Free Gods of Manhattan by Al Ewing Page A

blood still mixed with the fibres of the carpet. A man had died there. He had been stabbed in the back by a coward, and it was the duty of the Blood-Spider to find out who that coward was. As the soles of his boots sank into the lush carpeting, he devoted all his attention to that stain of blood, to that spot where Donner had been killed. That was the first piece of the puzzle. He would find the others, and piece by piece he would build up the truth of the matter. Strand by strand, the Spider would spin his web.
    He sank to one knee, brushing his fingertips over the dried, crusted stain, the map of a forgotten continent. Slowly, he examined its contours, his whole attention focused on determining its secret meaning, the clues buried in its unique shape.
    And so he never noticed the hands reaching for the back of his neck.
    Not until they were at his throat.

Chapter Four
     
    Doc Thunder and The Ape Detective
     
    Monk had big hands.
    Large, hard things, they were. Great clubs of meat and bone and sinew, flexing dangerously, constantly twitching and moving. A carpet of rough hairs growing from the back of each, dirt and grime under the thick fingernails that he could never quite get out. Rough calluses on the fingertips, like sandpaper.
    Killer's hands.
    He'd taught them gentleness, painstakingly and over too many years. But every so often he would pick up a boiled egg and the shell would crack, or he'd handle a paperclip and it would bend between his fingers. Monk would wince, imperceptibly, and it would haunt him for days, making him hesitant about shaking a hand or putting his arm around a shoulder.
    For at least a week after such an incident, he would sleep on the couch downstairs. Doc and Maya had grown to accept it. Gradually, his confidence would return, and so would he. But it always took time.
    He had to be careful. So careful, all the time. And he was careful. He was careful when he twisted the cotter pin in the lock of the penthouse suite to let himself in, and careful when he examined the room Donner died in, lifting, inspecting, replacing exactly, each object treated like a Faberge egg, every clue a museum piece of untold worth.
    "Go take a look at the crime scene," Doc Thunder had said. "Pick up what you can, then get straight back to me. No risks, understand?"
    Monk had shrugged. "Sure, Doc. You think Donner got mixed up with something?"
    Doc had laughed humourlessly. "Mixed up isn't the word. He was the man behind Untergang. I could never prove it, but he was. The secret figurehead - businessman and philanthropist by day, inhuman monster by night. And he hated me more than any human being I've ever known."
    Monk had raised an eyebrow. "Lars Lomax?"
    Doc had almost smiled. "Lars hated me, all right. He would have burned the entire world to see me dead. But... Heinrich Donner would have burned the world to see me stub my toe on the ruins. He was the one who murdered-" Doc had suddenly gone quiet, as if he'd almost said too much. Monk waited.
    "We finally had it out in 1959. We were fighting in Paraguay. He had this secret bunker set up... the whole damn place was full of nitro-glycerin and he pulled a gun on me." Doc shook his head sadly. "I had him. I really did. I had hard evidence, I was going to bring him to trial, but he just..."
    He'd tailed off, looking into the middle distance. "He knew bullets didn't work on me. He knew that. One of them bounced off my chest, hit the nitro... and boom. Goodbye, Heinrich. Nearly goodbye me." He'd paused. "I think the evil little son of a bitch just wanted to kill us both." Monk remembered being surprised at the venom in Doc's voice. He'd never spoken that way before about anyone, even Lomax. Donner's hatred hadn't all been one-way. "I really thought he was dead. I've taken down Untergang leaders since then - the Purple Wraith, Queen Tiger... they must have been figureheads, like Cobra was. It was Donner. All the time. All the time..." He'd shaken his head, covering his