"Those things will kill you," Captain Dolan remarked.
Wendy lit up the cigarette anyway. "They'll have to get in line..."
She had never been in a police interrogation room before, but Wendy recognized the decor from countless TV cop shows. She sat behind a cheap pine table, staring into a long horizontal mirror that was undoubtedly a one-way window. The bare concrete walls were painted institutional green. An ashtray rested on the table before her. The legs of her chair scraped against the scuffed tile floor.
"Act like a tough girl, fine." Dolan faced her across the table. A younger officer, Murdock, slid a folder toward Wendy. Inside were a series of photographs. Wendy glimpsed several shots of torn-up blacktop and a close-up of a mangled license plate. So that's how they got me, she realized. She hadn't even noticed the plate was missing. Guess I had other things on my mind.
Dolan ran down the evidence against her. "Your plate and a tread from your tires at the crime scene. A witness that will testify that the suspect used some kind of fire effect. Like the ones you use in your stunt shows."
"I told you," Wendy insisted. "I don't know anything."
Anything you'll believe, that is, you idiot.
Dolan ran out of patience. He grabbed Wendy by the collar and forced her to look at another photo in the file. This one showed a mummified corpse that appeared to have been dyed an unnatural shade of blue. The body wore the tattered remains of a stationmaster's uniform. Bifocals perched on the mummy's indigo nose.
"This guy was three years from retirement," Dolan informed her. "Never harmed a fly. And take a look at some of the other corpses that have turned up since you came home." He spread the photos out in front of Wendy, confronting his prisoner with shot after shot of withered corpses. Taut blue flesh stretched over the grotesque blue cadavers, who looked like they'd had the very life sucked out of them.
Wendy stared at the pictures, unable to look away. For one horrible moment, she wondered if maybe the Ghost Rider was responsible for the killings. Did I do this?
No. The stationmaster's body had already been lying at Blackheart's feet when the Ghost Rider had arrived at the depot.
"I didn't kill anyone," she murmured, as much to herself as to the cops. Except maybe that one freaky demon, the one who drove the truck into me. And beat me with a tire and a piece of train track. A vivid memory, of the earth elemental being reduced to shards by Ghost Rider's fiery chain, flashed through her mind. Is incinerating a demon a crime? Maybe not on this earth.
"Maybe not," Dolan said. "But I'm guessing you can tell me who did." He let go of Wendy's collar. "We know the crimes scenes are connected. Forensics con firms it, they all died the same way. The old guy at the depot and the ones at the biker bar."
Biker bar? Wendy recalled hearing something about some sort of massacre on the news. Had Blackheart been responsible for that tragedy as well? What was he up to anyway? Why did Mephistopheles want the rebellious demon and his buddies dragged back to Hell? Wendy tried to fit the pieces together in her mind. She wondered how much Stan knew about what was really going on.
Not that Dolan seemed inclined to let Wendy go anytime soon. "The famous Wendy Corduroy." The cop said mockingly, letting the prisoner know that her celebrity status wasn't going to do her any good here. "Seems to me that your fans wouldn't be too keen on you being wrapped up in a murder investigation. Not to mention corporate sponsors, event promoters . .."
Detective Murdock nodded along with his boss, look ing like he expected Wendy to crack under the pressure. But Wendy couldn't care less about the policemen's threats. The Devil owns my soul, she thought mordantly. Yeah, like I'm really worried about my ticket sales and product endorsements.
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms atop her chest. There was nothing the cops could do to her that could match the bottomless pit she had already dug for herself. This was just a sideshow.
"So," Dolan growled, "you wanna talk? Or do you wanna spend the night in the tank?"
Wendy took another drag on her cigarette.
Moments later, she was being roughly escorted by armed officers toward a holding cell enclosed by sturdy iron bars. Over a dozen inmates-a pretty unsavory-looking crowd-glared at her from beneath the sickly fluorescent lights. Prison tattoos and surly scowls advertised anti-social tendencies. Old scars hinted at past brawls and gang wars. Clenched fists promised more violence to come.
Stan's words echoed inside Wendy's skull. "At night, in the presence of evil..."
Wendy glanced at a clock on the wall. Night would be falling soon, if it hadn't already.
She saw a very bad situation developing.
"You don't want to put me in there," she warned the guards.
"Sorry," one of the cops replied. "The Ritz was booked."
His colleague opened the door to the cell and shoved Wendy inside. The door slammed shut, locking Wendy in with the other prisoners. Ugly smiles, whistles, and catcalls welcomed her.
