“So, this is just a job for you?” she said, sounding a little disappointed, as though somehow, I was the kind of guy who died purely out of the goodness of her heart.
“I’m glad to be helping people,” I said. “I’m glad to be giving Dan a second chance at a good legacy. I really am. But it’s a little hard to hold down a steady job when you’re out for two weeks because you’re dead. Do I technically need to keep a roof over my head or food in my belly? Not technically. I could keep going, starving to death and freezing to death over and over, but that’s a pretty terrible existence. If I can do good and pay the rent, I’m going to do it that way.”
She didn’t say anything, just helped me out of my clothes and into my wingsuit. “Do we strap the bomb vest on now?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “That happens on the podium. Dan Germany feels it will add to the tension.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I need to study this speech, though, so I guess I’ll see you on the other side.”
She nodded and turned to leave.
“And when this is over, when I’ve come back from this? I’ll take that phone to the store and buy a new charger,” I told her.
“You owe me one,” she said.
“I do.”
She shut the door behind her and I was alone to study the speech, making a few changes and speaking into a tape recorder once I had it the way I like it. It was a method the Marquis recommended, taping something and replaying it over and over until I had learned it. I was so intent on rehearsing it and so worn out from the uncomfortable sleep in the back of that car, that I didn’t notice the gas seeping into the room, smothering my breath.
Chapter 24
OLIVIA
A SAD GOODBYE, YOU DROP LIKE STONE
I leave Old Dan Germany be and check in with Young Dan Germany or Clark or Curtis or whatever he’s calling himself these days just to make sure everything is still in order. I find him at my laptop, poking around.
“What are you doing there?” I ask.
“What? Me? Nothing,” he says way too quickly to be believed.
I peek over his shoulder and see the Fist’s Hide and Seek page open. “What’s this,” I say, “because it certainly doesn’t look like nothing to me.”
“Well, I remember they said they were going to make SoccerMomByDay wait a while before she could claim her money, right?”
“Right,” I say.
“Well, we just made an announcement that Danger Man Dan Germany would be doing a death-defying stunt today, and we made a pretty nice chunk of change for us in the process.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, if Dan is doing a stunt, Dan isn’t dead. If Dan isn’t dead, some killers might come crawling out of the woodwork to claim that ten grand before Dan’s stunt does the work for them.”
“Okay. I can get behind that,” I say. “Of course, the real challenge is spotting them. I know these people have to film that they did it, but a stunt like this? Everyone and their dog has their cameras out.”
“It’s only for a little while. Dan will be dead in an hour anyway,” Young Dan Germany says. “We just have to keep watch until then. If you want to cover his door for the next few minutes while I wrap this up, I’ll-”
“Wrap what up?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just checking the site. That’s all.”
I check the screen and see a username ManofDanger logged in. “What the hell, Dan? Is this you?”
He turns away in a huff.
I poke about to see if he’s posted anything. He has, a video in which he moves from one piece of stunt equipment to another, explaining all the different ways things can go wrong, that the equipment could break, keeping Poor Old Dan from surviving the stunt. “What the hell are you thinking, man?”
“I was thinking if they want to pay someone ten grand to make sure he’s dead and we’re going to be making sure he’s dead anyway, why not get paid on both ends, you know?”
“I thought you wanted a fresh start here,” I say. “This is not the way to start fresh.”
“What are you talking about? Do you know what I could do with ten grand? That’s a sizeable chunk of money.”
“The mob already wants you dead for screwing with their money and now you want to do it again?”
“I know! It’s perfect. It’ll serve the bastards right.”
“It’s a bad idea,” I say.
“I planned this,” he says, spitting his words at me. “I earned this. Some scumbag wants to do it, no problem, but I try to and it’s a big deal?”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“I’ve been playing with fire all my life,” he says. “It’s how I make a living.”
I throw my hands in the air in defeat and walk away to guard Old Dan Germany’s door. There are a few fanboys hanging out by his trailer. Autograph hounds from the look of it, but I can’t be too careful this close to the finish line.
“Back up,” I say. “Mister Germany needs to prepare. It’s a hell of a stunt, one which can’t be taken on lightly. He needs to get his mind in the right place. I’d hate for something to go wrong because he couldn’t clear his head before the big jump.”
It occurs to me what a horrible thing to say that was. Dan Germany will not survive the day. At least one of these poor fans will blame himself when things go wrong and Danger Man is hacked to bits by a helicopter blade or can’t escape the car or catches on fire or explodes. Me and my big mouth just stuck someone with a decade long guilt complex. Please don’t let it be one of the true, faithful fans, I think to myself. Please let it be one of the assholes who is just here to watch him die.
Once everyone has cleared away, I knock on the door. “The car’s at the top of the ramp. The helicopter remote pilot is working fine, and the chopper’s moving into position below the ramp now. The fires are lit on the rings. Everything’s ready to go. Just waiting on you.”
No response.
“You good to drive straight for a hundred yards and let fate handle the rest?”
Still nothing.
“Danger Man?” I say and knock again. “Mister Germany?”
