Stirred

The dog howled, ru

“I’m bleeding,” McGlade wailed. “This was a new shirt. Do you have stain remover?”

As Harry unbuttoned his shirt, Duffy began to buck, but his stunted little hound dog legs weren’t suited to the task. Mr. Friskers hissed and spat, clinging to Duffy in a wholly u

The ride finally over, Mr. Friskers bounded off, straight at McGlade.

The cat leapt up just as Harry took off his shirt and clung to his bare chest, claws sinking in.

“BOTH NIPPLES!” McGlade screamed. “HE’S GOT BOTH NIPPLES!”

Duffy, excited by the commotion, trotted over and bit McGlade’s leg.

“HE BIT ME IN THE SAME EXACT SPOT! THE PISSING WAS BETTER!”

I grabbed another bottle from under the sink and squirted all three of them until they parted ways.

“IT STINGS! GODDAMN IT, JACK, IT STINGS!”

That’s when I realized I’d accidentally grabbed the bottle of vinegar I used to polish windows.

Both Duffy and Mr. Friskers seemed fine, but McGlade was pounding on his bleeding chest like it had caught fire.

“Why don’t you just rub salt on me?” he accused. “Or squeeze on some lemon juice?”

“Sorry,” I managed. But it had improved my mood. A lot. Seeing McGlade in pain appealed to my baser instincts.

“JESUS HOLY MOTHER LOVING EVERLASTING CHRIST IT BURNS LIKE ACID! WHAT THE…AW, SHIT! MY NIPPLE IS GONE!”

I looked at Mr. Friskers to see if he was chewing on anything. Or playing with it. He once batted around a Skittle for two hours, and nipples didn’t seem that different.

Luckily, McGlade hadn’t lost a nipple. It was just covered with blood so he couldn’t see it. I offered him a kitchen towel and then sent him to the bathroom to clean up. Then I locked Duffy in my office and mopped up his pee.

“I may need stitches,” McGlade called from the bathroom.

“Do you want to go to a doctor?”

“No. But what if I get an infection?”

“The vinegar probably cleaned the wounds out,” I said, not knowing if that was true or not. But it sounded plausible. If something stung that badly, it was probably killing germs.

“Your pets suck. You got an extra shirt?”

“Bedroom closet. Use one of Phin’s.”

I went back to my office to check on Duffy and found him happily polishing off my beef sandwich and pork rinds.

My beef sandwich and pork rinds…

“Down! Bad dog!”

I raced for the plate, not concerned for the food, but for what was under the food.

What had been under the food.

It was too late. The food, and my engagement ring, were in the dog.

“You call him a bad dog for eating your food, but not for biting your guest?” McGlade had come into the office pulling on a white T-shirt. “You need to get your priorities in order.”

I collapsed onto my chair, which groaned in protest. “I really need to go to Peoria.”

“I’ll go with you, on one condition.”

“What?”

“You euthanize both animals.”

“McGlade…”

“Euthanize them with the cleansing fire of a 450-degree oven. And some gasoline. And a gun.”

“My car’s in the garage,” I said.

“They have to die, Jack. Especially that cat. It’s like a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper. I swear the little bastard was smiling at me the whole time.”

I wrote Phin a note saying I was sorry and not to let Duffy out until I returned.

Then McGlade and I headed off to Peoria to see Violet King.

March 31, 1:45 P.M.

He’s sliding a copy of The Killer and His Weapon into a clear plastic bag already bearing a note to Jack—black Magic Marker prewritten on plastic—when his iPhone buzzes like an angry yellow jacket.

Luther glances at the caller ID. Swears.

Unfortunate timing for someone to be calling, with Marquette wide open, and Luther sitting in the back of his van. He can see people passing by on the sidewalk through the one-way glass—at least several a minute. He hadn’t expected there to be so many out on a rainy spring day. Hopes choosing this location hasn’t been a critical mistake.

The phone is still ringing.

He sets the bag down and wipes the blood off his arms, answers on speaker, “Hello?”

“Yes, I’m trying to reach Rob Siders.”

“Speaking.”

“This is Peter Roe’s secretary.” The patent attorney. Spectacularly bad timing. “Mr. Roe asked that I call you to reschedule your appointment.”

Alarm bells go off in Luther’s head. “Reschedule?”

“Yes, he has a conflict tomorrow afternoon, but I could slide you in the day after at ten A.M.”

Luther’s mind works feverishly. No. No, no, no, no, no. This will ruin everything. Must remain calm.

“But I’m only in town for a limited time,” Luther says, trying to keep his voice under control. “It’s mandatory that I see him tomorrow.”

“Well, if I switch some things around, maybe I could fit you in at noon.”

“Listen to me very carefully. Noon will not work. One thirty is the only acceptable time.”

“Hang on. Let me put you on hold for just a second.”

Muzak kicks in. If this doesn’t work out, there are no other options. He’ll have to show up at one thirty regardless. Wing it. That will be trickier, and more people will have to die, but he’s up to the task.

The secretary comes back on the line. “Good news, Mr. Siders. Mr. Roe has agreed to squeeze you in at one thirty, but it will have to be an abbreviated meeting. He has something at two—”

He cuts her off. “Fifteen minutes is all I need.”

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.