Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 633 & 634, October 1994

© 1994 by Patrick Ireland

Patrick Ireland first appeared in EQMM’s Department of First Stories only six short years ago, but he writes with a polish and assurance many more seasoned writers might envy. The California resident creates for us here a protagonist with an imagination as far-reaching as his own, but for his character, the proclivity to fantasize holds unexpected dangers...

Hamilton slid into his seat on the first-class deck of the 747 and, for the hundredth time in the last six months, thanked his lucky stars. It was still hard to believe he’d landed such a job. A career like this was one in a million, and he owed it all to his penchant for daydreaming.

He’d always had a vicarious streak in him, finding hours of entertainment just by perusing the classified ads in a Sunday newspaper, poring over the miscellaneous for sale items... the situation wanted section... the pets column... lost & found... and that most precious of all fine print, the personals. The classifieds were an endless source of amusement for Hamilton. And sometimes more than mere amusement. He’d located his apartment, adopted a cat, and purchased his car through newspaper ads. He’d even found romance. Several romances, in fact. But it was his present job that had opened a whole new world for him. He’d spotted the ad in the help wanted section, and it had changed his life. Moved him from mere daydreaming into the real world, where his life had meaning.

As an international courier, Hamilton was paid to hand-carry sensitive information back and forth between the worldwide offices of a global network of stockbrokers. Information which couldn’t be trusted to electronic communications. He’d felt rather ridiculous when he’d applied for the position, never honestly expecting to be hired; but the idea of world travel as a career was magnetic to him, and to his great surprise and satisfaction, the background required was far less specialized than he’d anticipated. Really, nothing more than reliability and punctuality. Before he’d even had time to be amazed by his luck, he was on the payroll.

He settled himself into the seat and glanced out the window at the scurrying figures of the ground crew as they readied the plane for takeoff. He smiled at the thought that only a short time ago he’d gladly have accepted such menial employment as those fellows’. Instead, he was now a man of distinction. A world traveler. And, while his salary was, admittedly, rather modest, millions of dollars in investment capital depended upon him alone. To think that up until six months ago the high points in his life had been moments of pretense! Ah, but he’d been very good at pretense. Once he’d become expert at fooling himself, he’d found great joy in fooling others.

It was a source of pride to him that he’d been able to convince so many unsuspecting persons of so many different things. And the wellspring of these dupes was the ever-provident classified ads. He’d find a yacht for sale, say, or a Lear jet. Something extraordinarily expensive. It was then a simple matter to pretend interest in the purchase thereof. An appointment would be made for a demonstration, Hamilton would arrive fashionably late, and permit himself to be courted and catered to by an anxious seller. Then, at the psychologically correct moment, he’d decline the purchase.

“Frightfully sorry, old stick, but I’d had something a bit more elaborate in mind. No, really, I couldn’t hazard a lower offer. Simply not done in my family. Couldn’t bear to insult you. I’ll just be trotting then.” It gave him a perverse delight to bask in the discomfiture of some pompous jackass who happened to be down to his last million or two.

And then, of course, there were the ladies. The ones to be found in the personals. And that was another story.

With a self-indulgent sigh he turned his attention away from the window to a magazine he’d found left in the seat next to his. Flipping through the pages, he felt a familiar tingling as he realized that it was devoted exclusively to elaborate advertisements for exotic automobiles, each ad accompanied by a color photograph. His eyes skipped eagerly from page to page, reveling in such automotive exotica as Maseratis, Shelby Cobras, Lamborghinis; even, astonishingly, a Deusenberg. Truly, while they held the lion’s share of space, the Rolls-Royces and Mercedes rather paled in such sophisticated company.

His pulse quickened; in one full-page ad, no expense had been spared to attract a buyer for a pair of vintage Porsche 904 GTS race cars. Lean, black brutes, alien to his eyes, they seemed to spring from the page with a life of their own; ferocious beasts, starving for victory and possessed of the speed to capture it under any circumstances. He was entranced.

The tone of the advertisement was affectedly complacent, calculated to pander to the most conceited temperament. The price, a mere $250,000 the pair. Hamilton gagged, eyes bulging at the glossy photo. The last sentences were a rather sardonic little jab at the common person: “Call for appointment to see and appreciate. If you can afford to even think about buying these cars, you can certainly afford to fly to Zurich, Switzerland, for the firsthand look they deserve.”

