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Chapter 32

By the end of his shift he'd interviewed two Raleigh women and the gargoyle they'd adopted, had taken calls from the listeners he was starting to classify as the good, the bad, and the nuts, and had discussed Puck and Puck's progress in between playing the best rock of the '70s, '80s and '90s. When he left the booth he felt sure North Carolina was moving toward its own redemption.

But not all at the same pace.

He got two more calls from people who said they were going to get him, and several from people who said they were very sorry to see on television that the car bomb had blown up the wrong person. While the hate calls weren't fifty percent of the calls he was getting anymore, as they had been the first day or two, they still made up about a third of the phone calls that he took over the air, and about a fourth of the ones the station received.

Steve's replacement, a guy named Keene, came in for his first afternoon and Dan had a few minutes to talk to him before he joined Sandy and Darlene for a couple of quick, celebratory drinks over the ratings. The guy seemed nice enough. He was a funny, easygoing redhead the size of a bull moose, and he was congratulatory about the Great Devil Makeover. "I came in to apply for this job because of you," he said. "You're the kind of person this state needs. You know I stayed here because of you? I had almost finished packing . . ." He gave Dan a bemused smile. "That would have been a damned shame, too. I love it here."

Dan nodded. "I know what you mean."

The celebration took place at a bar within walking distance of his apartment, a new tavern called The Green Lantern that was next to Darryl's on Old Wake Forest Road. The place had attracted a neighborhood clientele; the college crowd mixed liberally with businessmen stopping in after hours and couples on their way to and from other places. Dan visited at irregular intervals, usually when he was missing Francie. Since the hellish heat of the last few days had finally broken, he dropped the station's car off in the parking lot, changed into Bermuda shorts and his favorite Hawaiian shirt and a pair of athletic sandals, and hiked. That way, he figured, if he and Sandy and Darlene decided to get shit-faced, he wouldn't have to worry about getting the car home. He'd considered calling either Meg or Janna to see if one or the other wanted to join him, but he realized he didn't particularly want to share The Green Lantern.

The crowd was typical of Saturday night; he was there alone, but Sandy brought Julie and Darlene brought her fiancé, whose name Dan thought was Mitch or Rich. He and Sandy and Mitch/Rich kept drinking after Julie and Darlene switched to Diet Cokes. They had a good time, but he had the Sunday morning show, too, and another five A. M. wake-up—and he felt the alcohol, which meant he'd probably gone past enough and into the realm of too much.

He raised the remains of his boilermaker and said, "Final toast for me, folks. To second chances."

The others raised their glasses, he swallowed the last of his drink, then rose to leave. He felt a little unsteady.

"You want a ride?" Mitch/Rich asked.

"The walk will straighten me out a little," Dan said. He took a deep breath, pulled his shoulders back, wondered if he was overcompensating, then carefully left the bar.

He felt better as soon as he stepped out the door. The night air was cool and summer-scented—he recognized the heavy sweetness of gardenias and the lighter scent of night-blooming jasmine planted along the back of the bar's parking lot. One of those funky things that surprised women—that he knew some flowers by their smells. That was because of Francie, of course. She'd loved flowers.

He started feeling sorry for himself again, and though he knew the alcohol was talking, he let himself listen. He didn't even notice for a moment that a tall, gorgeous woman had joined him and was walking beside him, until she said, "Want a date?"

He jumped and turned to look at her. "No thanks."

"You sure?"

Dan gave her a more thorough assessment. His first impression had been "gorgeous." His second was "most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life." Her eyes were large and luminous, her lips full, her jaw firm and just square enough. Her hair flowed down to the middle of her bare back in a dark sensuous wave. Her tight sheath dress barely reached to midthigh. She balanced like a dancer on five-inch spiked pumps. She was, he thought, an order above the usual cut of streetwalkers. She was young enough, beautiful enough that she should, at least, have been a high-priced call girl operating out of an expensive apartment. The clothes said streetwalker, though. She was wasting all that beauty on sleaze.

"You aren't my type, " he said.

She shrugged and smiled at him. "Your loss," she said. "But if you've never had a succubus, honey, you don't know what you're missing."

He stopped and stared at her. "You're one of the Hellraised?"

"Guaranteed disease-free—you don't even need a rubber with me, sweetheart. And you wouldn't believe what I can do with my tongue."

He shook his head. "You're going to have to do it with someone else."

She rested a hand on his shoulder, and after just an instant, said, "I can be anything you want."

Her voice had changed. Dan turned to chase her away, and found himself face to face with Francie. Not the real Francie—he knew that. This woman was too tall, too voluptuous, and dressed in a way Francie would never have dressed. But the face was Francie's face. The eyes were her eyes. The smile was her smile. Dan felt a lump growing in his throat, felt tears beginning to burn in his eyes.

"Get away from me," he snarled.

Her face melted into the face it had been before. She shook her head and smiled a pitying smile at him. "Like I said, darlin'—your loss." She sauntered back the way she'd come, her hips swinging to a sultry jazz beat that only she could hear. He found himself watching her leave.

She would have been Francie for me, he thought. But she could never have been Francie.

He turned at last and trudged down the street toward home.

