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Chapter 34

 

SUNDAY, JUNE 12TH

After the second attempt on his life, Dan found himself with a day off. Sandy stayed over and covered for him and the weekend afternoon DJ was going to come in early. After Dan called Bernie to tell him what had happened, Bernie decided that having Dan away from the station might be good for the station, no matter what he was doing for the ratings.

"If the wackos decide to blow us up," Bernie'd said, "the fact that we were number one when they did it is going to be small consolation."

So Dan woke at seven, hungover, hurting, and with the tune of the song "Mandy" running through his head. He eased out of his waterbed, grateful that Puck and Fetch had done such a miraculous job of fixing it. Puck's miracle with him had been less than pain-free. He would have the scars from the knife for the rest of his life. Forty-seven of them. And even though Puck had healed the lethal wounds, he hadn't managed to take away the bruises or a lot of the pain; Dan's entire chest and gut felt like one big bruise. Hurting the way he was, he didn't know that he could have slept at all on a regular bed. Or the couch. Or the floor. Thank Puck for the waterbed.

He limped to the shower, wondering how people who broke their ribs managed to breathe. His chest was on fire and he wanted to hunch over and creep along an inch at a time, and all he had was bruised cartilage. In the shower, surrounded by the steam and enjoying the hot water pounding on his back, he began to feel better. A lot better.

When he caught himself singing a Donny and Marie Osmond song about being "a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll," though, he turned the hot water off entirely and stood in the icy cold spray until he came to his senses. He didn't think he could stand to feel that good.

"What next?" he muttered. "'Stairway to Heaven'? Something by Tiffany? 'Just When I Needed You Most'? Or maybe a song by Boyz II Men, the Osmonds of the nineties?" He'd never been an aficionado of insipid pop. Not ever. So where was this regurgitation of the sappiest music of all time coming from?

Then he heard them. Out in the living room.

The Bee Gees.

"Aw, come on!" He threw on his bathrobe and limped out of his bedroom.

Puck sat on the couch, eyes closed, a blissful expression on his face, listening while the castrati disco gods of the seventies squeaked and squealed.

"Puck?"

"Mmmmm?" The devil didn't open his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

Puck pointed to the stack of vinyl on the turntable. "Listening to my music."

"There's such a thing as going too far," Dan said. He turned the volume down on the stereo. "You can listen to good music. You don't have to develop a taste for this . . . dreck."

Puck sat up. "Excuse me, but this is what I like. This is what I've liked for a long time. This is my music."

"This is what you listened to in Hell?" Actually, Dan could see that. He guessed even music got what it deserved.

"What I listened to. Not what everybody listened to. I wasn't going to listen to elevator music."

"Elevator music?"

"Yeah. Ozzy Osborne, Black Sabbath . . . like that." He got a smug look on his face. "I listened to counterculture," he said, and Dan was almost certain he could hear a note of pride in the devil's voice.

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Framed