Hamilton took this twist of the blade personally, finding himself rather short of breath at such arrogance, and it came to him that the business trip he was on would afford him an opportunity to repay in kind. Zurich, in fact, was his destination. And he was exactly the man to handle this singular bit of pomposity. He whiled away the hours in flight absorbed with the magazine and its breathtaking photographs.

Upon reaching London, he telephoned ahead to Zurich as he awaited his connecting flight.

“Yes, that’s right. The eleven A.M. flight from London. I’d appreciate it if you could pick me up at the airport. The name’s Lyle Hamilton. Thank you.” He allowed himself to smile.

Debarking from the plane in Zurich, he noticed a uniformed chauffeur standing at the foot of the escalator, holding a carefully lettered slate. MR. HAMILTON, it read. He nodded at the chauffeur. “I’m Hamilton,” he said.

“First name?” the chauffeur asked, professionally suspicious.

“Lyle.”

The chauffeur smiled slightly and nodded back. “This way, Mr. Hamilton,” he said, leading the way to an elegant 1928 Pierce-Arrow limousine. Complete with enclosed passenger compartment.

Hamilton sank into the glove-soft leather and relaxed, smiling at the proffered bottle of Dom Perignon and permitting the chauffeur to fill his cut-crystal champagne flute. Sipping the magical nectar as the limo silently surged along, he gazed at the scenery flowing past the window. To the south, beyond the Zuricher See, the Swiss Pre-Alps stood in timeless elegance against an impossibly blue sky.

He wished Joyce could see him in this setting, whisking along in champagne-splashed elegance across the incomparable Swiss countryside. But of course Joyce could never see him. Not anywhere. Never had seen him. Because Joyce knew him only from his letters. And the phony photograph he’d sent in response to her ad in the lonely hearts section of the classifieds. She was his latest of many. None of whom had ever met Hamilton. Except, of course, the first one. Her disappointment on meeting him had been so humiliating that he’d resolved never again to meet any of his mail-order conquests in the flesh. It was too likely to be as painful as that first and only time. Besides, through the mail, he could pretend to be anything he chose; play any role he might dream up. And he could dream. Oh yes, he could dream.

In the role he played for Joyce, he was an international wine consultant. It was almost too perfect, now that he had this courier job. He’d been able to post letters to her from all over the world. Rome. Athens. Paris. Berlin. And now Zurich, where he was in the midst of playing out another little fantasy.

He refilled his glass with champagne and chuckled smugly, confident that his host would not see through his guise of affluence, since his job required that he dress well at all times. And the locked briefcase he carried would lend authenticity to his pretension. When the time came to decline the purchase, he would pull it off in grand style. “Sorry, old stick, these aren’t quite what I’d had in mind. They looked much better in the photographs. If your man will just see me back to the airport, I’ve got to be in Linz on the morrow. Thanks awfully. Cheerio!”

The limo was approaching a grotesque wrought-iron gate, having turned from the main road some way back; Hamilton hadn’t noticed just when. He straightened his necktie and assumed his air of haughty particularity. As the gate swung smoothly open to admit the limo, he covertly scanned the surroundings. Imposing gray stone walls stretched away on either side of the gate and out of sight into deep woods carpeting the rolling hills. The gate must have been radio controlled, for as the limo passed through, it swung closed at once, though no gatekeeper was to be seen. Around a sweeping curve a mile or so beyond the gate, the road plunged into a tunnel and Hamilton found himself suddenly in darkness, his self-assurance eroding somewhat. He fumbled for the intercom, wondering vaguely what he might say to the driver. Before he could locate it, the tunnel was behind them and the road snaked on through dense woods of hemlock and fir, random shafts of sunlight bursting through the green canopy of leaves and turning the tarmac into a crazy quilt of light and dark. Hamilton cleared his throat self-consciously.

