By the time I reached my place, I could hardly see at all. The world was a black tunnel closing in on me, and my unrelenting pursuer was right on my heels. I turned and got a good look at the man swimming in the murk. He was black, over six foot five, and wearing a tan suit with a tropical handkerchief in the pocket. I knew him, but couldn’t place the name. I could barely place my own.

I stumbled up the stairs, fumbled with my keys, and crashed inside. When I spun to slam the door, the tall man was right there, smiling and backing me inside my apartment with a gun. I tried to stare at his face, but the muzzle of the gun was in the way. All I could see were his eyes, deep-set and bloodshot red.

The tall man kicked the door closed, smiled, and smacked me across the chops with the gun. I fell backward and hit my head. Everything went black.

When I came to, I was tied to a chair. That I expected. What shocked me was that the chair was on top of my desk and the desk was pushed against the wall so that my back was against the office window! The shock of the revelation cleared my head like a cranial enema. I noticed the tall man standing nearby, waiting for me to eyeball him. Without the toxic muck on the brain I ID’d him on the spot.

His name was Dr. Polynice. He was a twisted fucker who chopped up kids, then reassembled the parts for reanimation. Once these zombie kids were brought back to life they were sold to sleazebag perverts all over the world. I put Polynice and his partners out of business a long time ago. He should have been rotting in jail.

“When did you get out?”

Polynice swayed on his feet. “Yesterday.”

I nodded. “That would explain my missing paper.”

“The escape made the front page. Guards died. It was very messy.”

Polynice spoke with the slightest hint of a French accent. He’d grown up in Haiti, where he’d learned and mastered voodoo. Afterward, medical schools in the States gave him the knowledge he needed to combine his arcane skills with modern medical science. He was one well-trained, learned, and sick motherfucker.

My gun was on the couch next to my knife, mace, and brass knuckles. He’d cleaned me out. Then I noticed the bag on the floor. It was a doctor’s bag. One of those big black leather numbers, and I didn’t have to see inside to know it was filled with all sorts of shiny, sharp nastiness. But Polynice opened it anyway, letting the light shimmer on the scalpels, surgical saws, knives, and syringes inside.

“You’re not still pissed about that whole prison-for-life thing, are you?” I asked.