Page 45 of The Delivery

The dank garage smells of rubber and chemical solvents, gasoline and motor oil. Derek loves it, this smell of virility, which reaches him even through the full-face respirator with replaceable filters on both sides.

He is geared up.

He likes this part.

He wears 3M folding earmuffs for soundproofing, ear plugs beneath those, heavy duty gloves, and a PVC-coated rubber apron. He looks like a meth cook ready to break bad.

Last week at an estate auction he got a rusted-to-shit 1948 356, one of Porsche’s first production automobiles. Hose in hand, he stands before the bubble coupe now. It is classic as hell, strong Connery-Bond vibes. It still runs, badly but consistently.

At his side is the Dustless Blasting DB500, a massive green-and-black compressor. Its silver belly holds water and recycled bottle glass. He loads the compressor with 40/70 grit recycled glass, which looks like sand until you spread it in your palm, and the ambers and greens twinkle to life.

The hose is the most powerful he has ever held, firing at 120 pounds per square inch. He will use it to blast off the rust, Bondo, primer, and old paint, bringing the car back to fresh steel.

He lies flat on his back, bracing himself before initiating the dead-man trigger. The hose flexes and fills behind him, python-like, and when the blast comes, the force nearly slides him across the oil-slick floor. Shoving his boots against the concrete, he holds on and directs the jet of glass-flecked water at the side of the Porsche. His entire torso is engaged, a massive upper-body workout. It’s like an auto machine gun emitting a constant stream of lead.

In stages he acclimates to the roar of the compressor. As he inchworms himself along the floor, stripping the coats off the steel body, the jet engine rumble lulls him into complacency.

He does not notice the masculine form walking across his front lawn at a leisurely pace.

Nor does he notice when it enters the garage.

Derek is busy straining and flexing and aiming and sweating.

Bare feet approach. A shadow falls across him, but he cannot notice, not through the respirator.

He doesn’t even sense the tug on the hose, just enough to whip the nozzle across his thigh.

The bite of crushed glass awakens him, shooting through the apron, his jeans, his flesh, drilling neatly down clear to the bone of the femur. At first he feels only a dreadful pressure.

He releases the nozzle, the dead-man switch shutting off the unit.

And then comes the blood, gushing from the gunshot-neat hole. If he has nicked his femoral artery, he is dead.

It is very, very close.

He is forgetting to breathe. He cannot see, the respirator fogged up. He shoves at the straps but cannot get the device off his head. Rolling onto his back, he feels the first premonition of discomfort, and then pain comes on, freight-train hard, the damaged limb screaming.

Writhing in pain, he catches a glimpse of something near his head. A shadow? A form? A man? It is hard to see, given the static dotting his visual field.

There is not much time. He must reach his phone. He must get help.

The form steps calmly around his head.

The door to the coupe opens and closes.

Derek’s vision gets worse, everything swimming, choked with snow. He struggles to stay conscious.

The Porsche backs out of the garage, nearly crushing Derek’s head.

As it drives off, he is still grappling beneath his apron for his cell phone.

Chapter 33

Mr. Man does not come home that night.

Rebecca and Mark have no idea what to do.

Maybe he is gathering solutions for them, as when he returned with the purloined bunny. Maybe he is berserking through the neighborhood, leaving traces of the family DNA at crime scenes. Maybe he is gone for good. What then?