It had been my suspicion that the cop had been killed, his fingers severed, and then his prints manually placed on the letter to the superintendent. Th. Chemist had known Alger’s prints would be on file, and had wanted to lead us to this death trap.
“Can you lift any latents from the dead tissue?” I asked, hoping that perhaps the Chemist had handled Alger’s fingers without using gloves.
“I could fume with iodine or cyanoacrylate, but let’s try good old low-tech to start off.”
Hajek dug around in his box and found a glass microscope slide. He handed it to me.
“Press this between your palms. My hands are always cold.”
I did as instructed, and after a few seconds he took it back, wiped it with a nonabrasive cloth, and pressed the slide to the back of one of the fingers.
“Glass is great for picking up oils. The fingers are cold, so we warm the slide, and the oils cling to the glass.”
He removed the slide and peered at it through a jeweler’s loupe.
We repeated the process four times, and then he said, “Got one.”
He dusted the slide, mounted the print with the Pro-Lift sticker, and frowned.
“Gloves.”
The Chemist was careful. I didn’t hold out hope for finding any prints elsewhere in the house, but sent Scott off to do the thankless work just the same.
“Dust any of the traps that the bombies have deemed safe. Hand railings. Toilet handles. Doorknobs. Light switches. You know the drill. Plus find Henderson—he’s been taking swabs from the IEDs, which you’ll need to identify some of the poisons.”
Scott made a face. “I’ll be here the rest of my life.”
“Don’t be silly. You’ll be done in three years, tops.”
I let him get to work, then pulled the pen from behind my ear and took out the notepad I’d been carrying in my waistband. So far the To Do list read:
trace M44 purchases
Alger—arrest record
talk to neighbors
question mailman who delivered letter
security tapes at BT scenes
witness search at BT scenes
survivor interviews/background checks
research IEDs
I scratched off talk to neighbors. Three teams had done extensive door-to-doors, and no one in the area had noticed anything unusual at Jason Alger’s house. In fact, some of the neighbors didn’t recognize Alger at all. I lamented how things had changed since I joined the force. Twenty years ago, people knew everyone on their block. These days, folks kept to themselves.
Maybe they were concerned some maniac might chop off their fingers and turn their house into a chamber of horrors.
I circled Alger—arrest record. There was a chance Alger had simply been a target of opportunity. But a plan this meticulous made me think that someone had a major beef against the former cop. I added IA after his name and decided it was time to get home to shower, change, and see what was going on with Latham.
The trip to Bensenville took almost an hour. Once I exited the expressway I fell in behind an ambulance, its sirens going full tilt. I hugged its bumper. Ambulances, fire trucks, and patrol cops had remote control devices called MIRTs—mobile infrared transmitters—used to change red lights into green ones. Being part of Detective Division, I didn’t warrant the five-hundred-dollar gizmo, but following an ambulance worked just as well.
Luckily, the meat wagon appeared to be taking the same route I was. Hitting all of these greens, I might even get to the house in record time.
I considered what I’d tell Latham when I saw him. What was I afraid of? Trust? Commitment? Family? My living situation changing? Losing my independence? Love?
I didn’t know. I was obviously afraid of something, but couldn’t figure out what it was.
And then, abruptly, I decided that I didn’t care what I was afraid of. I could fight the fear. I didn’t feel brave, but I was damn good at faking it.
I would marry Latham.
I noticed I was still following the ambulance, which was a little creepy, considering I was almost home.
When it headed down my street, I felt downright paranoid.
And when it pulled into my driveway, I went from paranoid to panicked.
I threw the car into park and rushed onto the lawn. Two paramedics were approaching my front door.
“I’m a cop. This is my house. What’s going on?”
“Had a call from this house a few minutes ago. Man complaining of abdominal pain, vomiting, and some paralysis.”
Botulism. Those were symptoms of botulism toxin.
“It might be...it might be botulism. Do you have antitoxin?”
“Not in our kits.”
I fumbled for my keys, trying to open the dead bolt, wondering how the Chemist could have found me so quickly. People close to me are always getting hurt. If Latham died because—
“Ma’am, can I try?”
One of the medics took my key and guided it into the lock. I flung the door open and rushed into the house.
“Latham! Latham!”
No one in the living room. In the kitchen, the table still set for a romantic celebration dinner that never happened, the bedroom empty, the bathroom—
“Latham! Oh my God...”
The man I loved was on his back, his shirt crusted with vomit, a portable phone still in his hand. It didn’t look like his chest was moving. His face—his face was blue.
“Move out of the way, ma’am.”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I was seeing. The paramedics shoved me aside and knelt next to him. The next few seconds were a blur of words and actions.
“...cyanotic.”
“...pulse is weak.”
“...airway clear.”
“...BVM.”
They placed the mask over Latham’s mouth and nose and pressed the bag, filling his lungs with air.
“...BP is sixty over forty.”
“...get the cart.”
One of the medics again pushed me aside and hurried past.
“Will he be okay?” I asked.
I asked this question several times as they strapped him to the gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance.