Breaking out of the dense woods, the road straightened and sliced through a lakeside meadow dappled with blue and yellow wild-flowers. It seemed the limousine was finally approaching his destination; an impressive stone manor house situated on a hill amid manicured lawns and hedges, commanding a view of the mirrorlike tarn. As the limo crunched along the graveled circular drive before the house, a pair of huge black and tan rottweilers appeared and loped at an easy gait alongside. Hamilton’s bowels turned to ice water. He was terrified of dogs. Always had been. And these brutes looked as if they’d been bred in hell. Squarish, heavily muscled bodies, seemingly chiseled from glossy black stone; short muzzles with open jaws from which lolled tongues that looked to weigh at least four pounds each. And the teeth. Good God, the teeth! Each mouth contained a veritable butcher shop of specialized instruments for the rending of flesh and crushing of bone. Watching the powerful muscles bunching and gliding beneath the animals’ sleek coats, Hamilton shuddered as he imagined those savage fangs in action. He was rapidly becoming convinced that he had no business in this place.

The driver stopped at the foot of a flagstone walkway leading to the porch and set the parking brake. He slid from behind the steering wheel and stepped down to be greeted by the panting dogs, though, in truth, the greeting seemed to be more an inspection of the chauffeur than a joyful reunion. Evidently they approved, their stumpy tails wagging slightly. The two of them accompanied the driver as he strode to the rear of the limo and opened the door for Hamilton.

Hamilton tried to swallow his fear. He’d heard that dogs can sense apprehension and it makes them more aggressive. Although he couldn’t see how these monsters could be any more aggressive than they already were; they seemed to be in charge of the present situation, as if he and the driver were subordinate to them, rather than the other way around.

Quaking, Hamilton stepped from the limo and the dogs converged instantly upon him. He stood rigid in terror as they prodded and snuffled at him, the coarse fur rippling along the napes of their massive necks. Holding his breath, Hamilton prayed silently that they would not detect his rising panic.

A tall man leaning on a cane appeared in the doorway of the house and after a moment’s observation spoke commandingly.

“Loki! Fenris! Setz dich!”

The dogs obeyed instantly, sitting erect and motionless as statues, though never taking their eyes from Hamilton. The man strode from the porch, the ferrule of his blackthorn cane rapping against the flagstones with every other step. He reached Hamilton and extended his right hand.

“Herr Hamilton? I am Lothar Achermann. A pleasure to meet you. Please forgive my dogs. They are very protective.” Achermann’s accent was thickly Teutonic, as was his appearance. About forty, over six feet tall, and powerfully built, his close-cropped black hair showed the merest trace of gray at the temples. His icy blue eyes offered little cordiality, though a smile occupied his craggy face.

Hamilton took the hand and tried not to wince as Achermann clasped his and gave one short, brutal squeeze before dropping it.

“So,” Achermann said, looking Hamilton up and down appraisingly, “you have come to see the 904’s, yes?” His eyes came to rest on the briefcase.

This was it. Hamilton discovered he was trembling and cleared his throat raspingly. “Well, yes, of course,” he muttered, for some reason unable to meet Achermann’s eyes.

Achermann raised his voice to the chauffeur. “Heinrich! We will go to the track now.” He urged Hamilton back to the limousine. Heinrich held the door, standing stiffly at attention as the two of them entered. To Hamilton’s great relief, the dogs stayed behind.

Once inside the limo and rolling, Achermann wasted no time in getting to the point. “You have brought the money?” He nodded toward the briefcase. Hamilton cleared his throat again; things were moving rather more rapidly than he’d bargained for. In the presence of this aggressive man, his composure was melting away like a child’s sandcastle under the rising tide.

“Well,” he hedged, “let’s just say I came prepared.”

Achermann, though, was not about to be satisfied with such temporization. “American currency?” he demanded, prodding the briefcase with his cane.

In the face of such obduracy, Hamilton was unable to rally his pretense of disdainful superiority. He was barely able even to reply.

“May I see the cars first, Mr. Achermann?”

Achermann grinned mechanically. “Of course. Of course. As you will see, they are perfect. They have won many concourses, many races. You will find no fault with them.”

He made this last sound like a command, and Achermann was obviously accustomed to being obeyed.

“Perfection, Herr Hamilton, is everything to me,” he went on in tones worthy of a drill sergeant.

“It is not my way to be content with mere excellence. Only perfection is good enough for me.” He paused, noticing Hamilton’s gaze upon the blackthorn cane.

“Ah, yes. You make note of my cane. As well you may. A racing accident. Not my fault. Another driver collided with me as I was overtaking him in a tight turn. He was killed, and rightly so, the fool. Unfortunately, my leg was permanently damaged. And so I must contend with an imperfect body. You will agree, this is a great joke, yes?”

