Good Lord, Deliver Us Read Online Free PDF Page A

reactions came from
... fear ... Z
always scared by money offered in exchange for extralegal work;
frightened he might cross the moral line he'd made for himself, the
divide separating "anything-to-help-a-client" from "breaking laws
to benefit himself."
    But not this time.
    Not this time.
    As for the pocket tape-recorder he'd
mentioned to the Chancellor of Vice, Z had been planning to buy
one.
    And he would, too.
    Some day.
     
    * * * * *
     
Chapter 3
     
    After the Vice Chancellor had
propositioned him, Z had been in no mood to stop by Dr. Calder's
office and talk pleasantries with the Bateman psychologist. What
would he have said to Calder, anyway? That the new administrator at
Bateman College was a crook?
    And if he did warn Calder, what proof
did Z have to substantiate the charge? Nothing tangible. Certainly
nothing that would convince Judge Judy. Yet there could be no doubt
that Ashlock had offered to hire Z as an arsonist. Done it with a
smile and a nod and words that could be "misunderstood." But done
it, nevertheless. Z had refused and, moreover, hinted at blackmail
strongly enough to make the Vice Chancellor hire Z
anyway.
    Sitting at his own pathetically
scarred desk, Z had put down the paperback he was trying to read to
review his situation.
    Had he really put the
squeeze on a man as powerful as the Vice Chancellor of a college?
He certainly had, leaving a question Z must now ask himself : just how
dangerous was it to have Ashlock for an enemy?
    A private eye could become so great a
threat to the quarry that the prey would turn hunter
......
    But Z didn't think this was the case
with the Vice Chancellor. Z's read of the man was that he was the
kind to get others to do his dirty work -- not the type to soil his
own hands with a crime.
     
    It was the morning of the next --
Thank-God-it's-Friday -- day, Z in his depressing office "working"
the facts as he often did, in this instance, yesterday afternoon's
particulars.
    Again, Z thought about putting in a
call to Professor Calder. And again, decided against doing
that.
    Having made up his mind not to
apologize to Calder for failing to show up yesterday, Z could
concentrate on the job he'd been hired to perform: protect some
ghost hunter??
    The first question his new
job brought to mind was, is there really such an occupation as
"ghost hunter"? If so, where would you go to find out? Not the
Yellow Pages, surely. (There had to be even less work for ghost hunters than for
private investigators, Z barely able to afford his ad in the Yellow Pages.) As
for protecting such a person, protect him from ... what?
    All Z knew about ghosts was what he'd
seen in scary movies. Pictures about vampires, werewolves, ghouls,
and mummies that haunted the silver screen of Z's childhood. Z
thought then, and he thought now, that there was nothing so
tingly-delicious on a hot Saturday afternoon as being scared shit
less in an air-conditioned theater.
    Z's favorite bogeyman was the mummy,
that frightening-looking Egyptian corpse resurrected by a solemn,
dark-skinned priest with an overturned flower pot for a hat. As Z
remembered, the priest was a member of a secret cult (the
Shriners??,) the priest knowing that burning tana leaves?? would
bring old Kharis back to life. Z could still throw his mind back to
those terrifying times of being all alone in a children-packed
movie house; of shuddering as the linen-wrapped mummy, his tattered
bandages shredding, took his first, halting steps. Of seeing the
mummy limp out of the shadows, corner a petrified victim, and
strangle the person with one outstretched hand.
    Scary good times for all. So much
creepy fun you almost wet your pants.
    Now a grownup, Z wondered why he, or
anyone else, had ever feared the mummy. Poor old Kharis. One arm
knocked out for good. So lame he dragged along at a top speed of
half-a-mile an hour. So tinder dry, you could have set him ablaze
with flint and steel. Looking back, the mummy was such an object of
pity that his