Nothing. Damn. Figures this would happen. I force the door open and see the immortal Dan Germany slumped on the floor, eyes closed. I grab his throat, no pulse. No breath against a mirror. There’s no sign of a struggle, no injuries. Maybe he’s healed it already, or maybe he’s been poisoned. Either way he should revive soon. Slipping out and carefully shutting the door behind me, I slink around the building, looking for evidence of foul play. There’s a can of compressed air with an open valve suspiciously close to the room’s vents. Probably carbon monoxide. Odorless, tasteless, and the corpse doesn’t even look particularly dead. If you expect someone to be sleeping, carbon monoxide poisoning will go a long way to buying you time after an assassination. Clever bastards. That’s one of my moves.
Cracking a window, I let the air clean itself out. I don’t know specifically how his powers work, whether or not he’ll come back alive and then die all over again if the air is poison or if he just won’t come back until the air is clear. Either way, no harm can come from venting the place. Back inside the now breathable room, I slap Dan Germany’s corpse around a bit hoping to wake him up sooner. It doesn’t really do anything, but it does help purge some frustration that’s been building since I decided to take on the task of keeping him alive. In hindsight, though, it may even slow his resurrection down. If I pop any blood vessels, those would have to heal before he revives. Reluctantly I stop, but not before giving him one more hard slap. “Charge your damn phone!”
I take a seat in his chair and stare at his corpse, waiting for him to wake up. There’s not much to do, so I poke around at his things, hoping to find some mementos or souvenirs, but I don’t find any. Why would I? It’s not like this is the real Dan Germany, reflecting on his life and career before one last big stunt. That’s all for show. There’s just a tape recorder where he’s been practic
ing a farewell speech.
Dead Dan mumbles unintelligibly and cracks a strange smile. Great. He’s awake. And high as a fucking kite. Texting the mysterious stunt coordinator who also seems to know the immortal’s secret, I tell him that Dan’s been asphyxiated but he’s better now. Sort of.
Can he walk?
I try getting him to his feet, but he’s not having any of it. Not right now.
Let me know when he can.
Let me tell you, watching a person come back from the dead can be pretty tedious. If his body spits out the poison when he resurrects, I wonder how it is that he can revive with heroin still in his system. I probe him with questions from time to time to see how his sobering up is coming, but mostly I just get incoherent half sentences. My phone buzzes.
How is he progressing?
Still out of it, I reply. Not making any sense when he speaks.
Did he record his speech like I suggested he do?
Yes.
Can he walk?
I hoist Fake Dan Germany to his feet and he’s able to support his own weight. Pulling a pen from my pocket, I toss it to the floor and point to it like I would point to a ball I wanted a dog to fetch. “Dan, I need you to go get that pen,” I say.
He staggers a little, swoops down in an exaggerated bend, and rises up, lurching toward me, pen outstretched like the writing dead.
Barely, I reply.
Ten more minutes then bring him out. Bring the tape recorder.
I count down the minutes, then lead the undying and drugged-to-the-gills Dan “Danger Man” Germany to the platform for his farewell performance, him unintelligibly garbling some song the whole way. Nothing left to do but get into my assistant’s uniform, a NASCAR style jumpsuit and motorcycle helmet. The coordinator says this is a necessary step to prevent the lot of us from being arrested for assisted suicide or negligent homicide, maybe even accessory to murder.
At the top of the ramp, I stand, supporting the old daredevil discretely from behind. The real Dan Germany stands to his other side in his own similar racetrack get up, helping to keep him up while the stunt coordinator, likewise disguised, fiddles with the megaphone, connecting the tape player to a megaphone. The old man wobbles and at times it’s everything I can do to keep him from falling off the platform.
“Just press play and hold the tape recorder to his mouth like it’s a microphone,” the stunt coordinator says. “One way or another, he’ll give that speech.”
“Thanks,” the real Dan Germany says. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“For you,” says the coordinator, “anything.”
“I owe you one,” real Dan Germany says. “Hell, I expect I owe you a dozen.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” says the stunt coordinator, and he hands the tape recorder to the young stunt man. Young Dan lifts up the megaphone and raises the tape recorder to Danger Man’s mouth. There’s a click as he presses play. The microphone crackles as it comes to life, and Dan Germany delivers what will become his famous last words.
“Thank you all for being here and believing in me,” the tape player says in Dan Germany’s voice. “This wasn’t supposed to be a public event, but some of my friends are a little more mercenary than I thought. I tried to be mad with them, but they told me ‘Dan, you do these stunts to bring joy to millions, to prove the infinite power of the human body, to show the world that with enough heart and dedication, anything is possible.’ They said, ‘Dan, I know you’re doing this for you, but it’s so much bigger than that. Let the world be inspired by your bravery.’
“How could I say no to that, especially since it was too late to move locations and the guy had already sold the details on the Internet. So here you are, and here I am. Together in the end as I cheat death one last time before he cheats me.
“In just a few minutes, my assistants will lock a bomb to my chest. The passcode to disarm the bomb is on a platform at the base of the canyon. They will put me in the driver’s seat and handcuff me to the steering wheel. I will then have three minutes to leap this car over that helicopter, then escape the handcuffs and the car before it crashes to the canyon floor in a fiery blaze. I will then fly through these three flaming rings leading to the platform. From one of them hangs the key to unluck the bomb, which I will need to retrieve before the rope burns and drops the key beyond my reach. Once I’ve grabbed the key, I will fly to the platform and race to remove the bomb from my chest and disarm it.