Achermann barked mirthless laughter. It was not a pleasant sound, rather like that of a butcher splitting chops with a cleaver.

Hamilton began to perspire, remembering the isolation of this estate and the fact that his presence here was unknown to anyone. Desperately, he sorted through his store of excuses for backing out of purchases. None were anywhere near suitable for such a forceful man as this. Indeed, most were calculated to deliver a thinly veiled insult to the would-be seller. He didn’t dare insult this man. In fact, he didn’t see how he could decline without admitting his imposture. And even this alternative was frightening. There was no telling what a man like Achermann might do if angered.

The limo was easing down a gentle slope which overlooked an oval track. Alongside the track stood a low metal building with many large doors, all of them closed.

“My test track and garage,” Achermann was saying. But Hamilton’s eyes were drawn to movement from one end of the structure. Bounding toward the limousine were three more rottweilers. His throat contracted in an involuntary effort to swallow, but the dryness of his mouth permitted no more than a dull clicking sound.

“As you can see,” Achermann continued, “my cars are well guarded.” He rolled an eye toward Hamilton and his teeth showed behind a twisted smile. “You know, these animals are remarkably efficient feeders. Not unlike a school of sharks, they can dispose of large quantities of raw meat and bone in very short time.”

Hamilton’s tongue felt like hot sandpaper as he unconsciously licked his lips. There was little doubt as to just what raw meat Achermann was referring to. By now, the huge dogs were alongside the limo, effortlessly keeping pace as the driver wheeled onto the concrete apron in front of the garage. He stopped before a door marked with the stallion rampant arms of Porsche. Achermann opened a panel in the walnut liquor cabinet. Inside were a dozen or so numbered buttons. He pressed one and the sectional steel garage door began to rise. Lights came on inside the bay, and Hamilton’s eyes were suddenly filled with the glossy black 904’s. The lines of their radical design bespoke the same aggressiveness as did Achermann himself. They were pure racing machines, with no concession to such banalities as fashion or ornament. Every curve, every line and contour of them was optimally functional; and the obvious function of the sum of their parts was speed. Yet, in an almost unearthly way, they were beautiful. Incredibly so. The photographs he’d seen in the magazine, impressive as they were, had in no way captured the true spirit of these magnificent machines. They seemed almost to breathe with a life of their own.

Heinrich appeared, opening the limo door for Hamilton and drawing his attention away from the sleek pair of racers. The dogs were waiting. Achermann spoke, obviously pleased with the dread they inspired in his guest.

“You have met Loki and Fenris. These are Fafnir, Nidhoggr, and Jorm.” Each of the dogs responded to the mention of its name with an eager glance at their master.

“Jorm?” Hamilton muttered, hardly realizing he’d spoken.

“Brief for ‘Jormungandr,’ ” Achermann explained. “The names are all from the Norse Mythos. Jormungandr is the giant snake which encircles the base of the Tree of Life, and Nidhoggr, the great dragon who gnaws endlessly at its roots.” He seemed to find considerable amusement in this, his wolfish grin widening as he prodded Hamilton from the safety of the limousine.

For the second time in fifteen minutes, Hamilton found himself surrounded by huge, suspicious dogs and struggled to contain his panic. He was certain they could smell his fear. Hell, he could smell it himself; pungent and unmistakable in the warm sunshine. The dogs prodded rudely at him and brushed their massive shoulders against his trembling knees, threatening to knock him off his feet altogether. He threw a desperate look at Achermann and saw the light of sadistic pleasure in his arctic eyes. The dogs began growling as they buffeted him between their bodies, and he could actually feel the thunder of their voices as they pressed ever closer against his legs. He tried to protect himself with the briefcase, only to have it savagely nudged away by one of the snarling brutes. He was nearly weeping with terror when Achermann at last rapped out a series of commands.

“Runter! Setz dich! Bleiben!” Instantly, the animals stopped their ferocious snarling and snapped into sitting position. Hamilton was on the verge of collapse, his clothing soaked with sweat. He was also furiously angry, but dared not show it. Several tense moments passed before Achermann spoke.

“You need have no fear of these animals, Herr Hamilton,” he said in conversational tones. “They are highly trained and perfectly obedient, as you can see.”