"Hey!" a six-foot-tall skinhead snarled at her. Wearing a studded leather jacket, the punk elbowed her way through the crowd toward Wendy. "You look like that Wendy Corduroy chick. . .."
Great, Wendy thought. Another fan. She didn't feel like signing autographs right now. "Yeah. I get that a lot."
"Nah, that is you!" the skinhead insisted. "You're her! I saw you jump at that state fair a few years ago." She scowled at the memory. "I paid ten bucks to see you splatter. But you didn't."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Wendy said.
A hefty redneck wearing faded military fatigues lumbered up to her. A Confederate flag adorned her black baseball cap. "You might be a big shot out there, Corduroy," she jeered. She cracked her knuckles ominously. "But in here, you're just another monkey in the cage."
"I'm not looking for any trouble," Wendy said. Was there any way to keep this scene from escalating out of control?
The redneck snorted. "Looks like trouble found you." Without warning, she rammed her fist into Wendy's stomach. The pain was immediate, intense, and Wendy doubled over. The skinhead grabbed onto Wendy and spun her around-the better to peel her leather jacket away from her.
"Nice jacket," she chortled.
A slim teenage African-American nervously stepped forward, looking extremely out of place among the other inmates. Sensitive features betrayed her discomfort at the brutal treatment Wendy was receiving.
"C'mon, man," she pleaded. "Leave her alone."
"Get lost!" the skinhead barked. She backhanded the girl across the mouth, sending her flying across the cell. The other prisoners practically trampled over the poor kid in their rush to join in beating up the legendary Wendy Corduroy. Punks, bikers, and gangbangers fell upon Wendy like a pack of wolves tearing apart a wounded deer. Fists and boots collided with Wendy's tender flesh, knocking her to the floor. Her face was pounded into the cement. She felt the stitches in her shoulder come loose. Fresh blood dripped down her arm.
"I get her boots!" the redneck bellowed.
"Gimme that watch!" another prisoner shouted.
"Goddamn pretty bitch!" a shaggy Hell's Angel cursed. The rockers on her vest proclaimed her outlaw status. Symbolic patches bragged of past crimes. "Calls herself a biker . . ."
"Let go of that jacket! I saw it first!"
Wendy disappeared beneath a pile of thrashing criminals.
Then all hell broke loose.
The transformation caught everyone off-guard.
One moment, they were all gleefully beating the famous Wendy Corduroy to a pulp. The next, an eerie orange glow emanated from beneath the heap of bodies, followed by a blinding burst of white-hot fire that blasted the inmates into the walls of the cell. Iron bars rang like tuning forks. Spots appeared before the eyes of on-looking prisoners.
Ghost Rider rose from the floor, a nimbus of crackling yellow flames surrounding her grinning skull.
The flames set off the sprinkler system, but the spraying water failed to douse the Rider's fiery aura. Her blazing sockets spotted the skinhead lying on the floor nearby. The hoodlum's face had been baked red by Ghost Rider's volcanic transmutation. She looked like she was suffering from the world's worst case of sunburn. The rest of the inmates looked toasted as well.
"Oh, hell," the skinhead fearfully murmured. A skeletal hand closed around the punk's throat, the mystic flames licking against her skin, as Ghost Rider effortlessly lifted her off the floor. The skinhead yowled in pain as her feet dangled in the air. She tugged at the bony claw with both hands, but was unable to pry the burning fingers away from her neck. Ghost Rider looked her over without mercy.
"Nice jacket," she intoned.
Wendy's own jacket lay crumpled on the floor, torn by the greedy hands of competing felons, so Ghost Rider claimed the skinhead's jacket as her own. Metal studs popped as he pulled the jacket over her skeletal frame, adapting it to her use. Shining silver spikes rose from the jacket's shoulders, giving the Rider an even more forbidding look. Bad to the bone, in more ways than one.
The flaming skull surveyed the crowded cell, as the terrified inmates backed away from the hellish apparition that had suddenly appeared in their midst.
They were trapped inside the cell with Ghost Rider, with no way to escape her stern and unforgiving justice.
"Guilty," she pronounced. Her unforgiving gaze swept from face to face. "Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. ..."
Only a few yards away, a bored guard whiled away the hours in the surveillance room. His heels rested on the electronic control panel in front of him. Closed-circuit television screens kept watch over the precinct house, but the guard's eyes were glued to the PlayStation Portable in his lap. His thumbs worked the controls as he tried to break his record on Wendy Corduroy-Airtime! On the handheld game's display screen, the CG biker crashed and burned for the umpteenth time.
"And Corduroy is down!" the game announced.
