He shoves the napkins into his pocket, backs away from the bar, and finds a vantage point from several yards away. No one gives him a second glance.
A few minutes later she returns from the bathroom and sits atop her jacket. Grabbing the martini in one quick motion she brings it up to her lips-
– and drinks the whole thing.
He ticks off the seconds in his head.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
Five…
She touches her head.
Six…
Seven…
She wobbles slightly on the bar stool.
Eight…
Nine…
She rubs her eyes, then stands up.
Ten…
Eleven…
He cranes his neck up for a better look.
Twelve…
Thirteen…
She’s bent over now, a line of drool escaping her mouth. It’s followed by a flood of vomit.
Too late. Vomiting won’t help.
At fourteen seconds, she falls over.
People give her a wide berth. Several say the word drunk.
It takes almost thirty seconds for an employee to approach and kneel next to her.
“Call an ambulance!” he yells. “She’s not breathing!”
Of course she’s not breathing. She’s dead.
As the curious gather, he slips out the door, calm and casual. He has no doubt that several people are now frantically dialing 911. But according to statistics, a 911 response will take a minimum of ten minutes. Chances are it will take much longer. He knows this from experience. There is zero chance she’ll be revived.
The Chemist uses the napkins to wipe out the contact lens case, then deposits them into a garbage can. It’s a gloriously lovely day, and he takes off his blazer and uses one hand to carry it over his shoulder, Frank Sinatra style. Someone is bound to recognize the cop shortly. And when they do, it’s going to be a media frenzy. He wants to be home in time to see it, but TiVo is taking care of that for him, and it has been so long since he’s actually enjoyed a walk downtown.
In fact, it’s been a while since he’s actually enjoyed anything. A long while. Six years, three months, and thirteen days.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
He considers heading to the lakefront, or walking through Grant Park. Then he remembers walking through the park with Tracey, and a foul mood overtakes him.
Who could have ever known that wonderful memories would someday prove painful?
He heads back to the car and climbs in, considering his next move. The satisfaction of watching the cop die is gone, replaced by a cold, dead feeling.
He wonders if this is why people become killers. That emptiness deep down that nothing-not drinking, not drugs, not therapy, not sex-can fill. Perhaps some people are born like that. Soulless. That’s how he feels most of the time.
Before, he was a normal guy. Decent friends. Decent job. A hardworking, tax-paying, red-blooded American who voted for the current mayor because he promised to be tougher on crime.
It seems like it was someone else’s life. But it wasn’t. It was his.
And now, there’s only cold.
He thinks about the hot dog stand, and that warms him a bit.
The Chemist snakes the jet injector tube up his sleeve and arms the spring. He’s wrestling to put on his blazer in the cramped front seat when he hears a car horn, right next to him.
Startled, he looks up.
A man in a rusty, older model Chevy stares at him, the rage on his face an indicator he’s been waiting there for a while.
The Chemist shrugs at him and shakes his head, indicating he isn’t moving.
The man honks again.
“I’m staying,” he says.
The man leans on the horn now, screaming, “Move your car!”
The Chemist ignores him, pockets the jet injector, and exits the vehicle. Some people just don’t take a hint. He’s actually doing this city a favor, reducing the population of idiots like-
“Hey, asshole! I’ve been waiting five fucking minutes for that space!”
The man has an unkempt beard and crazy eyes. In the passenger seat is an equally unkempt woman, obviously seething.
The Chemist shrugs. “This is my spot. Find another one.”
“We’re fucking late for court and we need that fucking space!”
No surprise there. The Chemist wondered what white-trash crime these two had committed. Set fire to their trailer to get the hundred dollars in insurance money? Or maybe sex with some sort of animal? His wife was so ugly, she’d qualify. He smiles at the thought.
And then the bearded guy is out of his car, walking right at him.
“You think this is funny, asshole?”
The Chemist is shocked. He’s heard about this happening, people being killed over parking spaces, but he can’t believe it’s happening to him.
He manages to say, “I’m not laughing at-”
And then the guy shoves him, hard. The Chemist almost loses his footing.
“Think you’re better than me, in that fancy suit and that faggy tie.”
The man goes to shove him again, and on reflex the Chemist brings up the jet injector. When the guy grabs his shirt, he pushes the orifice into his chubby neck and squeezes the trigger.
The lunatic raises up a fist to hit him, then his eyes bug out and he clutches his throat.
He falls, dead before he hits the street.
“Arnie!”
The Chemist looks at the woman, who is now out of the car and rushing at him.
“What have you done to Arnie! You killed him!”
Like a picture snapping into focus, the Chemist is instantly aware of his surroundings. People are watching him. On the sidewalks. From their cars. This has become a scene.
“That son of a bitch shot my husband!” she howls. “Someone help me!”
The only person close enough to ID him later is Arnie’s wife. He’s on her in four steps, jamming the injector into her throat, killing her in mid-scream.
Then he hurries back to his car. People are pointing now, and shouting. A few of them are running over.
Hands shaking, the Chemist fishes the car keys out of his front pocket. He starts the car and realizes, to his horror, that Arnie’s car is blocking him in.
There’s no time to do anything else. He slams the car into gear, steps on the accelerator, and crashes into the car parked ahead of him. Then he puts it into reverse and hits the gas again, causing another collision.
He now has an extra few feet of room around his vehicle, and he squeezes onto the street between Arnie’s Chevy and the car he’d just rear-ended. There isn’t quite enough space, and there’s a grind of metal on metal as he scrapes both sides of the Honda as he pulls away, hyperventilating, a crowd of people staring at him.
This is bad. Very bad. But he can fix it, if he moves fast. All they’ll remember is the suit and the eye patch-thank God he kept it on.
They’ll remember the car too. There’s a good chance someone even took down the license plate number.
But that’s okay. The car isn’t his. He can tie up this loose end, if he hurries.
The Plan doesn’t have to change. But now he feels an urgency he hasn’t felt before, and that excites him.
He expected this to be emotionally satisfying. But in his sweetest dreams, he had never expected this to actually be fun.
CHAPTER 17
I SAT OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ, at one of their patio tables along the sidewalk. Rick hadn’t been at the press conference, and it was twenty minutes past the time we said we’d meet.
We’d exchanged numbers, but I didn’t call him. Instead I called Latham’s hospital room, again, and was informed that there had been no change in his condition.
Another five minutes passed. An ambulance streaked by, sirens blaring. I dialed Dispatch, hung up, dialed them again, and asked the desk sergeant to give me a record and location of Wilbur Martin Streng, DOB October 16, 1935.
Traffic and people and time passed. A bee took an interest in the bud vase of cut carnations on my table, and I stiffened.