Hamilton strove to master his voice. “To be truthful, Mr. Achermann, I came here to see these cars, not a demonstration of your dogs’ proficiency at guarding them. It is unfair of you to take advantage of me this way.” This was as firm a protest as he dared essay. Achermann was playing him as if he were a trout on light tackle, and with each passing moment, his situation seemed more hopeless.

Achermann regarded him with unconcealed amusement. “I apologize,” he said, his voice utterly devoid of sincerity. “By all means, let us examine the cars.”

Hamilton could feel the dogs’ eyes on him as he followed Achermann past them into the bay. It was perfectly clear that this madman had no intention of accepting anything less than a quarter of a million dollars. Now. Here. Today. And no excuse Hamilton could come up with was going to be good enough — even though his life depended on it. Achermann was opening the door of one of the low-slung racers.

“You can see that they have been taken care of by expert mechanics. Factory trained. You will not find a wrench mark anywhere on them.” He gestured. “Come. See for yourself. They are perfect.”

They were indeed, as Hamilton had known they would be. There was no fault he could point to as an excuse for backing out. He cursed himself silently. Achermann was sliding behind the wheel, his eyes occupied with the controls. A rash impulse flared in Hamilton’s mind, and he looked wildly about for a wrench or hammer. Instead, he found the dogs. They were watching his every move. He heard the high-pitched whine of the starter and the Porsche snarled to life, its unmuffled engine deafening in the confined space of the metal-walled bay. Achermann nodded toward the door and eased the clutch in, rolling the glossy black machine smoothly out onto the apron. Hamilton followed, making a wide circle around the dogs. What else could he do?

Outside, the pulsing thunder of the two-liter engine was more bearable, but still not far below the threshold of real pain. Achermann gestured him into the passenger seat. He hesitated. Was this to be another exercise in intimidation? Probably. He came to a decision.

“Go ahead,” he shouted above the throbbing engine. “I’ll watch.” Perhaps while Achermann was roaring around the track he could persuade the chauffeur to get him out of this predicament. Doubtful, to say the least, but anything was worth a try. There was sudden silence as Achermann killed the engine. Hamilton, surprised in the midst of his thoughts, experienced a guilty twinge as he met Achermann’s eyes.

“You do not want a test ride?” Achermann demanded. His disappointment was obvious. And dangerous. “Or,” he sneered, “did you want to drive a few laps yourself?” It was clear he deemed Hamilton incompetent to operate such a vehicle. And very likely he was correct. But...

“In fact, yes,” Hamilton said, jumping at the only chance he could see to escape. “I’d prefer to drive it myself.” There. He’d managed to say it before he could change his mind. What the hell? His survival was at stake, as Achermann had rather heavy-handedly pointed out. Besides, he reminded himself, Achermann believed the briefcase held $250,000. That was his hole card.

Achermann extricated himself from the car with considerable difficulty. The doorsill was only inches from the ground, and his stiff leg was a hindrance, as Hamilton noted with some satisfaction. Finally he was on his feet, scowling and muttering unintelligibly. Hamilton slid into the seat, placing the briefcase on the seat next to him. He found the ignition switch, and, just remembering to depress the clutch pedal, fired the engine. As he buckled into the seat harness, Achermann reached past him and grabbed the briefcase. “I’ll just take care of this for you,” he shouted over the din of 180 horsepower. He waved Hamilton toward the track, his face a portrait of sardonic triumph.

Hamilton slipped the clutch and tried gently to boost the RPM’s enough to overcome inertia without stalling, but the accelerator pedal was amazingly touchy and he redlined the tachometer. The tires howled as they broke traction, and the car fishtailed sickeningly down the ramp toward the track. He had one lap in which to learn the intricacies of this high-powered monster. After one circuit, he’d whip off the track and head for the gate. He bitterly regretted the loss of his briefcase; it would surely cost him his job. But this was his only chance. He’d need incredible luck just to get away with his life.

He shifted gears, grinding and shuddering as he swept into the first turn, and fought to concentrate on the controls. How many times had he dreamed of being behind the wheel of a race car? Well, dammit, here he was. And it was only a car after all...