“This is hands down, the most dangerous stunt I’ve ever done, but like they say, go big or go home. This is my last stare down with death. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, but we’ll see who blinks first. Death will have to work double time today if he thinks it’s going to be me.
“So, thank you for being here, thank you for believing in me this one last time. No matter what happens today, don’t stop believing. Never stop believing.”
The real Dan Germany lowers the tape recorder and megaphone as the crowd erupts into applause.
“That’s it?” I ask real Dan Germany. “A Journey quote? You’re going out on a Journey quote?”
“It’s a good quote,” he says. “And I like Journey. Journey’s classic.”
“Your funeral,” I say. “Literally.”
“At least I get to attend it,” he says.
The fake Dan Germany mumbles something about Tom Sawyer, but we don’t have time for his babbling. We strap the bomb to his chest and lock it in place, then cuff the old man to the steering wheel. At this point, we have nothing left to do but wait for him to die. The real Dan wedges the gas pedal down and disengages the steering wheel.
“Just in case she forgets to press down or swerves the car trying to escape the cuffs too soon. We want to make sure she at least clears the ramp.”
I tap my helmet, the universal symbol for smart thinking, and shut the door on the old man.
“Don’t forget to die,” the coordinator says.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” young Dan Germany says. “Handcuffs? Wing suits? I couldn’t pull this off in my prime and sober as a church.”
We all nod and give the car one final check. All clear.
“It’s surreal,” young Dan says as the car revs beside us, thundering like the apocalypse, “sending yourself to your death.”
“Ready?” I ask. Two nods greet me.
“I’ve never been particularly religious,” I say, “but if you have any prayers in you, now would be a good time to say them.”
I give the wheel chocks a hard yank and the car races down the ramp. So long, I think. There’s not enough luck in the world to save you now.
Chapter 25
JAIME
THROUGH THE FLAMES WITH HANDS UNTIED
Flames flickered briefly, and I was blissful again. A noise like Charlie Brown’s parents filled the air. Someone wanted something, but for the life of me I didn’t know what. Chex Party Mix for all I could figure. But it was good to sit and be. I let myself bask in the timelessness, free of pain and worry, untangled from my past and disconnected from my future. This was as mortal as I would ever feel.
Some monster made me stand up, and I protested, so she babbles on instead. Wahwahwah wah wah wah. Some immeasurable time later she made me get up again to grab something, so I did, hoping she would leave me alone if I showed her I was fine. No such luck. She and this other guy forced me to climb up these infinitely high stairs. I wondered if I was finally free to enter Heaven? I began singing my way through “Stairway to Heaven,” but they did not appreciate it.
But no. No Heaven. Just people. All shouting and looking and craning their necks to see. I was so high. I wanted to fall and let them catch me like a rock star, but something behind me wouldn’t let me move forward. Bah. One of the faceless robot people on the platform with me held a thing to my face. It might have been food, so I tried to eat it. My voice rang out loudly from somewhere nearby. I sounded happy. Confident. Was I really me or was I someone else?
&n
bsp; I guess that I wasn’t supposed to eat the thing they put in my face because they took it away and made me sit in a car, which was fine. It was good to sit. Placing my hands on the steering wheel, they handcuffed me in, I guess to keep me from falling out of the vehicle, which was very considerate of them when you thought about it. They fiddled with the gas pedal and it got really loud in the car. I guess they thought I liked the roar of engines. I didn’t. It did not sit well with my calm at all. I tried to tell them, but they ignored everything I said. Instead they shut the door, which was nice. One more precaution against falling out of the car.
Suddenly, the car lurched and I found myself racing forward and down, down, down. Things had gone terribly wrong. Shock flooded my system and between the thoughtless haze of heroin and the razor-sharp focus of the adrenaline, my thoughts silenced themselves and millennia of instinct took over. With no conscious thought or effort to stand in the way, something deep within accessed skills embedded in my host’s memories, then delved further into my psyche, reviving the talents of countless lifetimes long forgotten. I was no mind. I was mushin. I was Zen.
My feet flew to the brakes, but they didn’t respond. The steering wheel was likewise dead to me. The only hope was escape. I contorted my wrists, popping my thumbs out of their sockets as I once did in my criminal days long, long ago, and my hands slid free.
The ramp disappeared beneath me and through the windshield, I saw the scything whirl of blades waiting to devour me in its slashing arcs and beneath it, the long drop to the unforgiving canyon floor below. I rolled down the window and waited until just after the car cleared the helicopter to slide free. I didn’t know where I would go from there, but some part of me wanted to get out, to fly away.
I plummeted, the rocky earth below racing to greet me. I threw my hands and feet out to slow my descent when I caught air and began to glide. Glancing left to right, I saw my silken patagia. I knew I had wings. I must have, or why would I have leapt from a falling car?
The Daredevil Corpse (The Departed Book 2) Page 17