He couldn't ignore them.
Whipping around, Grip looked down the slope, away from the pit. The pups were still clustered together around their dead mother...but now they were surrounded by predators. Three white-feathered dinosaurs encircled them, squawking and waving their claws as they hopped ever closer.
Each feathered dinosaur was over twice the size of Grip...five times the size of a pup. Grip instantly understood that the pups didn't stand a chance. Not on their own.
The dinosaurs would tear the pups apart as if they were ripe fruit. One, two, three, and another family of dog-things would disappear from the world. Just like Grip's family.
Unless...
Grip spun and gazed at the ebon dinosaur sinking in the pit. He was up to his shoulders in putrid black sludge, unable to free his arms, yet still he roared at Grip as if daring him to attack.
That dinosaur was the whole reason Grip had come here. He was the last of the killers who'd slaughtered Grip's mate and pups, and Grip wanted more than anything to kill him. To close the circle.
Soon, the ebon dinosaur would disappear completely under the ooze. Grip would lose his chance forever to kill the killer with his own fangs and claws in the name of his family.
He had only moments to make the leap and finish his quest. If he chose to try it, he might not return. His survival wasn't certain...but one thing was. Even if he made it back, the pups would be dead by then.
Unless...
Grip kept watching the ebon dinosaur in the pitch black pit. Behind him, the pups continued their panicked barking, the white-feathered predators continued their fierce squawking.
Grip's body tensed as one last surge of revenge-hunger cascaded through him. One last time, he thought of sailing through the air over the pit and killing his enemy with savage grace.
Then, he turned away.
Grip made one last gesture before he left. Raising his hind leg toward the pit, he sprayed piss at the ebon dinosaur. The wind was moving in the dinosaur's direction; with any luck, the piss might hit him, forever marking Grip's territory.
Then, Grip dropped his leg and raised his nose toward the moon. He howled with all the power and fury he possessed, singing the song of a little doglike creature who had just killed five monsters much bigger than he and left a sixth to suffer and die.
When he was finished, he charged down the slope toward the pups, teeth flashing in the moonlight, red-tipped ears rippling in the wind.
*****
Epilogue
Melville, Pennsylvania
Three Months After Bermuda
The late summer sun glinted off the giant wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate. A white dove perched atop them, smack in the middle, gazing down at Simon's car.
Security cameras on pilasters to either side took in the view of Simon and his vehicle. There was a loud click as the lock on the gates disengaged. Then, the dove took flight in a flurry of white feathers as the gates swung open. Simon hesitated, then drove through, wondering what awaited him.
All he knew from the invitation he'd received was that he was heading for some kind of dedication. It was set for 1:00 PM at the mansion of the man who'd helped set Simon's rise and fall in motion. The man who'd made it all possible.
Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh. He was one of the few people who could lure Simon out of the self-imposed exile he'd been in since Bermuda. Even after everything that had happened, Simon still owed Bartlebaugh for officially declaring Horne Shaw a dick.
Even so, Simon had no intention of sticking around any longer than he absolutely had to. Not with his never-ending post-Bermuda depression stronger than ever.
Even after three months back home in Melville, PA, he was still shell-shocked from his run-in with General Mobai and Poppa Free. He didn't feel like himself anymore, and he'd closed off the pieces of his old life one by one. He'd shut down In¢entive$ almost totally, and the Lone Appraiser was in retirement. He hadn't even set foot on a Cowboy Action Shooting range since before Bermuda.
He couldn't get over what had happened to Horne Shaw. He still felt guilty, as if there was something he could have done to save his life.
The memory of Shaw's death continued to haunt him by day and by night. The slightest thought of it even now, as he drove through Judge Bartlebaugh's estate, brought the nightmare back to life in his mind's eye. He felt the machete cut through Shaw's throat all over again, felt Shaw's blood gush over him in a torrent.
As the memory threatened to overwhelm him, Simon shook his head hard and scattered it. Taking a deep breath, he focused his attention on the scenery sliding past to distract him from the visions that kept welling up inside.
