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carved out of soap?
    Lazy Dragon came scampering back before Brennan could think of a satisfactory answer to this disturbing question, his tiny feet moving as if he were being chased by the hungriest cat in the world. He stopped at Brennan’s feet, dancing with excitement. Brennan sighed, bent over, and held out his hand. Lazy Dragon jumped up on his palm, and Brennan, still hunkered down, lifted the mouse close to his face.
    Lazy Dragon sat up on his haunches, his beady eyes bright with intelligence. He drew his tiny right front paw over his throat repeatedly. Brennan sighed again. He hated charades.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked. “Danger? Someone in the corridor?”
    The mouse nodded excitedly and held up his paw.
    â€œOne man?” Again the mouse nodded. “Armed?” The mouse shrugged a very human-looking shrug, looked doubtful. “Okay.” Brennan let the mouse down, then stood up. “Follow me.” He turned to Deadhead. “You wait here.”
    Deadhead nodded a jittery nod, and Brennan went off down the corridor, Lazy Dragon scurrying at his heels. He had no confidence in Deadhead and wondered what part in the mission he could possibly play. It’s hard , he thought to himself, when your most dependable man is a mouse.
    Around the bend of the corridor a man was sitting in a metal folding chair, eating a sandwich and reading a paperback. He looked up as Brennan approached.
    â€œCan I help you, buddy?” He was middle-aged, fat, and balding. The book he was reading was Ace Avenger #49, Mission to Iran.
    â€œGot a delivery.”
    The man frowned. “I don’t know nothing about that. I’m the night janitor. We usually get deliveries during the day.”
    Brennan nodded understandingly. “This is a special delivery,” he said. When he was close enough, he reached behind his back and drew the stiletto he carried in a belt sheath under his vest, touching the tip of its blade lightly against the janitor’s throat. The janitor’s lips made a round O of astonishment and he dropped his book.
    â€œJesus, mister, what are you doing?” he asked in a strangled whisper, trying to move his throat as little as possible.
    â€œWhere’s the long-term storage room?”
    â€œOver there, over that way.” The janitor made little jerking motions with his eyeballs, afraid to move even a muscle.
    â€œGo get Deadhead.”
    â€œI don’t know no one with that name,” the fat man pleaded, sweat beading his forehead.
    â€œI wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the mouse.”
    â€œO Lord.” The janitor started to mumble an incoherent prayer, sure that Brennan was a crazed maniac who was going to murder him.
    Brennan waited patiently until Lazy Dragon returned with Deadhead.
    â€œAnyone else on this floor?” he asked, urging the janitor up with a slight flick of his knife wrist. The janitor, catching on quickly, stood immediately.
    â€œNo one. Not now.”
    â€œNo guards?”
    The janitor looked as if he wanted to shake his head, but the proximity of the knife to his throat stopped him. “Don’t really need them. No one’s broke into the morgue for, jeez, months now.”
    â€œOkay.” Brennan eased the knife away from the janitor’s throat and the man visibly relaxed. “Take us to the storeroom. Be quiet and no funny business.” By way of emphasis Brennan touched the tip of the janitor’s nose with the tip of his knife, and the janitor nodded carefully.
    Brennan squatted and held out his palm, and Lazy Dragon climbed onto it. He put the mouse in his vest pocket, holding back a smile at the janitor’s bug-eyed stare. He looked as if he wanted to ask Brennan a question, then thought better of it.
    â€œIt’s this way,” the janitor said, and Deadhead and Brennan, with Lazy Dragon peering from his pocket, followed him.
    The janitor let them into the room with his