Luther ends the call.
He seals the plastic bag containing the book and slips it into Marquette’s abdominal cavity. Peeling off his latex gloves, Luther reaches for the Handi Wipes. Then he puts on his special gloves, noting they’re due for an oiling. He undoes the bungee cord on the side panel, freeing a much larger plastic bag and a gigantic cardboard box.
The next part will be fun, Luther muses.
Better than wrapping presents at Christmas.
He goes to work.
March 31, 2:00 P.M.
Clutching his father’s hand, Hector Ramirez fought the urge to run to the steps looming ahead of him, steps that climbed toward the pillars of his favorite place in the city. He loved the Shedd Aquarium. He loved the dolphins. Loved the turtles. Loved the sharks. He loved all marine life, even barnacles. The season pass was the best gift he’d ever received. When Hector grew up, he wanted to be a marine biologist.
“Hey buddy, can you give me a hand here?”
Hector was pulled to a stop. He stared at the man talking to his father. A pale, dark-haired man dressed in overalls, standing at the top of a ramp extending down out of a big white van.
The man had an enormous cardboard box on a handcart.
“I just don’t want this box to break open and spill everywhere,” the man said.
“Wait here, hijo,” his father ordered Hector, and then released his hand and started walking toward the van.
Hector watched the two men wrestle the big box down the ramp, noticing with great delight that it said FISH FOOD on the side.
This drew him over.
“What kind of fish is it for, Mister?”
The pale man winked at him.
“A jackfish.”
Hector’s brow furrowed. “What’s a jackfish?”
“It’s one of nature’s greatest predators.”
“And they have it here at the aquarium?”
“Yeah, one will be here very soon.”
The man pushed the hand truck back up into the van, hopped down onto the pavement, and raised the ramp.
“You’re just leaving it here?” Hector asked.
“Someone will come get it.” The pale man winked. “Trust me, the jackfish will be here soon. It can smell the blood, you see.”
Hector watched the man climb back into the van and pull away.
“Hijo! Zapatos!”
Hector looked down at his shoes and saw that he was standing in a widening pool of blood.
March 31, 4:30 P.M.
After half a lifetime of driving a Chevy Nova, I’d traded up and purchased a Nissan Juke. It was an odd-looking vehicle that resembled a cicada, but it contained a turbo engine and all-wheel-drive, and because it was an SUV, it would accommodate family vacations.
That is, if Phin ever forgave me.
McGlade drove to Peoria, since neither of us wanted to risk me having a seizure while behind the wheel. He spent most of the time complaining about the pain in his chest. A few years back, McGlade had been captured by a serial killer, had his fingers sliced off one by one, and I didn’t recall him complaining about that half as much as he was complaining now.
But then, vinegar in an open wound probably stung like a bastard.
I didn’t bring my Kindle along, but using the Kindle app on my iPhone, I’d downloaded the Andrew Z. Thomas e-book, The Scorcher, and read a good chunk of it before we arrived. While I wouldn’t qualify Thomas as a psychopath based solely on his writing, the guy had a creepy imagination. He certainly wrote realistic villains. Sizzle, the book’s antagonist, read like an amalgamation of several murderers I’d known. All bad guys thought they were the good guys and were able to justify their warped crimes in their own minds. Thomas nailed it.
“How about Goldschlager,” Harry said, interrupting my reading.
“Huh?”
“As a name for the baby.”
“Goldschlager?”
“It’s cinnamon schnapps.”
“I know what it is. And no.”
“You sure? Goldschlager is hot.” His smile was as wide as a zebra’s ass.
“I’m not naming her after alcohol, McGlade. That’s my final say on the subject.”
I went back to the e-book.
“Kahlua.”
“No.”
“Baileys.”
“Is she plural? No.”
“Budweiser.”
“Hell, no.”
“Wild Turkey.”
I stared at McGlade. “You’re not even trying.”
“What guy wouldn’t want to nail a chick named Wild Turkey?”
“That’s what I want for my daughter. Guys trying to nail her based on her name.”
“You sure she’s a girl?”
“No penis on the ultrasound. That’s usually the giveaway.”
“Penis could have been hidden. Or really tiny. Terrible thing to be born with a small penis. So I’ve heard.”
“It’s a girl,” I said again, wondering why I felt so strongly about it.
“Maybe it’s one of those half-boys, half-girls. A hermaphrodolt.”
“You got the dolt part right.”
“If your baby has both male and female genitals, I’ve got the perfect name. You want to hear it?”
“Christ, no.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Brandy Alexander,” he said, beaming.
I shook my head. “You are one troubled son of a bitch. I swear, you sit at home all alone and think of this stuff, don’t you?”
“I will never admit to that. How about something retro? Like Zima?”
“Why not just name her Ripple?”
“Nah. That’s stupid.”
“Is there anything I can do to make you stop?”
“Probably not.”
But he was blessedly quiet for a few minutes. Hopefully he’d run out of names.
“Jagermeister,” he finally said.
“That’s the one, McGlade. I’ll name her Jagermeister. It took a while, but you finally struck gold.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious,” I lied. “Jager is a perfect name. Now we can finally move along to other things, like silence, and not talking anymore.”
“Well, I’m happy to be of service, Jack.”
“Thank you so much for your hard work.”
“You’re welcome.”
I managed to read through two full paragraphs before he said, “How’s Glenfarcas for a middle name?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Don’t you have an off switch?”
“Jagermeister Glenfarcas Troutt.”
Obviously, I wasn’t going to get any reading done. “First of all, you’re an idiot.”
“It’s catchy. She won’t be in fourth grade and have another student named Jagermeister Glenfarcas Troutt in the same room as her. I’d put good odds on it. Two to one, at least.”
“Second, why do you think my daughter will have Phin’s last name?”
He gave me a WTF glance. “He’s the father.”
“Phin and I aren’t married.” This made me think back to my terrible reaction to his proposal, and Duffy eating the evidence. I was a horrible human being.
“Babies get the father’s last name,” McGlade said. “I think it’s the law.”
“You do understand this is the twenty-first century, right? I can name her whatever I like.”
“Don’t go bringing up all that feminist mumbo-jumbo. When a guy plants his seed in some hot-to-trot floozy, the baby takes his name. It goes along with the other rights a father has, like having to pay child support, and teaching the kid about sports and finger-banging. When my baby is born, he’ll take my name.”
It was an unhappy coincidence that McGlade had recently gotten some poor woman pregnant. When he wasn’t trying to come up with names for my baby, he was giving me poor child-rearing advice. Stand-outs included: “Never hit your baby with anything thicker than a car antenna,” and “To make sure your baby doesn’t drown when she’s alone taking a bath, tie a few fishing bobbers around her neck,” and “The latest diapers are superabsorbent, and are easily good for a few days before they have to be changed.”