Their only answer was, “We’re doing the best we can, ma’am.”
In the ER, Latham was put on a ventilator and given antitoxin at my insistence. I filled out his paperwork, naming myself as the primary contact.
In between worrying and hating myself, it occurred to me that the Chemist probably hadn’t attacked Latham at my house. The food, the German dinner he’d prepared last night to celebrate, he’d bought at Kuhn’s, a deli on Irving Park Road. The Chemist claimed to have contaminated a deli on Irving Park. I hadn’t made the connection.
Latham wasn’t sick because of my job. He was sick because of my stupidity.
I stared down at my left hand, at my naked ring finger, and cried until I had no tears left.
Chapter 13
THE CHEMIST WAKES UP ANGRY. Last night had been a bitter disappointment. Months of planning, and only six cops dead.
After morning coffee, he considers returning to the greenhouse, working on more liquor bottles. Instead he flips on the morning news.
Twenty seconds of taped action on CBS. On ABC, he only catches the tail end of the coanchor banter, their grave voices bemoaning the loss of police life. Channel 5 doesn’t have anything at all.
He flips on CNN, and the story doesn’t even warrant a scrolling graphic at the bottom of the screen.
Back to CBS, and they’ve wrapped his story, moving on to some earthquake halfway across the world. Channel 7 has a bit about the botulism outbreak, but the footage is recycled from an earlier broadcast.
Disappointing. Actually, more than disappointing. Infuriating.
How had Jack Daniels managed to get out of there alive? He’d almost died several times himself, setting up all of those traps. That bitch must be unbelievably lucky.
He lets the anger build. L
iving with anger is something he’s become expert at.
What happens to rage deferred?
It explodes. It explodes in spectacular fashion.
He allows himself a small smile.
Last night went poorly, but the Plan hasn’t changed at all. The second phase will soon be in effect, and he needs a patsy for it to work. Lieutenant Jack will be perfect for that. And she’ll be all alone when it happens.
Not that 911 would help much anyway.
The Chemist switches off the TV. There will be more news in a few days. National news. World news. Books written, movies of the week, covers on Time and Newsweek ...
But why not get the media ball rolling a little sooner?
“Do I dare?” he says, alone in his living room.
He has everything he needs. He even has a spot picked out, a backup in case one of the other locations went bust.
A deviation from the Plan doesn’t seem smart. Everything has been thought through to the tiniest detail. Improvising at this point might lead to a mistake.
Still...
“Let’s do it,” he says.
There will be news. This very morning.
The trick to a good disguise isn’t to hide your own features, but to make a certain feature stand out; one that witnesses will remember. He chooses a black mustache and a temporary tattoo of a black playing card spade that he applies to his right cheek. A ratty jean jacket, a bandanna, and some Doc Martens boots complete the transformation. Instant biker.
He types a note on his computer, prints it out, then fills the jet injector bag with a tincture of monkshood and lily of the valley. He hides the tube up his sleeve, arms the spring.
It’s a beautiful day. Warm. Sunny. The Chemist walks past the semitrailer in his driveway, adjusts the tarpaulin that the wind had blown off the portable chemical toilets stacked against the garage, and considers which car, if any, to take.
He decides on neither—such a fine day is perfect for public transportation. Plus, no risk of a car being seen. Sammy’s Family Restaurant is a few miles away. He takes the bus. Sammy’s is open twenty-four hours, and at this time of morning it caters to the prework crowd and the people getting off late shifts.
It’s part of a chain. He wonders if it’s publicly traded. He wonders how much money will be lost when the stock takes a dive tomorrow.
Get ready for a bear market, he thinks, then enters the restaurant.
Just his luck, the place is so full there’s a ten-minute wait for tables.
The Chemist studies the crowd. Lots of twenty-somethings. A few loners. Old people. Yuppies. And some off-duty cops, waiting to be served.
Perfect. This is going to be exciting. Really exciting.
He buys a newspaper from one of the coin machines in the restaurant lobby, leans against the wall, and waits.
A few minutes later, he’s given a table for one. He makes small talk with the fat waitress, and eventually orders the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet that Sammy’s is famous for.
He approaches the salad bar like a sinner approaches an altar, reverent and nervous. The owners of Sammy’s have installed a clear plastic sneeze shield at eye level, so germs don’t contaminate the food.
How thoughtful of them, the Chemist muses. So concerned for their customers’ health.
The Muzak can barely be heard above the loud conversations, so he knows no one will hear the hiss of his gun. He picks up a plate from the stack, still warm from the dishwasher, and gets in line behind two blond girls with jeans that just barely cover their butt cracks.
The big bowl of diced fruit, resting on a bed of crushed ice, gets his attention first.
Psssssssssst. Pssssssssssssst.
Then he moves to the pan of scrambled eggs. Then the bacon. The dry cereal. The obligatory red gelatin. Sausages. French toast. Waffles. And a large tray o. Danish and bagels.