He overcorrected as he came into the straightaway and jagged back and forth across the entire width of the track before he regained control. God, this thing was touchy! He stabbed his left foot at the clutch to shift higher and hit the brake pedal instead just as he was entering the second turn. The car slammed into a four-wheel drift, and in desperation, Hamilton released the steering wheel, lifting his foot from the accelerator and noticing the speedometer for the first time. A giant fist clamped his heart as he saw that he was doing 130. As the car miraculously recovered, he realized that the indicated speed was in kilometers, which converted to a mere eighty miles per hour. He fought his way through the remainder of the curve, accelerating again on the straightaway, and there ahead was the ramp leading back to the estate road. He gripped the wheel and centered the ramp between the sleek curves of the wheel wells. This would have to be it.

Hamilton roared down the straightaway and up the sloping ramp to the apron. Achermann, the dogs, and the limousine blurred past on his right as he accelerated onto the estate road and headed back the way they’d come. He had no time for a look in the rearview mirror, all his attention being required to keep this fretful little overpowered skateboard on the road. As he wheeled through the numerous turnings of the road, he began to feel a little glow of pride suffusing the stark fear which had been gripping his guts for what seemed an eternity. But he dared not spare the attention to enjoy it. The driveway to the manor house flashed past on his left, and the next moment he was belting along beside the lake, the speedo reading 190. He remembered there was a tunnel up ahead some where and judiciously throttled back, finally able to spare a glance at the rearview mirror. No pursuit was in sight, thank God. His mind leaped ahead. How was he going to get past the gate? Well, he thought, grinning slightly, he’d bum that bridge when he came to it.

Ahead yawned the tunnel, the rock walls flanking its mouth looking remarkably hard and unforgiving. He downshifted and took a deep breath. The next instant he was in total darkness, the thunderous growl of the engine blatting off the surrounding stone walls and hammering his eardrums. The steering wheel felt like a slender bar of soap in his sweaty hands. He heard himself moan softly, and then there was light ahead. Another second, and he flashed into sunshine, fighting to hold the car steady through a long, sweeping right-hand curve. The gate was not far off now.

He began to slow the car, seeming to have outrun his panic for the time being. Shifting down through the gears, he pondered the problem of the gate. He assumed it was operated in the same way as the garage doors. Perhaps there was a transmitter in this car. Not likely, but he began looking anyway. The roadway flared, and the gate was before him, looking very substantial in the gray stone wall. He took a second look. By God! It was swinging open! His mind reeled. Could there be an electric eye along the approach? Well, it didn’t matter, he was free now! Through the gate and onto the road he sped, directly into the massive stainless-steel radiator of the Rolls-Royce which was just turning to enter the gate.

There was a thundering crash as the two vehicles ground together, broken glass scattering like diamonds across the roadway. The nose of the fiberglass-bodied 904 buckled for a millisecond, then shattered blindingly, the suspension members and steering gear contorting and snapping under stress they’d never been intended to take. The box-beam longitudinal frame members dove under the front axle of the Rolls, sparks showering in every direction. In less than a second both vehicles were at rest, the tortured remains of the Porsche beneath the front axle of the big Rolls. A jet of blistering steam from the ruptured radiator of the larger car seared Hamilton’s neck, and he struggled desperately to free himself from the wreckage. He heard voices.

“What in the hell is my 904 doing out here?” an obviously enraged woman was demanding.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Sabeth,” a man’s voice replied. “Did you recognize the driver?”

“It’s no one I’ve ever seen. Get him out of there. If he’s still alive, I want some answers!”

Hamilton was still alive all right, and beginning to wish he wasn’t.

A man’s face came into view as the hood of the Rolls was raised. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” was all he could say. It happened to be the truth.

“D’you mind telling us what you’re doing in this car? On this property?”

“Trying to get away from that madman,” he groaned. “Please, get me out of here.”

“Of course,” the man assured him. “What’s this about a madman?”

“Achermann! The owner.”

The stranger’s face showed amazement. “Achermann? Owner? What in hell do you mean? My wife owns this car!”

The woman’s voice rose above this last.

“David, what does he mean? Is he deranged?”

Hamilton was beginning to think this might well be the case. Nothing was making any sense. He hated himself for asking, but he had to know. “Who is Achermann, then?”

“Achermann! Why, he’s our kennel keeper. What of it?”

Hamilton began to giggle. At first softly, then louder, and louder, until he was laughing uncontrollably, tears tracking down his cheeks and mixing with blood. And after a time, his thoughts turned to Joyce.