The car rolled uphill through rows of tall oaks, one on either side of the road, then emerged in a wide-open space. Vast lawns spread out all around, decorated with fountains and statues and gardens of colorful flowers. Beyond the lawns, at the top of the hill, sprawled a mansion that looked as big as a shopping mall.
Simon gaped in amazement. He'd never been past the gates of Bartlebaugh's estate before; he'd never realized the grounds were so huge. He'd known Judge Bartlebaugh was rich, but this...this was rich.
Simon drove past tennis courts on one side of the road, then stables and a corral on the other. He saw topiary gardens with hedges shaped like storybook characters and dinosaurs. Stately swans floated over the glassy surface of a pond complete with a private dock and rowboat. The smell of new-mown grass flowed through the open windows of Simon's car, mingling with the fragrance of hundreds of flowers.
The place was like something out of a movie. As Simon drew closer to the huge mansion at the heart of it, he felt like he was on his way to visit God. Like he was on his way to judgment, which he supposed was the way Judge Bartlebaugh probably wanted people to feel.
After crossing a whitewashed bridge over a glittering stream, Simon pulled up in front of the mansion. A row of cars was lined up along the side of the drive, including two TV news vans; he rolled past them and parked at the far end.
Getting out of his car, Simon walked toward the mansion's front door. He gazed up at the lofty columns around the enormous front portico as he passed between them. He looked down at the cobblestones under his feet, too, which were suffused with gold dust and laid out in perfect scalloped patterns. Everything looked brand new or freshly scrubbed.
Climbing the wedding cake of white marble steps, Simon reached for the brass doorbell. Before he could press the button, the huge front doors of the mansion flew open, making him jump.
And there he was. Judge Bartlebaugh in the flesh, in a white tuxedo, looking delighted.
"Mr. Fluff-and-Fold!" Without hesitation, Judge Bartlebaugh strode forward and threw his arms around Simon. "So glad you could make it!"
"Hello, Judge." The hug made Simon feel awkward. Just seeing Judge Bartlebaugh made him feel weird. The lawsuit and everything else that had happened before Bermuda seemed like it had taken place in another lifetime, another universe.
Judge Bartlebaugh stepped back and patted his neatly trimmed silver beard and fringe of hair. He wore an enormous pinky ring on the little finger of each hand, one with an oval black stone, the other with a milk-white one. "You look well, all things considered."
"Thanks," said Simon. "You too, Your Honor."
Judge Bartlebaugh laughed; Simon could see he had a hunk of gum in his mouth, like always. "No need to stand on ceremony, Simon. After all, we're about to become partners." Grinning, he clapped Simon on the shoulder.
"Partners?" said Simon.
"Depending on how things work out." Judge Bartlebaugh ushered him into the house. "Let's see how it goes, shall we?"
Frowning, Simon walked through and looked around. The entryway was vast and opulent, complete with rose marble floor, a giant crystal chandelier that looked like it belonged in an opera house, and a ceiling that had to be at least thirty feet high. Everything sparkled and gleamed as if it had been recently polished. There were giant arrangements of red
roses on long tables along the walls, giving off enough fragrance to fill the whole chamber.
Judge Bartlebaugh pulled the doors shut. "I guess you've heard the bad news by now."
"Bad news?" Simon tensed. The mess in Bermuda had been over for three months now, and he still kept expecting repercussions. He still couldn't escape the fear that the authorities would change their minds about exonerating him, and he would have to go to jail for Horne's murder after all.
Judge Bartlebaugh cracked his gum. The crack echoed like a gunshot in the vast entryway. "My decision on your lawsuit was overturned on appeal."
"Oh." Simon relaxed.
"It seems you can't legally declare someone a dick anymore," said Judge Bartlebaugh. "At least until we get another free-thinking judge to rule for the plaintiff on one of the five-hundred-some copycat lawsuits now in the system." He clapped his hands and bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, looking pleased with himself.
Simon shrugged. "Easy come, easy go."
Judge Bartlebaugh snorted. "Know what? I've half a mind to sue the judge who overturned me for being a jackass."
