Was Zig being paranoid? Maybe. Yet as he headed for the front door of what used to be a Dairy Queen, he reached into his pocket and gripped his knife, a SOG Trident Elite. It was a gift from the spouse of a fallen Navy SEAL, who modified the blade with a deep groove at the top so it could be opened as it was pulled out. The groove also did extra damage, adding a puncture to every slice.
There was a soft, almost imperceptible magnetic click as Zig opened the door—the funeral home’s notification system, which sent an entry alert to both Zig’s office and the embalming room in back.
“Who’s hungry for Munchkins!?” Zig sang out, using Puerto Rican Andy’s favorite line from his daily Dunkin’ Donuts run.
No answer.
On his right was a dark wood podium that usually held the sign-in book. Beyond that was a closed door—to the room that displayed the different types of coffins. In nearly every funeral home in America, the biggest coffin manufacturers will sell to you only if you display the cheapest coffins in front, the most expensive in back, so that by the time a family sees the good stuff, they’ll be cornered and easier to close. When Zig took over, he told those companies that their services would no longer be needed.
“What about quidditch—anyone want to play quidditch?” Zig added, trying to get a response.
Still nothing.
Zig looked up at the in-ceiling speakers. On days when there wasn’t a funeral, they played soft piano music. Currently, the music was off.
“Andy, you okay?”
No response.
Zig’s skin felt brittle, like it was starting to tear. Regripping the knife in his pocket, he headed slowly, carefully, toward the main viewing area.
“Andy, I’m dialing 911 right now!” Zig shouted, entering a wide room with rows of empty pews and dark burgundy carpet. “So if this is like that time when you were pretending to be Voldemort in the final movie, well . . . fifty points from Gryffind—”
“Mr. Zigarowski, I’m trying to save you from an awful day. So I’m asking this once. Your knife. Put it where I can see it. Please,” a female voice announced.
Zig spun toward the front corner of the room, toward an open door that led to a foyer for private family viewing.
“Ziggy, I . . . I’m sorry,” Puerto Rican Andy whimpered, his lip bleeding, his right eye swollen shut. “S-She asked if you were carrying— If I didn’t tell them . . . or say that stuff about Maggie— Hkkk.” Andy coughed, like he was choking.
Behind Andy, a redheaded woman with piercing, different-colored eyes pulled a string she held to Andy’s throat. No, not a string. A thin metal saw.
“The knife, Mr. Zigarowski. I know it’s in your pocket,” Reagan said.
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The woman was tall, nearly as tall as Puerto Rican Andy, which was saying something.
“Let him go,” Zig demanded.
“I don’t think you’re hearing me, Mr. Zigarowski,” Reagan said. “The knife . . .”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Zig said, hand still in his pocket. “Let him—”
“I’m slitting his throat now,” Reagan said, starting to tug.
“WaitWaitWait! No . . . my knife. Here . . . here . . .” Zig said, pulling out his knife and tossing it on the floor, where it cartwheeled across the carpet.
That was all they needed.
In a blur, something moved behind Zig—someone who was hiding by the old ice cream drive-through window that had been reframed into an alcove with a hanging American flag.
Before Zig knew what hit him, a tree-trunk-sized arm wrapped around his neck, squeezing him in a brutal choke hold.