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he carefully carved the small block of soap with delicate, skillful hands.
    Brennan didn’t know where the morgue was or what it looked like, but the dark, forbidding structure that they finally stopped before met all of his expectations.
    â€œHere it is,” Whiskers announced unnecessarily. They watched the building for a few moments. “Still looks busy.” Occasional lights illuminated scattered rooms throughout the multistoried structure, and as they watched, people occasionally entered or left by the main entrance.
    â€œReady yet?” Whiskers growled, glancing into the mirror.
    â€œJust about,” Lazy Dragon said without looking up.
    â€œReady for what?” Brennan asked, and Whiskers turned to him.
    â€œYou gotta take Deadhead to the room they use for long-term body storage. It’s in the basement. Deadhead will take it from there. Dragon will go first and scout. You’re muscle in case anything goes wrong.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    Whiskers may have grinned under his mask, but Brennan couldn’t be sure. “Now that you’re here, I just wait in the car.”
    Brennan didn’t like it. This wasn’t the way he liked to do things, but he was obviously being tested. Equally obviously, he had no choice. He made one more try for information.
    â€œWhat are we looking for?”
    â€œDeadhead knows,” Whiskers said, and Brennan heard a disquieting titter from the backseat. “And Dragon knows the general layout. You just deal with anyone who tries to interfere.” He glanced back into the mirror. “Ready?”
    Lazy Dragon looked up. “Ready,” he said calmly. He folded his knife, put it away, and stared critically at what he had carved. Brennan, mystified and curious, turned around for a better look and saw that it was a small but credible mouse. Lazy Dragon studied it carefully, nodded as if satisfied, set it on his lap, settled back comfortably in his seat, and closed his eyes. For a moment nothing happened, then Dragon slumped as if asleep or unconscious, and the carving began to twitch.
    The tail lashed, the ears perked up, and then, creakily at first but with increasing fluidity, the thing stretched. It stopped for a moment to preen its fur, then it leaped from Dragon’s lap to the shoulder of the driver’s seat. Brennan stared at it and it stared back. It was a goddamn living mouse. Brennan glanced back at Lazy Dragon, who seemed to be sleeping, then looked at Whiskers, who was watching impassively beneath his Nixon mask.
    â€œNice trick,” Brennan drawled.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Whiskers said. “You carry him.”
    Lazy Dragon, who seemed to be vitalizing and possessing the little figurine he’d carved, climbed up on Brennan’s shoulder, scurried down his chest, and popped into his vest pocket. He peeked out, holding the pocket-top with his little clawed paws. This was, Brennan thought, more than passing strange, but he had the feeling that things would get stranger before the night was over.
    â€œOkay,” he said. “Let’s do it.” Whatever it was.
    They entered the morgue through an unlocked service entrance in a side alley and took the stairway to the basement. Lazy Dragon popped out of his pocket, ran down his vest and pant-leg, and scurried down the poorly lit corridor in which they found themselves. Deadhead started after him, but Brennan held him back.
    â€œLet’s wait until the mou—until Lazy Dragon gets back.”
    Deadhead’s eyes were shiny and he was even more jittery than usual. His hands shook as he took out his pill bottle, and he dropped a dozen capsules on the floor as he gulped down a mouthful. The pills scattered on the concrete floor, making loud skittering noises. He grinned maniacally and the corner of his mouth kept twitching in a torturous grimace.
    What the hell , Brennan thought, am I doing in a morgue corridor with a madman and a living mouse