"I'd like to see that." Simon smiled.
"Jackass," muttered Judge Bartlebaugh, and then he turned and marched down a hallway. "Follow me."
Judge Bartlebaugh led Simon down a long hallway with a sky-high ceiling, glittering chandeliers, and a red carpet. Enormous paintings and tapestries covered the walls, depicting battles and jousts and miracles from medieval times. Vases and sculptures and plaster busts occupied tables, shelves, and niches like pieces on display in a museum. The smell of roses gave way to something spicier, like cinnamon potpourri, perhaps from the dried flowers in glass bowls on some of the tables.
"So what's this about being your partner?" said Simon.
"I'm starting a new venture." Judge Bartlebaugh cracked his gum. "I thought you might be interested."
"What kind of new venture?"
"It's right up your alley." Judge Bartlebaugh stopped at a set of giant double doors at the end of the corridor. They were as high as the ceiling, inlaid with gold and silver in elaborate designs. "How would you like to play hero again?"
Before Simon could answer, Judge Bartlebaugh heaved the doors open.
Suddenly, Simon found himself staring at a crowd in a vast ballroom--hundreds of people, all dressed in formal attire. Everyone started applauding and cheering at once, just as Simon realized he recognized some of them.
"This way, please." Judge Bartlebaugh pulled Simon by his elbow through the doorway. "Don't keep everyone waiting."
As Simon drifted into the ballroom, camera flashes went off in all directions. Through the spots in his eyes from the flashes, he saw that Josie and Chip and Ankha were standing up front, grinning and clapping. Quinn and Buck Brooklyn were there, too. So was Ishi, looking ravishing in a glittering white floor-length gown.
So what the hell was going on here, anyway? Some kind of surprise party? An intervention, maybe?
Judge Bartlebaugh raised his arms overhead and spoke when the cheering had quieted. "I guess you all know who this is. He's the inspiration for our little project. And its namesake, if he'll give us his blessing."
Namesake? More camera flashes went off, making Simon blink and squint. Bright lights flared up and fixed on him from two different directions, blazing from atop video cameras shouldered by TV news reporters.
Judge Bartlebaugh turned to Simon and spread his arms wide. "How would you like a chance to continue your good work, my friend? To make a difference in a world of dicks?"
Everyone applauded, but Simon didn't answer. His mind was spinning, trying to process what was happening.
Judge Bartlebaugh walked over to a big easel in the middle of the ballroom with a white sheet draped over it. "Welcome, everyone!" Cracking his gum, he took hold of a corner of the sheet. "Welcome to the Simon Bellerophon Center for Dick Rehab."
The crowd cheered and clapped as Judge Bartlebaugh dramatically tugged the sheet from the easel, revealing a huge foam-core sign printed with the name he'd just announced.
Simon stared at the sign in stunned amazement. Simon Bellerophon Center for Dick Rehab. The words had been printed in black block letters, italicized. There they were, plain as day, right in front of him.
But he still couldn't believe them.
"If we can't legislate 'em, we'll cure 'em," said Judge Bartlebaugh. "You've inspired me to turn my home into a world class rehab facility for the treatment of chronic dicks. When people think dick reversal, they'll think the Simon Bellerophon Center.
"That is, if you'll give us your blessing." Judge Bartlebaugh walked over and laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "So what do you say, my friend? Will you lend your name to this noble venture?"
With all eyes trained expectantly upon him, Simon looked from Josie to Chip to Ankha. From Buck to his brother and best friend, Quinn.
Then to Ishi. She met his gaze warmly, without looking away...conveying, without saying a word, that she loved him still. That she hadn't given up on him. He'd been distant, he'd even pushed her away, but she was still in his corner.
And now here was a chance to make up for letting her down and for everything. For letting himself get carried away by revenge. For becoming the very thing he'd hated most. For what had happened because of him in Bermuda.
Maybe, if there had been a dick rehab before the whole mess had started, Horne Shaw would still be alive today...and not a dick. Maybe Mobai and Poppa Free wouldn't be dicks, either.
