Slowly."

Stanley suddenly felt like he was going to
vomit. Fear had a lot to do with it, but it was something more. His
skin was starting to itch and burn.

Donald climbed out of the trunk and glanced
around. "This isn't where I told you to--"

The gunshot cut him off. Donald dropped to
the ground.

"Shit!" cried Stanley, pushing himself
tightly against the back of the trunk as if that would protect
him.

"Think you can screw me over?" said Tom,
looking down. Stanley couldn't see Donald's body, but he assumed
that it was in poor shape. Tom fired twice more, and then pointed
the gun at Stanley. "Get out."

The itching and burning was almost
unbearable. He tried to push himself up...and then his arm gave
way, folding underneath him.

He let out a squeal.

"I said, get out!" Tom shouted, as Hugh
walked up beside him.

"I'm...I'm having a problem here..."

Tom stomped over to the trunk, reached
inside, grabbed Stanley by the collar, and pulled him forward.
"Your buddy just cost you, big time," he said.

Working together, Tom and Hugh dragged
Stanley out of the trunk. He fell onto the ground, feeling his ass
cheek flatten underneath him more than it should have. They were
behind a warehouse, or at least something that looked like it might
be a warehouse from behind.

Donald lay on the ground in a pool of blood,
unquestionably dead.

"It wasn't my fault," Stanley insisted. "You
can still get the rest of your money!"

"So you can screw us over again? I don't
think so!"

"I wasn't involved in the screwing!"

"We're just gonna sell you off in parts,"
said Tom. "Probably worth big bucks that way. Should've kept the
other arm."

"C'mon, let's be reasonable!"

"Let's not." Tom pointed the gun at
Stanley.

Stanley instinctively threw his arm in front
of his face to protect himself. His arm stretched out to about
twice its length, smacking Tom in the face.

Tom, Hugh, and Stanley all gaped in
surprise.

"What the hell was
that
?" Tom
demanded.

Stanley threw another extended punch, this
one striking Tom in the nose. It wasn't a particularly hard blow,
but the second hit surprised Tom just as much as the first, and he
stumbled backwards.

Stanley pulled on his right leg. It stretched
like it was made of elastic and popped free of the rope.

Tom fired the gun. The bullet struck Stanley
in the chest. Though he'd rather not have been shot, the pain was a
welcome distraction from the itching and burning.