Stirred

In an instant, I had my Colt in my hand, my thumb on the hammer.

I heard Phin say, “It’s me,” before letting himself in.

He carried two suitcases, which he set on the floor next to the door.

“Did you ship off Duffy to Duffy?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Did he, uh, poop before you crated him?”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “No. Just pissed. Any particular reason we’re talking about your dog’s bodily functions?”

I noticed he said your dog rather than our dog, even though Duffy had taken a stronger liking to Phin than he had to me.

“I think he’s constipated,” I lied. “I’m just worried about him.”

Phin bent over, unzipping a pouch on my suitcase. He removed the blood pressure monitor and approached me. I was too preoccupied to have my blood pressure taken. But Phin had to touch me to do it, and I wanted to feel his hands on me, if only in a clinical way.

He wrapped the cuff around my forearm and pumped it up.

“I didn’t mean to treat you like that,” I said. “Your proposal caught me off guard.”

He made no response.

I put my hand on his.

“Please, Phin. Talk to me.”

“What would you like me to talk about, Jack? I proposed to the woman I love, and she still hasn’t given me an answer. ‘Will you marry me?’ isn’t a trick question.”

I took my hand back, unsure of how to reply, so I just went with, “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want apologies. I want a yes or a no. I think I deserve that.”

“It’s a bad time,” I said. “There’s too much going on.”

“Look, I know I’m not the most romantic guy in the world—”

“It’s not that.”

“—and the proposal could have been better. But I was nervous and wasn’t expecting to do it right then. I had it all pla

My eyes welled up. “Phin, please don’t—”

“—get the tuba player to make the a

“—it’s not that, Phin. I…I know it’s cliché…but it’s not you. It’s me.”

He waited for me to expound, plainly not convinced.

I did my best. “These past few months I’ve felt like an object, not a person. Something to be guarded at all times. Plus I’ve got a child growing inside me, which is pretty damn weird, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Aren’t mothers supposed to instantly bond with their unborn babies? Well, I haven’t. I feel more like a stranger has moved into my house, and I’m not sure I want them to stay.”

Phin studied me, staring hard.

I had no idea what he was thinking. Probably the same thing I was—I’m a loser that no one can ever possibly love.

“I didn’t mean to add to the stress in your life, Jack.”

“Goddamn it, that’s not what I meant.”

He glanced at the digital readout. “One forty-five over ninety. Still high.”

Phin undid the Velcro, taking his hands back.

Then he walked over to the sofa and sat down, using the remote to turn on the television.

“Will you come to bed?” I asked.

“I’m not tired.”

“Then let’s go out. It’s been ages since we played pool together. A little nine ball?”

“It’s not safe. There’s a madman after you, and you need to rest.”

“Sex?” I tried. I’d never felt less sexy in my life, but I could at least take care of his needs.

“I’m tired, Jack. You aren’t the only one with a lot on your shoulders.”

“I…we should be supporting each other, not fighting.”

Phin sighed. “Yeah. We should be doing a lot of things.”

“Phin—”

“Can we talk later?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.

I went back to Blue Murder, trying not to let Phin see or hear me cry.

Then I read until I could no longer hold my eyes open, finally drifting off to sleep, in bed alone.

April 1, 11:48 P.M.

All the pla

The truck is ready. The van is ready. The gurneys are ready. The remote is ready. The aerosols are ready. The fans are ready.

Luther tests them all one last time, except for the aerosols; he only has a limited amount of each gas, and testing them on himself isn’t conducive to healthy living. Or living at all.

He recalls the last time he filled up with gasoline, hearing some jackass at the pump loudly bitching about the $4.06 a gallon, calling it a gas crisis.

Chicago is about to have a gas crisis, that’s for sure.

But it won’t be what that fool was talking about.

In the course of his research, Luther has learned everything about the catalog of criminals Jack Daniels spent her lifetime hunting down. He’s even met a few of them. One of the standouts was a serial poisoner known as The Chemist. Much to be learned from that one. So much, in fact, that Luther took a shortcut. Rather than delve into the science of chemistry on his own, Luther simply kidnapped a chemist from a local lab and applied the necessary persuasion to get what he wanted.

What he wanted was gas.

Lewisite and QNB.

The lewisite was particularly nasty, and the experiments Luther conducted resulted in some spectacularly disgusting symptoms. The helpful scientist who cooked it for him met with a terrible death, being the first test subject for the lewisite, which was followed with a chaser of the potassium chloride he’d also concocted.

QNB is also especially useful.

Luther used it to great effect after the bus incident.

Unfortunately, he’s down to his last tank, which is a shame, but the amount remaining will be more than sufficient to get the job done.

Perfect for certain circles in his epic masterpiece.

Also perfect for the upcoming festivities.

Luther checks the time on his iPhone, shivering as an anticipatory tingle of excitement shoots through him.

It isn’t sexual in nature. A better comparison might be of winters long past, the night before Christmas. He had a pleasant childhood, at least early on, and that euphoric waiting for Santa expectation was quite similar to what he’s feeling now.

He’s on the brink of unveiling something extraordinary.

Something life-changing.

It’s like the grand opening of a new store, or a summer blockbuster movie debut.

Except, of course, for the large number of people who will suffer and die.

But what Luther is doing is art, and no one ever said art is easy. He knows this firsthand. Knows that the best art is written with blood.

He smiles.

“It’s all for you, Jack,” he says, keeping his voice at a whisper so as not to disturb the dead.

April 2, 2:39 A.M.

My iPhone buzzed on my nightstand.

I opened my eyes and squinted at the screen, saw that I had a message.

I reached for my cell, read the text.

The natural law in naught is relevant.

Into the yellow of the Roe’s Eternal

The calling number was blocked, but this had to be Luther.