So the decision he faced wasn't really much of a decision at all. He took a deep breath, and then he let it out. The words he said felt right without a doubt before he said them. "Okay." He smiled and shrugged. "Let's give it a whirl."
Judge Bartlebaugh nodded approvingly and cracked his gum. "And would you be willing to work with us to develop this center and a Dicks Anonymous twelve-step program? Your friends are already on staff."
Simon shot a look at Ishi, who smiled and nodded. "I can get on board with that," said Simon.
"Dicks of the world! We can help!" Judge Bartlebaugh hoisted Simon's arm high in the air like the arm of a champion prizefighter. "The Simon Bellerophon Center for Dick Rehab is now officially accepting client applications!"
It didn't take long for Simon to get into the spirit of things. "Quit dicking around!" he said as the crowd went wild and cameras flashed and Ishi rushed toward him with open arms. "Isn't it about time you got a new lease on life? A dick-free lease on life?"
*****
Special Preview: Heaven Bent
By Robert T. Jeschonek
Now On Sale
From Heaven Bent Part 1
If I'd known then what I know now, I never would have gone toward the light. Seriously. This Heaven, I could've done without.
My actual life before death was much better. I was a movie star, for cryin' out loud. I had it all.
As recently as twelve hours ago, I had it all.
"So tell me, Stag, how does it feel to be nominated for your third Academy Award?" That's what the perky blonde morning show host asked during the live interview.
"Unbelievable." I said it with my patented humble-yet-confident grin, letting the bright lights cast a glare on my teeth. Down-to-Earth, salt-of-the-Earth, salt-and-pepper hair parted on the right. "It never gets old."
"What a track record." She, Susan F., was in a New York City studio. For reasons that weren't clear to me, I was in a separate studio across town, watching her on a monitor. Doin' the ol' split-screen tango. "And with two Best Actor wins under your belt, how do you feel about chances for a third?"
"Crossing my fingers, Sue." I flashed my bright whites and showed my crossed fingers to the camera. "It would be an indescribable honor."
"We wish you the best," said Susan with her most endearing smile, as if I were family.
"Thank you, Sue." Nod and a wink. "I hope to see you at the after-party."
Aaaand cut!
"On a cold day in Hell," I added afte
r the red light on the camera went dark.
"Screw you, too, Stag." That's what Susan F.'s voice said in my earpiece. Looks like my mic was still hot.
Not that I cared. "Love and kisses, S.F.," I told her as I unclipped the mic. Reaching under my gray sweater, I pulled the mic down and out by the cord.
As I popped out my earpiece (to the sound of her angry cursing), I saw someone open the studio door and stroll in. It was a guy--six-three, six-four--with broad shoulders, dark business suit, and red tie. High roller maybe?
"Hello?" I was irritated, because the only one walking in on me at that point should have been my manager, Shisha M. "You know I have to be at a film shoot in fifteen minutes, right?"
The guy cleared his throat. He was standing with his hands folded over his lower abdomen. "Hello." I couldn't make out his face in the shadows beyond the studio lights. "Hello, S.L."
I hopped off the stool, squinting for a look at him. "Very funny." More than a little pissed off because he was riffing on my call-people-by-their-initials routine. "What do you want?"
At that instant, somebody switched off the lights, and I saw the guy's face. For a moment, the pissed-off-ness poured right out of me.
My breath caught in my you-know-what. A cold chill rushed up my you-know-where.
That guy...
"About the film shoot." He shook his head. The hair wasn't salt-and-pepper, it was solid silver. But otherwise...identical.
To me. He could've been my twin.
"What about it?" I said, but my head was tingling. I had a feeling like very strong vertigo, like being stoned.
"Don't go back," said my twin. "Not today. Not ever."
As the initial shock wore off, I started thinking this through. I had no twin, so... "Who sent you, pal?" I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, copped a sneer. "Was it Brad? Was it Morgan? I've gotta say, you're the best Stag Lincoln impersonator I've ever seen."
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