Mr. 8

Chapter 38: A Geometric Solution

Denton lay in the slime of ice water and slush that coated the street. His dazed eyes stared up at a giant green demon. Its skin glowed with an electric lime colored light. Its whiter than white teeth grinned, while two burning red teardrop eyes examined him. The impact of his pelvis on the pavement had sent a shockwave through his system. The initial jolt had quickly worn off, but the pain gnawing at his hip demonstrated the limitations of the pain-killers he was on.

Radnor stepped over Denton, blocking out the Green Fiend's lurid nightclub sign. He reached for Denton with murder twisted across his grim expression, ready to finish off the job he had started in the park. The vision impelled Denton into action. He kicked up and slammed the heel of his boot into Radnor's crotch with enough force to fling the maniac backward. Radnor would have ended up on the ground with Denton, but he collided with another man, who caught him in his arms and held him up like a boxer on the ropes. The newcomer had long hair tied in a ponytail and a Vandyke beard. His beard was too poorly groomed for him to be a hipster. He looked more like one of those thirty-year-old slackers who worked at the hemp clothing store or U-Brew.

Strasser, Denton guessed.

Behind him, Kaling stood looking cool and aloof. The man could have been filing his nails for all the emotion he demonstrated.

Denton glanced around. The Buick was parked two storefronts down, on the other side of the street. He had hoped to be able to get to the car before his enemies caught up to him. It had been the main reason he had picked DaVinci's. But he had underestimated their speed and determination.

He scrambled onto his hands and knees and prepared to make a frantic dash toward it.

A pickup truck slammed on its brakes. Three tons of metal and plastic squealed to a stop, the grill bare inches from Denton's head. Too numb to feel any shock from the nearly fatal impact, Denton used the bumper and the hood to claw his way back to his feet. Radnor and Strasser moved in to attack.

"What the hell is going on here?" The driver leaned out his door and yelled. It was unclear whom of the three he was addressing, but all of them froze. He was a big, bearded man, with a gentleman farmer appearance, in a plaid shirt and sport coat. It looked as if he were in his fifties and on his way to church, but it also looked as if he could till a field with nothing but a plough and his own brute strength.

Denton moved toward the pickup driver, putting the truck between him and the others.

"Get back in your car, old man," Strasser said. "This is none of your concern."

"Are you armed?" Denton hoped the man kept a handgun in the glove box or a shotgun on the passenger seat. "They're trying to kill me. They're insane."

Radnor made a lunge for him, despite the hood of the truck separating them, but Kaling held him back with a hand on his shoulder. "Don't bother. Why don't we go get some pizza instead?"

The words were delivered with Blofeldian smarm. When their meaning registered, a sword of ice penetrated Denton's chest.

"Should I call the police, here?" the farmer said, still only half out of his truck.

"If you go in there, I'll shove you into the fucking oven." Denton pointed an angry finger at Kaling's heart. The words conjured up a sketch from an old book of fairy tales he had when he was just a boy. The woodcut showed Hansel and Gretel pushing a grotesque witch into a stove. The image morphed in his mind, until it depicted him and Linda shoving a wailing Kaling into DaVinci's brick pizza oven.

"Oh really?" Kaling said. "Do you really think you're man enough?" "Go ask the Moores."

The driver of a small, rusty hatchback stuck behind the pickup leaned on his worn-out horn. It sounded like a child's bath toy breaking under torture.