Thinking the rat had surfaced in the supply room, Jimmy grabbed the broom that he’d been using on his clean-up chores. Planning on beating the crap out of the rat, he threw open the supply room door. He even took a step forward before he froze. Blood drained from his face. In front of him was an upright figure whose features were lost in shadow.

A muffled scream issued from between Jimmy’s lips as he staggered back. The broom slipped from his hands and fell to the tiled floor with a clatter. Jimmy’s wildest fears had become a reality. One of the corpses had come alive.

“Hi, Jimmy,” said the figure.

Panic could not overcome paralysis in Jimmy’s brain. He stood rooted to the floor as the figure in front of him stepped from the shadows of the supply room along with a cold breeze from an open window.

“You look a little pale,” Tony commented. He was holding his gun, but it was pointed toward the floor. “Maybe you’d better climb up on that old porcelain table and lie down.” Tony pointed with his free hand toward the embalming table.

“They made me do it,” Jimmy slobbered when he comprehended he was not dealing with a supernatural creature but rather a live human being obviously associated with Cerino’s organization.

“Yeah, sure,” Tony said in a falsely consoling tone of voice. “But get on the table just the same.”

As Jimmy stepped over to the embalming table with shaky legs, Tony walked over to the wall switch and turned the light on and off several times.

“On the table!” Tony commanded when he noticed that Jimmy was hesitating.

With some effort Jimmy got himself up on the table, sitting on the edge.

“Lie down!” Tony snapped. When Jimmy did so, Tony walked over and looked down on him. “Great place to hide out,” he said.

“It was all Manso’s idea,” Jimmy blurted out. His head was propped up on a black rubber block. “All I did was turn the lights off. I didn’t even know what was going down.”

“Everybody says it was Manso’s idea,” Tony complained. “Of course he’s the only one who didn’t make it from the scene. Too bad he’s not around to defend himself.”

A thump in the supply room heralded Angelo’s entrance. He came into the room warily, looking like a caged animal. He did not like the funeral home. “This place stinks,” he said.

“That’s formaldehyde,” Tony said. “You get used to it. You don’t even smell it after a while. Come over and meet Jimmy Lanso.”

Angelo walked over to the embalming table, eyeing Jimmy with contempt. “Such a little prick,” he said.

“It was Manso’s idea,” Jimmy insisted. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Who else was involved?” Angelo demanded. He wanted to be sure.

“Manso, DePasquale, and Marchese,” Jimmy said. “They made me go.”

“Nobody wants to take any responsibility,” Angelo said with disgust. “Jimmy, I’m afraid you’ve got to go for a little ride.”

“No, please,” Jimmy begged.

Tony leaned over and whispered into Angelo’s ear. Angelo glanced over at the embalming equipment, then back down at Jimmy cowering on the embalming table.

“Sounds appropriate,” Angelo said with a nod. “Especially for such a gutless piece of dog turd.”

“Hold him down,” Tony said with glee. He darted over to the embalming equipment and turned on a pump. He watched the dials until sufficient suction was produced.

Then he wheeled the aspirator over to the table.

Jimmy observed these preparations with growing alarm. Having avoided watching any of the embalming procedures his cousin had performed, he had no idea what Tony was up to. Whatever it was, he was sure he wasn’t going to like it.

Angelo leaned across his chest and held his hands down. Without giving Jimmy a chance to guess what was happening, Tony plunged the knife-sharp embalming trocar into Jimmy’s abdomen and roughly rooted the tip around.

With a stifled scream Jimmy’s face seemed to pull inward as his cheeks went hollow and pale. The canister on the aspirator filled with blood, bits of tissue, and partially digested food.

Feeling queasy, Angelo let go of the boy and turned away. For a second Jimmy’s hands tried to grab the trocar from Tony, but they quickly went limp as the boy lapsed into unconsciousness.

“What do you think?” Tony asked as he stepped away to view his handiwork. “Pretty neat, huh? All I’d have to do is pump him full of embalming fluid with the embalming machine and he’d practically be ready for the grave.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Angelo said. He felt a little green. “Wipe off any prints from that machine.”

Five minutes later they retraced their steps and climbed back out the window. They’d considered using the door but decided against it in case it was wired.

Once in the car, Angelo began to relax. Cerino had been right. Dominick hadn’t been lying. It hadn’t been a setup. As he pulled away from the curb, Angelo felt a sense of accomplishment. “Well, that’s the end of the acid boys,” he said. “Now we have to get back to real work.”

“Did you show the second list to Cerino?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, but we’ll still start from the first list,” Angelo said. “The second list will be easier.”

“Makes no difference to me,” Tony said. “But what do you say we eat first? Sitting around the Vesuvio made me hungry. How about another pizza?”

“I think we’d better get one job done first,” Angelo said. He wanted to put a little distance between the grisly scene at the Spoletto Funeral Home and his next meal.

Embroiled again in the recurrent nightmare about her brother sinking into the bottomless black mud, Laurie was thankful for her alarm’s jangle that pulled her from her deep sleep. Barely awake she reached over to the alarm and turned it off. Before she could retract her arm back into the warm covers, the alarm went off again. That was when Laurie realized it wasn’t the alarm. It was the telephone.

“Dr. Montgomery, this is Dr. Ted Ackerman,” the caller said. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I’m the tour doctor on call and I got a message that I should call you if a certain kind of case came in.”

Laurie was too bewildered to respond. Glancing down at the clock she saw it was only two-thirty in the morning. No wonder she was having a tough time getting her bearings.

“I just got a call,” Ted continued. “It sounds like the demographics you had mentioned. It also sounds like cocaine. The deceased is a banker, aged thirty-one. The name is Stuart Morgan.”

“Where?” Laurie asked.

“Nine-seventy Fifth Avenue,” Ted said. “Do you want to take the call or shall I just go? I don’t mind either way.”

“I’ll go,” Laurie said. “Thanks.” She hung up the phone and stood up. She felt miserable. Tom, on the other hand, seemed pleased to be awake. Purring contentedly, he rubbed against her legs.

Laurie threw on some clothes and grabbed a camera and several pairs of rubber gloves. She left her apartment still buttoning her coat and dreaming of returning home to climb back in bed.

Outside, Laurie found her street deserted, but First Avenue had traffic. In five minutes she was in the back of a taxi with an Afghani freedom fighter for a driver. Fifteen minutes later she got out of the cab at 970 Fifth. An NYPD car and a city ambulance were pulled up on the sidewalk. Both vehicles had their emergency lights blinking impatiently.

Inside, Laurie flashed her medical examiner’s badge and was directed to Penthouse B.

“You the medical examiner?” a uniformed policeman asked with obvious amazement when Laurie entered the apartment and again showed her badge. His name tag read “Ron Moore.” He was a muscular, heavyset fellow in his late thirties.

Laurie nodded, feeling little tolerance or reserve for what was coming.

“Hell,” Ron said, “you don’t look like any of the medical examiners I’ve ever seen.”

“Nonetheless I am,” Laurie said without humor.