The Chemist leaves the buffet spread with a large plate of food that he has no intention of eating. He surreptitiously detaches the jet injector and sticks it into his pocket. Then he returns to his table, opens the paper to a random page, and pretends to read.
But he’s really watching the salad bar.
The cops are the first ones there, and he has to bite his lower lip to stop from grinning. They pile their plates with enough poison to kill a large town.
A yuppie couple next. Then some black guys. A father with a young son who demands Jell-O—he should have gone to school today, Dad. A single guy going for toast seconds. One of the blond girls, returning for more eggs. An old man who is filling two plates, one for his crone of a wife waiting back at their table. The Chemist loses count after a dozen people have come and gone.
The first person begins to convulse less than five minutes later.
It’s one of the cops. First he’s patting his forehead with a napkin. Then he’s clutching his stomach. Then he’s on the floor, shaking like he’s plugged into an electrical outlet.
The Chemist can stare openly, because everyone else is as well. One of the other cops places a call on his radio, doubles over, then spews a lovely green vomit all over his fallen partner.
People are on their feet now, their shocked expressions priceless. The Chemist stands as well, feigning horror.
The little boy is next. His face plops right into his plate of gelatin, and Dad begins screaming for help.
Soon many people are screaming.
One of the yuppies, moaning nonsensically, runs full-tilt into another table, sending food and patrons flying.
The old man has something spilling from his mouth that appears to be drool, and he’s shaking with palsy so badly that his false teeth pop out.
More vomiting. More moaning. A mad rush for the door, where a girl who didn’t even eat at the salad bar is trampled. The last cop, apparently hallucinating, fires his gun into the crowd, then begins aiming out the window at people on the sidewalk.
It is absolutely glorious. Truly a scene from hell. Seeing the immediate fruits of his labors is so much more rewarding than watching the victims on hospital ventilators on the news.
He yearns to be closer to the action, to become a part of it.
No one is looking at him, so he doesn’t even try to conceal the jet injector anymore. He reattaches the hose, arms the unit, and then pushes his way into the throng of people.
Psssssssst. He gets a man in the neck.
Psssssssst. A woman’s arm.
Pssssssssst. A stray hand that got too close.
These first three he injects are so anxious to flee the restaurant that they don’t even turn to look at him. The Chemist knows the jet injector doesn’t hurt much. It’s more of a mild discomfort, like having a small rubber band snapped against your skin. In the panic of the moment, none of them feel a thing.
He locates his waitress, the only person in the restaurant who got a good look at him, and gives her two trigger pulls under the chin.
She opens her mouth to scream, then falls over, convulsing.
The restaurant is almost empty now, except for the dead and dying. He hurries back to his table, drops the note, then picks up his plate and takes it along, dumping the contents on the floor. Ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks are starting to arrive. He crosses the street, tosses his plate into a Dumpster, and stands there for ten minutes, watching the commotion.
The news crews arrive next.
This will get more than a ten-second sound bite, he says to himself. Then he catches the bus for home, anxious to turn on the TV.
Chapter 14
I SPENT ALL DAY in the hospital, by Latham’s side. I held his hand, cried, and listened to the doctors tell me there was nothing else they could do but hope the toxin’s progression was stopped in time.
Latham didn’t regain consciousness.
Since I wasn’t a relative I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight, even though I flashed my badge and made threats. They kicked me out when visiting hours ended.
Not having any other options, I went hom
e.
Sleep wasn’t going to happen. When all went well in Jack’s world, getting to sleep was difficult. With everything currently going on, sleep would be impossible.
Instead, I worked out my frustration the way my mother always did. I cleaned the house.
I began by just tidying up, but that progressed to knee pads and rubber gloves and Lysol and Pine-Sol and ammonia. Everywhere I looked I saw germs, poisons, toxins. I individually bagged all the food Latham had bought at the deli and set it outside on the porch, and then threw away every other piece of food in the refrigerator and scrubbed it out with bleach.
Then I scoured the sink, disinfected the garbage can, mopped the floors, hosed down the bathroom, washed the bedsheets and pillowcases, and then the pillows themselves and the comforter. And, dressed in my Kevlar vest, safety goggles, and two oven mitts, I gave Mr. Friskers a bath.
He didn’t like it.
After applying hydrogen peroxide to the gashes on my arm and cheek, I broke out the vacuum and wondered if I had time to do a room or two before I needed to get ready for work. My mother’s bedroom was the smallest, so I figured I could at least get that one done.
I plugged the vacuum cleaner in, pushed Mom’s twin bed over to the far wall, and bent down to pick up a shoe box she had under the bed.
Mr. Friskers, apparently still angry about the bath, launched a surprise attack, bounding into the room and leaping onto my back. I twirled around, feeling one of his claws dig into my shoulder, and the shoe box opened up and spewed paper everywhere like a snowblower.
The cat howled. So did I. Luckily, within reach was something he hated even more than the squirt gun—the vacuum.
I pressed the on pedal with my toe, and the sound alone was enough to make him disengage and haul ass out of the room.
All of those people who crow about how pets enrich our lives are full of shit.
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