A few minutes later, cutting through the alley that led to the apartment complex, he heard footsteps. He looked over his shoulder.

Three of the Hellraised were back there. He could make out the horns on one, the dragging tail of the second, the long claws and pitchfork of the third.

Funny, though—he'd never seen one of the Hellraised carry a pitchfork. He'd decided, after watching interviews and meeting a few and passing them on streets, the pitchfork was just some cliche designed by artists who thought the Devil farmed.

But no. Evidently not.

The trio behind him started walking faster. Dan felt a little uneasy—he knew the Hellraised couldn't hurt him. But his gut didn't know that. He instinctively picked up his own pace a little, trying to make his strides longer but not faster, so they wouldn't know they were scaring him.

Well, they'd know, of course. They were the Hellraised. He tried to remember if he'd read anything about gangs of Hellspawn stalking people through alleys in order to scare them. He couldn't recall any incidents of that sort, but . . .

Their footfalls rang faster. He wished the alley wasn't so long, or that the next break in the brick buildings was closer. He kept wondering why they were following him.

Suddenly he heard them start to run.

Oh, shit, he thought. He bolted. They can't hurt me . . . they can't hurt me . . . he told himself over and over, while he pounded through the alley. They can't do anything to me at all.

But what if they could?

"Faster!" one of them yelled. "Before he hits the street."

He could see the street lights ahead of him. Beyond the alley he could hear the movement of traffic. But in the tunnel of darkness through which he ran, it seemed that only he and his pursuers existed. Adrenaline banished his drunkenness—his terror lent him speed.

"Kill him now," a different voice shouted.

He pumped his arms, picked up his feet, wished he had a job that got him off his ass more often. He was out of shape, and he could feel it almost immediately. Breathe, he thought. Breathe.

Something ripped into his side, threw him off his stride, flung him up against the brick wall while red screaming tearing pain burned through his ribs through his flesh and the night-black world flashed blood-red and pain-white.

Rough hands grabbed him and threw him against the wall again—his head bounced off brick and the night lit up with thousands of white pinprick stars that swirled inches from his face. He fought, kicking and punching; a hand clamped over his mouth and nose and he bit; someone screamed; someone else began punching him in the gut, rhythmically—in, twist, out . . . in, twist, out . . . over and over. He realized the man had a knife. Was stabbing him. He tried to push off the attacker, but the other two men held his hands. The fight went out of him. He sagged. This is it, he thought. I'm dead.

Twin beams of white light shot down the alley, illuminating the three attackers. A car coming. Too late.

Dan saw that his attackers were human, dressed in devil costumes. Their heads came up from what they were doing, they stared for just an instant at the oncoming car.

"Take him with us?"

"Leave him. No way he's going to make it."

"Run!"

Then they ran, leaving the knife still in his gut. He watched them flee. Saw the lines of costumes in the bleaching beam of the mercury headlights—zippers down backs, seams in legs and arms, a tear in one costume that showed a bit of blue denim underneath. Funny to notice such things when he was dying. Dying didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would, either.

And he thought, Francie, it won't be long now.

The car stopped in front of him, bathing him in its headlights. Someone got out, slammed the door—he heard running feet, this time coming toward him. Then Puck was kneeling over him, staring at the damage, muttering, "No, you can't die, you can't die," and his words got further and further away, as if Dan were falling down a well.

Too late, he thought. I'm doing it anyway.

That seemed almost funny.

Funny.

Which described the way he felt. Warm and cold, and light.

As if he were floating. He looked around him, looked down, and realized he was floating. His body lay below him, and he reached for it, but couldn't hold on to himself. Couldn't get back. For a moment he hung there, staring down, watching Puck sending the imp running for help. Funny. He looked so stupid in his bloody Hawaiian shirt and his shorts, with his eyes open and staring. He couldn't even find it in himself to feel much regret. Francie was somewhere ahead of him, not behind him. He looked up. He could feel her presence. Francie.

The devil did something that didn't make sense to him. Soft golden light began pouring from his fingertips and from his eyes, as if for a moment they'd become headlights, too. Dan's gentle, gradual drift away from his body stopped. In fact, it seemed that he was getting closer to himself again.

No, he thought. Francie! I want to go to Francie!

Then he felt himself breathing, and heard again the noise of his heart beating and his blood rushing through his arteries and he felt tremendous pain in his head and chest and stomach, and he heard people running toward him, shouting.

Puck's eyes still glowed. His hands still glowed. The pain lessened.

People he didn't know stood around him, staring down at him.

One of them whispered, "It's a miracle."

Puck said, "Can you hear me, Dan?"

Of course I can, he thought. Don't be ridiculous. But when he tried to speak, he realized his mouth and vocal cords wouldn't respond. Couldn't.

"Dan. Come back." Puck's voice sounded almost angry.

Then he heard Janna's voice, saying, "Dan, sweetheart, you have to pull through this for me. Come on, Dan."

How had Janna found him? How had she known that he needed help? He didn't know, but she'd come. She was with him.

He thought, I am back. I'm back. I'm going to live.

Then the pain got worse one more time—became almost unbearable, as if he were running through a white-hot fire, as if it were burning his lungs and chest and belly to charcoal.

And he screamed.

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