The guard groaned. "This game is impossible." He tossed the console onto the control panel, then gave the various screens a cursory glance. After all, that's what they paid him for. . ..
The fire alarm went off.
He sat up straight in his chair, dropping his feet back down onto the floor. His eyes bugged out as he took a closer look at the monitors. "Holy crap!"
In the holding cell, a skull-headed biker was summarily kicking the asses of over a dozen hardened criminals.
A brilliant yellow flame encircled the skeleton's cranium. Savage spikes jutted from her gloves and shoulders. She tossed the terrified perps around like they were rag dolls. Flying bodies crashed into clots of hysterical inmates, who were practically climbing the walls to get away from the fearsome biker. The spray from the sprinklers flooded the floor of the cell, caus ing the prisoners to slip and fall. Cold water sluiced down the biker's black leather gear, which dried al most instantaneously. Steam rose from her head and shoulders. Steel-toed boots splashed through the spreading pool beneath her. Bony fists clobbered the other prisoners.
The cop rubbed his eyes, but the incredible images didn't go away. His hand dropped instinctively onto the grip of his baton. Who-or what-did they have in that cell?
He hit the panic button.
The impound garage was packed with confiscated vehicles, in various states of disrepair. Deputy Gary Friedrich worked his way through the crowded garage, filling out evidence reports on his clipboard. He fought back a yawn. One of these days he really was going to put in for a transfer to the day shift. Working nights sucked.
A vintage Harley-Davidson occupied a formerly empty slot. Friedrich whistled in appreciation of the fine-looking machine. He wouldn't mind taking a spin on that chopper. He walked toward the bike, checking it against the description on the original report. His interest in the bike increased when he read that it be longed to Wendy Corduroy, the famous daredevil. He had caught Wendy' show at the stadium the other day-that had been a pretty impressive stunt with all those helicopters.
He wondered what she was in for. Probably drugs or DUI, he guessed. That was usually what got celebrities into trouble. Too much money and free time.
A sudden roar from the Harley's engine caused him to nearly jump out of his skin. The enclosed garage amplified the echo of the engine's furious growl, creating an almost deafening racket. "What the hell?"
Before his eyes, Wendy's bike burst into flames. The metal chassis writhed like a thing alive, taking on a more satanic design. A skull-like visage emerged from the fairings. The wheels ignited, turning into spinning rings of fire. Friedrich tumbled backward onto his butt. He threw his hands up in front of his face, just in case the gas tank exploded. The transformed cycle shifted loudly into gear, like it was about to run him over. There was no chance that he could get out of the way in time.
Instead the riderless bike launched itself into the air, sailing over the sprawled deputy and touching down on the pavement behind him. Flames spewed from its exhaust pipes as it zoomed for the exit. A trail of molten asphalt marked its passage.
That's it, Friedrich thought, pale-faced and sweating. I'm definitely transferring to days!
Twitching bodies littered the floor of the cell. Even the worst among the inmates had proven no match for Ghost Rider's vengeful fists and Penance Stare. Of all the prisoners, only the fragile teenager remained upon his feet. She cowered in the far corner of the cell, watching the Rider with undisguised dread. The skin-head's blow had left an ugly purple bruise upon her cheek.
"You," Ghost Rider addressed her. She pointed a bony finger at the frightened young woman. "Innocent."
She turned away from the kid and kicked open the cell door. The steel bars clanged against the floor as he strode out of the cell and down the hallway beyond. Unable to believe her good fortune, the teenager watched the Spirit of Vengeance depart, then fainted dead away onto the floor.
The Hellcycle was waiting for Ghost Rider as she marched out the back exit of the precinct house. Across a narrow strip of pavement, a lighted red sign spelled out garage above the entrance to the impound. A naming trail stretched down the ramp to where the Hellcycle now stood.
"Hold it!"
The surveillance guard charged up and cracked the flaming skull in the face with his baton. Ghost Rider turned to look at her attacker. The guard gulped as he saw that the skull's lower jaw had come unhinged; the bony mandible hung loosely to one side. Yellow flames rippled along the dislocated jaw.
That's no mask, the guard realized. He felt sick to his stomach.
Ghost Rider casually reached up and reset her jaw. It clicked back into place. She waved her finger in the guard's face, chiding him for his rash move.
The guard swallowed hard. "My bad."
Ghost Rider climbed onto the Hellcycle. She peeled away from the police station in a torrid burst of flame. Hellfire flared from the rear of the bike, shattering the first three letters of the garage sign.
Only the word rage remained intact, glowing brightly like a warning to the wicked.
Vengeance rode the streets of the city.