Chapter 27 #2
Half an hour went by. Two o’clock. He ordered another Bud as the sounds of Pearl Jam, Green Day, and Nirvana abused the jukebox again and again. The stools to his left emptied as a big group left, heading back to work.
Jesus, what could he do? Was it possible, after all, that he could settle for any resource, not solely a perfect one?
No—that was desperation talking. He’d learned painfully, over many years of false positives and near-misses, exactly what he needed.
Another four hours, and Dr. Telligren would be arriving at the boat launch.
He required time to not only harvest the resource but also make the necessary preparations to…
At that moment, the door of the pub opened and three youngish men came in: boisterous, jovial, with that faintly smug look one often wore after a strenuous workout—muscles engorged with plasma, veins coursing with endorphins.
It seemed they were regulars, because they greeted the bartender as they took the three stools next to Wickman.
He was certain they’d come from the gym: their hair was wet beyond the power of any rainstorm; they had obviously just showered and come here for lunch.
… More important, Wickman’s inner radar had begun going off, three-alarm. And now, he felt the affirmation in his gut—an ideal resource had just arrived.
He casually took a sip of beer as he glanced over at the three.
Visual cues, in addition to the selective inner power bestowed on him, helped narrow down the resource.
It was the man sitting between the other two.
He was the most cut of all, a magnificent specimen.
Wickman pretended to look over his shoulder, toward the door, before returning to his beer—but not before taking another, lingering look at the man’s right arm.
Perfect.
He finished his beer, keeping a low profile while listening to the loud, joke-laden conversation going on beside him.
Within minutes, he’d learned all he had to learn, and a lot more besides: the target’s name was Jake, and he had a relatively new girlfriend named Stacey—a real looker, apparently, but the jury was still out whether she was too much of a flake, running hot or cold at a moment’s notice.
Still, it was worth waiting to see if she might work out long-term because, drama queen or not, she could suck the chrome off…
Wickman dropped a twenty on the bar, slipped off his stool, and strolled out, attracting no notice.
As soon as the pub door had closed behind him, he looked in both directions.
Satisfied the coast was clear, he began to move much more quickly.
Running past the alley and into the fitness club, he quickly bought a white T-shirt, with a Diamond Gym logo splashed across it, from the woman behind the front counter.
Then he walked out again and got back into the driver’s seat of his van.
Just before Wickman left the pub, Jake had ordered a bacon cheeseburger, rare, and it wouldn’t arrive for a few more minutes.
Time was no longer an issue. Wickman took a moment to slow his heart.
He felt no fear, only excitement. His worry had been the lack of resources; bagging a suitable resource was an art he’d perfected.
Now he pulled off his polo shirt and shrugged into the T-shirt with the gym logo on its front.
He rubbed a little grease from the steering column onto one side, rolled up each sleeve to the shoulder, then—reaching into one of his toolboxes—removed a pack of cigarettes and stuffed it into the left-hand roll.
He didn’t bother changing jeans—too generic—and besides, he was certain nobody would remember the ordinary-looking guy who’d come in an hour earlier.
If they remembered anybody, it would be the patron about to enter the bar.
He fitted a wig of ear-length curly black hair onto his head, then secured it with a baseball cap.
Last came a pair of aviator glasses with lenses of clear glass.
Starting the engine, he drove the van forward and into the alley.
Slipping the final necessaries into the pocket of his jeans, he got out, leaving the engine running; made his way back out the narrow alley, opening the rear doors of the van and leaving them ajar; then, arranging his expression into a look of distress, ran into the adjoining tavern.
He stepped through the first rows of tables, stopped to look hurriedly around. “Jake?” he asked. Then, a little louder: “Is there a Jake here?”
A moment of silence. Then the resource at the bar turned toward him. “What’s up?”
“Your name’s Jake? You just come from the gym?”
Jake frowned, puzzled. “Yeah?”
Wickman exhaled, making sure to look relieved. “You’ve got a call.”
“What?” the resource echoed.
Clearly, most of the meat was in his biceps, not his cranium. “Yeah. Someone named Stacey.”
At this, Jake’s two buddies leaned in toward him, muttering in concerned whispers.
“Says she needs to talk to you. Right away.”
“What about?” By now, the entire tavern was listening… to the dark-haired, glasses-wearing man in a gym T-shirt. Wickman liked that.
“I didn’t talk to her, man. All I know is she says she needs to talk to you. Like, now. They say she sounded frantic.”
Jake slipped off his stool. His buddies did the same.
“They were calling your name all over the gym,” Wickman went on. “I just volunteered to see if you were in the parking lot… or someplace nearby.”
The three began to approach him.
“She said it’s a personal matter,” Wickman added immediately. “Real personal.”
The three hesitated.
“She said—” Wickman paused for dramatic effect—“she said you’d understand.”
It was the perfect psych-out. The resource turned to his buddies, told them to order him another beer, warned them not to touch his burger when it arrived, then headed to the door after Wickman.
They stepped outside, and Wickman made the briefest of recons—nobody in sight, no cars passing, rain falling harder than ever—then they turned left, toward the gym, the alley looming directly ahead. Wickman made sure he stayed to the man’s right side.
“Didn’t you hear anything about why she was calling?” the resource asked, his mind obviously already ticking through the possible unpleasant reasons the bitch might be so bent out of shape.
“No,” Wickman said as he pulled a small leather case from his jeans pocket.
“The one thing she said was—” As he said this, he pulled a small, steel-jacketed syringe from the case, shoved the man violently against the back of the van, and plunged the needle into his neck.
The movement, and the injection, were performed so quickly that by the time the resource reacted he was already beginning to stagger.
Wickman opened the rear doors wide, hoisted him inside, closed the doors, picked the leather case off the ground, slipped the empty syringe back into it, and looked around a final time.
Still nobody.
He rolled the side door open and clambered in.
The resource was already out—no surprise, given the ninety micrograms of flunitrazepam he’d just been dosed with.
This, Wickman knew, was three times the normal amount used to induce anesthesia—but that was nowhere near LD50, and besides, Jake weighed at least two hundred pounds.
A quick check with a stethoscope confirmed his heart was strong.
Moving quickly from long practice, Wickman checked a few more vitals, examined the inside of the man’s elbows to make sure there were none of the telltale needle marks of a junkie, then bound him well enough for the journey home.
Once back there, he could make the final preparations at his leisure.
Before taking his place in the driver’s seat, he paused a moment. It had all gone so well, he deserved a reward. He reached into the back, his fingers palpating the resource’s right arm. Sure enough, there it was—that spiritual connection; that ineffable link.
He backed the van carefully out of the alley, then started back down the street in the direction he’d come from, pulling off the cap, wig, and glasses as he did so.
By now, the burger had probably arrived.
But it would be at least five or ten more minutes before Jake’s friends thought to check on him.
Wickman smiled to himself. Talk about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Best of all, Dr. Telligren wasn’t arriving for several more hours.
He had all the time in the world.