damn messy scar tissue. Leave them alone to work their magic and you'll come out of it as pretty and pink as a baby's butt.'
'Hard to believe it could be so simple,' Bolan commented stiffly, his lips still numbed from the anaesthetic.
'Not so simple,' Brantzen said, grinning. 'You're going to start feeling like you'd been worked over with brass knucks when that freeze begins to wear off. I removed a bit of bone here and there, mostly from the nose, and added plastic in other areas. It's soft stuff, Mack, sort of like cartilage, and it just could start travelling on you. If it does, you beat it back here and let me take care of it. All in all, though, the techniques of today are far superior to anything we had just a few years ago. We could, you know, almost put you back just the way you were . . . if you ever feel the need of it.'
'Or could you change me again?'
The surgeon nodded his head. 'Sure. Of course, this sort of tampering with nature shouldn't be overdone.' He smiled. 'You should see what we can do with a skinny girl's bustline, or hipline, or whatever needs adjusting for that matter.'
Bolan tried to smile back but found that his facial muscles would not cooperate. 'Next you'll be telling me you've got help for certain male-type problems,' he mummed.
'There's hardly any limit, Mack,' Brantzen solemnly replied. 'The sort of thing I've done on you is child's play compared to some of the restorative type work I get in here. I didn't have to rebuild tissues on you, you know . . . just altered an angle here and there. Still, you have to watch yourself. A bit of carelessness on your part and the whole thing could fall apart. You follow those instructions I gave you, and I mean to the letter.'
'There won't be any telltale scars?'
'Not if you follow the instructions. At least, nothing that could be detected by anybody but another plastic surgeon.'
Bolan was again staring into the mirror. 'It's phenomenal,' he said. 'Even with the doo-dads, I look just like the sketch. It's just a mask, though, isn't it? A different kind, but still a mask. That isn't me in that mirror.'
Brantzen nodded and said, 'If you want to get technical, then it's a mask. But a mask you can live behind forever.'
'Or fight behind,' Bolan said softly.
The surgeon's eyes dropped and he twisted his hands together in some silent emotion. 'I sort of thought you'd get that idea,' he murmured.
'It's not just an idea, Jim.' Bolan dropped the mirror onto his lap. 'It's a commitment. I have no choice. I fight until I win or until I die.'
'It's 'Nam all over again,' Brantzen said sorrowfully.
'That's about what it is,' Bolan agreed.
'The meek shall inherit the earth,' The surgeon reminded his patient, smiling solemnly.
'Yeah,' the Executioner said. 'But not until the violent have tamed it.' He winced and raised his hands to tenderly probe his cheeks with fingertips,
'You're starting to get the kick?' Brantzen asked him.
'Is that what it is?' Bolan grimaced. 'I thought someone just hit me with a baseball bat.'
'When it starts feeling like a jackhammer, let me know. I can help you over the rough period.'
'Not with junk,' Bolan protested.
'Nothing else will help, Mack.'
'Then I'll go it alone.' Bolan staggered to his feet, grabbing the chair to steady himself. 'I've got to keep my mind clear.'
'So it doesn't get too meek, eh.' Brantzen didn't mean for the comment to sound sarcastic; it did, nevertheless.
'That's right.' Bolan checked his machine pistol, ground his teeth against a sudden surge of pain, then slipped in a live clip of ammo. 'I've been here too long already,' he announced.
'You can't leave here in that shape, man!'
'Hell I can't. I've learned to smell them, Jim. They're around, take book on it.'
'They who?' the surgeon asked, though he knew the answer.
'The hounds, the Mafia hounds. They're around, I can feel it.'
Brantzen sighed and said, 'Yeah, you're right, I guess. They've already been here. I wasn't going to tell you, but . . . well . . . if you're determined to go out there, Mack, don't stop to talk to any book salesmen.'
'That's their trick, eh?' Bolan was getting his gear together.
'That's the trick. The two who were here were very clumsy about it. Offered to donate a set of their books for my waiting room if I'd let them come in and pitch to my in-patients. I told them I was empty at the moment. I am, in fact. Then they . . .'
'They tumble to what kind of place this is?' Bolan asked quickly.
Brantzen shook his head. 'I doubt that very much. They seemed to think I was running a nursing home or something. Started asking if I'd heard the shooting last night . . . if any of my 'old folks' were disturbed . . . that sort of stuff. Trying to trip me up, I think, because I'd already told them I was empty. I guess I satisfied them. I saw them going into the house across the way.'
'Did you see them come out?' Bolan asked, his tone ominous.
Brantzen shook his head in a silent reply.
'Show me the house. Then show me how to get out of here without being seen from that house, and then . . .'
Bolan was interrupted by a light rapping at the door. He swung against the wall as Brantzen answered the summons. Bolan caught a quick glimpse of a pretty woman in a white uniform as she announced: 'The Chief of Police would like to talk to you, Doctor. Shall I put him in your office, or . . .'
Brantzen nodded and said, 'I'll be right along,' and pushed the door shut. 'Goddammit,' he whispered. 'Genghis Conn has come a'calling.'
A flurry of sounds denoting a light scuffle came from beyond the door; then it opened again and a tall man in a khaki uniform stepped into the room, holding a gray desert felt hat in both hands. 'I told the little lady it was an unofficial visit, Doc,' he said in a soft voice. He smiled genially at Brantzen, then his eyes shifted to Bolan, who was frozen at the wall. The policeman's gaze bounced off the bulge of the weapon, concealed beneath a folded jacket draping Bolan's arm, and returned to the surgeon's flustered countenance.
'Everybody relax,' Conn said, still smiling. 'I didn't come here to be a hero.' The gaze flicked again to Bolan. 'Nor to bury one,' he added.
'I . . . I'm with a patient, Genghis,' Brantzen declared testily.
'I can see that.' Conn tossed his hat onto a table and dropped his lank frame into a char. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, took a bite out of it, and continued eyeing Bolan.
Bolan returned to the recliner and eased onto it, half relaxing into the cushions, the jacket still in place across one arm. 'It's okay, Jim,' Bolan murmured.
The policeman said, 'Sure, it's okay, I just stopped by to gab. The doc and I have spent many pleasant moments swapping ideas about war and peace. That right, Doc?'
Brantzen woodenly nodded his head, moved jerkily to a chair, and perched tensely on its edge, his hands clasped across one knee.
'We both abhor violence.' Conn laughed softly and took another plug out of the cigar, rolled it into his cheek, and leaned toward Bolan. 'Might sound funny, a lawman who wants only peace and tranquility, but . . . see . . . law enforcement's the only business I know. So . . . I came to the desert, looking for the same thing most people seek here. Peace.' He laughed again. 'I'm not a law officer . . . I'm a peace officer.' The eyes twinkled toward Brantzen. 'We were talking about that just the other night, Doc . . . remember?'
Brantzen again nodded his head. 'You run a quiet town, Genghis,' he said stiffly.
'Damn right. Mean for it to stay that way, too.' The gaze swung to Bolan. 'Have you committed any crimes in my town, Mister?'
Bolan said, 'None that I can think of.'
Conn solemnly moved his head in an agreeable jerk. 'That's what I was thinking.' He sighed, fiddled with the cigar, and added, 'Of course, violence has a way of expanding, squirting into the peaceful zones, running
