Mike Nelson's Death Rat! by Michael J. Nelson Page A

crunchy coating to slide into his windpipe. He coughed violently for nearly a minute while Phil and Beater took turns pounding on his back. Finally, when his eyes had stopped watering enough that he could see, he continued. “It’s about adventure and mysticism, a monumental clash between two men of strong will. . . . Let’s see, it’s got strong elements of history, and ultimately, I suppose, it’s about faith and deliverance.”
    â€œAnd there’s a large South American rat in it?” asked Beater.
    â€œNo, no, no, no,” Ponty said firmly. “He’s not South American, my rat. He’s just a rat.” Ponty took a sip of milk. “Just a regular old six-foot-long rat.”

CHAPTER 4
    I n a newly clear-cut swath of woods eighty-five feet above St. Paul’s locks on the Mississippi River, Ross Barnier stood staring in stunned amazement as a monstrous structure was being made even more monstrous by a legion of workers and a fleet of heavy machinery.
    â€œIt’s starting to look like a high-rise log cabin,” he shouted over the din of a backhoe.
    â€œIt sure is!” Gus Bromstad shouted with obvious pride. He was standing in a construction area and was required by law to wear a hard hat, but because he refused to take off his Greek fisherman’s cap, he was using both hands to hold the hard hat several inches above his head.
    â€œHow big is it going to get?” Ross shouted.
    â€œBigger than any log cabin you’ve ever seen, or these guys are all fired,” Gus shouted back. “Those big logs there?” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head.
    â€œGus, they’re all big logs.”
    â€œThose along that wall there?” Gus held his hard hat with one hand so he could point. “Those are flaming red birch, three hundred years old.”
    â€œWhere do you get three-hundred-year-old birch logs?”
    â€œThey’re not cheap, I won’t kid you. They come off the bottom of Lake Superior. They either fell off of chain-boomed rafts or just got waterlogged during floats and sank to the bottom. There’s a salvage company that hauls them up and sells them.”
    â€œCan they do that?”
    â€œWho’s gonna stop ’em? The beams along the third storythere are walnut, not nearly as old, only about two hundred years, but I had to make some compromises. The hardest thing is going to be prewiring it for my stereo system. Apparently there are some major fire concerns, and I had to spread the money around pretty—”
    â€œGus,” Ross interrupted, motioning for Gus to step farther away from the cranes. “Gus, let me ask you something: Do you have any budgetary concerns?”
    Bromstad frowned. He stopped holding the hard hat above him and with his right hand let it drop to his side. He tugged on his lip with his left hand.
    â€œNo,” he said finally, shaking his head.
    â€œBut, Gus, this . . . this thing is massive. It’s a fortune. You don’t want to be house-poor, do you? Sitting in your grand home, not able to afford a nice night out because of a big, clunky mortgage—ow!” he concluded, as Gus had just given him a sharp rap upside the head with his hard hat.
    â€œHey. Hey! This is practically a wash. This location, everybody can see it. Right on the Mississippi—who doesn’t love the Mississippi? The Mississippi is my river. It’s like an advertisement for my books.”
    â€œOw. You hit me,” Ross whined, daubing the side of his head to check for blood.
    â€œYou’re not bleeding, Ross. Hard hats aren’t very sharp. Now, listen. I’ve got another Dogwood book in the can. A single Dogwood book is like a money press, Ross, you know that. Now, stop raining on my . . . my, house.”
    â€œOkay. Okay. You’re right. You’ve worked hard. You deserve a high-rise log cabin, Gus.”
    â€œThat’s right. If I don’t, who