Page 11 of Line of Sight (Second Sight #4)

THANK GOD Scott McCarthy was a creature of habit.

Today he’d chosen the Newton & Chestnut Hill circuit, joining it at the intersection of Hammond Street and Beacon Street a short distance from his home, like he always did.

The trail headed west toward Newton, skirted the northern end of Crystal Lake, then headed north up Walnut Street to join Commonwealth Avenue, going east to circle the Chestnut Hill reservation before heading west along Beacon Street once more, a distance of almost eight miles.

Scott generally took about an hour and twenty minutes to complete the circuit. I’d watched him often enough to be sure of his timings. I’d even run it myself last November. I didn’t risk doing it more than once. I didn’t want the sight of me to become a common occurrence.

Not that I intended running today. What kind of fool went out in temperatures of below zero?

Thank goodness I wouldn’t be out in the freezing cold for long.

I knew exactly where I would cross Scott’s path.

I’d parked my car on Commonwealth Avenue, the tubs of lye in the trunk, together with the ax safely hidden in an overnight bag.

Then it was simply a case of joining the trail from the corner of Foster Street, making sure Scott was in sight.

And there he is. He was a slender man with runner’s thighs, toned and muscular, his legs encased in sweats, a hooded jacket clinging to his upper body. I watched his approach, silently counting the seconds until I could go into my act.

And…. Now.

I let out a yelp, falling to the ground and clutching my calf, feigning an injury. I knew my victim, however. Scott was the archetypal Good Samaritan, and there was no way he’d ignore me.

Sure enough, he rushed over to me and crouched down.

“Are you okay? Can I help?”

“I… I live in Reservoir Towers,” I gasped. “It’s not far. If you could help me to get to my apartment?”

He smiled. “No problem. Can you stand?” He helped me to my feet, hooked his arm around me, and I hobbled toward the apartment block, keeping up the act, trying to sound like a man in pain.

Once we were inside the main door, I limped my way to the elevators, his arm still around me, my hand over the syringe in my jacket pocket.

Not a soul in sight, not that I expected there to be at that ungodly hour.

The elevator arrived, we got on, and the doors slid shut.

A second later the syringe was buried deep in his neck.

He never saw it coming.

I clamped my gloved hand over his mouth while I waited for the drug to render him unconscious.

From my previous visits, I knew the second floor was unoccupied, nothing but show condos. No one around at that hour of the morning to see me walk Scott out of the elevator and slump him to the floor while I broke in, easy as pie. No cameras either, so the owners deserved to get robbed.

Not that I was about to commit a robbery.

I was about to lodge an ax in Scott McCarthy’s head, once I’d collected it from the car, along with my long plastic raincoat.

Couldn’t walk out of there with blood on my clothing, right?