Programmed for Peril

delight delinquents on All Soul’s Eve. This was the king’s ransom-priced work of a Pacific Northwest master. May he rest in peace, his silence assured by Champ’s wire into his left eye socket—and beyond! He carefully donned mask before mirror. Look, Ma! A new head. Crown to collarbone. Snug as a condom.
    He greeted this latest assignment with his old enthusiasm. The one he had formerly summoned easily before Queen of My Heart had increasingly seized his thoughts. His right role was to admire her image snared by media. The creature of pumping heart, flesh, and secretions was Carson’s. So spoke his rational mind. Yet... he had been moved by uncontrollable forces to enter her bedroom and hover over her like Nosferatu. He despaired when reflection revealed that what he wanted to sink into her was not his teeth.
    He had wailed at comprehending his own frailty. He flew to his Queen of My Heart tapes and whiz-bangs. A dozen spasms followed by seizures of Earthquake Anger restored his self-possession—or so he told himself.
    Deep down he doubted.
    Today Queen of My Heart wouldn’t be the object of his attentions. Another had been selected. He went to his equipment. Like a salmon or Arctic tern her car had been tagged with a pulse source. Busy Champ! Active on so many fronts in the campaign to resurrect Queen of My Heart.
    He chose a suitable hat from his collection. Headwear should match the job at hand. Today a blue laborer’s cap with a short brim would be just the ticket. He donned it at a jaunty angle.
    To the Blandmobile he carried a hand-held monitor. On its screen a reduced map of the city showed her approximate location.
    It was time to rendezvous.
    A drive across the town, then... ah, a visual sighting! In traffic behind her Toyota he waited for the main chance. Yes, coffee break time! Dunkin Donuts. Love their oat bran muffins! Healthy. The careful lady locked her car but left it out of sight of counter and cruller. Error.
    Champ nosed the Blandmobile to the curb. Lucky legal parking space. No meters. Tumbler Tickler in hand, he ambled to the driver’s side door. A mere flick of the wrist, ladies and gentlemen, and he was inside. Into the backseat, then onto the floor. Happy discovery, a raincoat! It would cover part of his body. He snaked an arm out and pushed down the lock post. Nobody here but us crushed cups and crusts.
    One of us with a short, sharp knife.
    The door opened. The front seat heaved. This was a solid lady. He smelled distinctive Dunkin Donuts coffee. Made their reputation on it. Clicks and clanks, and then they were underway. When the Toyota was rolling smoothly he wriggled the knife out of his belt. He rose behind Ms. Samantha Swords as silent as Hamlet’s first ghost.
    Quick-handed Champ palm-muffled her mouth. “Surprise!” he cooed. Their eyes met in the mirror. Frightened she was, but not panicked. A hard case. Well, he would be working on that. Her foot’s pressure on the accelerator faltered a moment, then steadied. He shoved the tip of the knife point gently into the side of her neck. “Don’t want your dough,” he sang. “Don’t want your bod. Just settle back and drive this rod!” He wriggled the knife point just a hair. A tiny red drop oozed. No more! “The hand comes off in a second,” he said. “No screaming. No careening. Just drive. This knife is sharper than Mark Twain’s wit. Got it?”
    She nodded. He slid his hand away, the other tensed against treachery.
    “Who are you? What do you want?”
    He said nothing.
    “This has to do with Trish and PC-Pros, doesn’t it?”
    “Make a left at the next block.”
    She tried to chat. He gave directions only. In the mirror he studied her face. Start with the stubborn jaw, outthrust and dimpled, the thinnish lips too narrow for the broad face. Nice nose, though, nostrils arched and handsome. The planes of skin were poreless. Brown eyes with curious yellow flecks moved between mirror and road. She was getting a good look at his face. Lot of good it would do her. Above her curious eyes arched bushy brown brows and a high sweep of forehead. Her face was as solid and reliable as her body.
    By now they were out of the city. Countryside unfolded. They left the interstate, wound on two-lane blacktop, then off onto dirt road, finally bumping along a grassy track. He ordered her out of the car. She eyed him warily. “Where the hell are we? What are you going to do?” Absence of familiar surroundings: tip of the wedge