Ashes to Ashes

had suddenly become available two years before. Its previous owner, a guy who called himself King and worked nights as an Elvis-impersonating stripper, had lost control dodging street traffic and had ended up under the wheels of a garbage truck. The bike had survived. King had not.

Messengers were a superstitious bunch. King died in the line. Nobody wanted a dead guy's bike if he died in the line. It sat in the back hall at dispatch for a week, waiting to be claimed by King's next of kin—only he turned out not to have any, at least none that gave a shit about him.

Jace didn't believe in susperstitions. He believed you make your own luck. King went under the wheels because he was cranked up on speed most of the time and had poor judgement. Jace believed in focus and hustle. He had looked at the bike and seen a strong Cannondale frame, two good wheels, and a gel-cushioned seat. He saw himself cutting his delivery times, making more runs, making more money. He waved off all warnings, left the piece of shit he'd been riding leaning against an LA Times box for anyone who wanted to steal it, and rode home on the Cannondale.

The car's engine revved, and the taillight disappeared from view. Predator was going home, calling it after a hard day of fucking trying to kill people, Jace thought. Chills shook his body, from the rain and from relief. This time when he thought he was going to puke, he did.

Headlights flashed past on the street. Predator passed by, the big car growling like a panther as sirens whined in the distance.

Jace went back to the scene where his fallen mount lay, the rear wheel mangled beyond saving. If it had been a horse, someone would have shot it, put it out of its misery. But it was a bike, and the frame was still intact. A miracle from God, Preacher John would have said. In his downtime between runs, Preacher John stood on the corner of Fourth and Flower and recited the Bible for all those unfortunate enough to have to pass by him.

Jace didn't believe in miracles. He'd caught a break. Two, considering that he was still alive.

He looked around for his bag, but it was gone. Taken as a trophy by Predator, a consolation prize. Or maybe he thought he'd accomplished his true mission. Someone wanted whatever the hell was in Lenny Lowell's packet, held tight against his belly by his shirt.

Whatever the hell it was, Jace was going to find out. Lenny had a lot to answer for.

He picked up the bike, tilted it up onto the front wheel only, and started walking.

ASHES TO ASHES

A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Bantam hardcover edition published March 1999

Bantam mass market edition published July 2000

Bantam reissue edition / January 2004

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

Quotation from THE SYMBOLISM OF EVIL, VOLUME SEVENTEEN OF THE RELIGIOUS PERSPECTIVE SERIES by Paul Ricoeur. Copyright © 1967 by Paul Ricoeur. Copyright renewed 1995. Reprinted with permission from HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Quotations reprinted with the permission of Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster, from Mindhunter by John Douglas and John Olshaker. Copyright © 1995 by Mindhunters, Inc.

Quotation from Serial Killers: The Growing Menace, by Joel Norris. Reprinted with permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 1999 by Diva Hoag, Inc.