Page 42 of Line of Sight (Second Sight #4)
Boston MA
KNOWING THE date on which I was going to dispatch Heather Kelly from this earth so far in advance had been both a blessing and a curse.
I had plenty of time to observe her, note her routines, watch the comings and goings at the building where she worked.
Too much time. I lost count of the number of occasions I wanted to implement my plan early rather than wait. I couldn’t discount the possibility that Heather might decide to go to the wedding with Jason.
That would mess up everything. And I’d gone to a lot of trouble with this one. I’d even procured my disguise and transportation. Not to mention the steep learning curve required to attain the skills necessary to modify the equipment.
Finally, it was time.
The windows of the building were mostly dark, and the only people gaining access were the cleaning crew.
I knew how to dress to pass myself off as one of them—I’d watched them long enough, for God’s sake—and the apparatus I dragged along with me gave credence to my disguise.
No one would think of stopping a cleaner to ask where they were going, right?
And especially one who had brought along equipment.
I walked through the lobby, baseball cap obscuring my face, my heart pounding.
I’d waited until there was no one around, just the security guard at his desk.
Sure enough, he barely glanced up from his book. I couldn’t resist taking a peek at the title, and then I had to smile.
The ABC Murders , by Agatha Christie.
So you like murders? You’re about to be embroiled in a real-life murder.
I got onto the elevator and rode up to the fifth floor.
I’d visited the charity foundation’s offices twice—more than that would have aroused suspicion, and I didn’t want the staff to remember me—and I knew the layout.
Heather worked from the corner office, which afforded spectacular views of the Boston skyline.
The cleaners who regularly worked in the building usually finished around nine, but I knew she was still there. I’d watched for any sign of her leaving, and I guessed she was working late again.
The fact that she’d rather do that than attend a wedding with her husband said a lot.
I pushed the glass door open and walked into the reception area. All was quiet but for the faintest sound of music from along the hallway. I dragged the equipment behind me and headed for her office.
Heather sat behind her desk, a cup of coffee close to hand, her gaze focused on a monitor. I cocked my head as I tried to determine what the music was. My guess was Beethoven, a piano sonata.
She glanced up as I entered, and frowned.
“What are you doing in here? I thought everyone had gone for the night.” Then she caught sight of the equipment, and her frown deepened. “I think you’ve made a mistake. Nothing in here needs cleaning. In fact, you people were in only last week.”
I feigned surprise. “But they emailed me this afternoon. Said it was to be done tonight. Something about a wine stain on the couch.” I flicked a glance toward the couch against the wall. “This the one?”
She snorted. “I have no recollection of spilling wine. Show me this email. I think you have the wrong office, but we can soon clear this up and then you can leave.”
I walked around the desk, my phone in one hand, the other around the syringe in the side pocket of my bib overalls. I handed the phone to her, and as she peered closely at it, I clamped my hand over her mouth, plunged the needle into her neck, and depressed it.
She flailed her arms, her eyes huge, screaming into my gloved palm, but I held on tight, waiting for the drug to take effect.
“Don’t struggle. It’ll do no good. Besides, there’s no one to hear you.” I smiled. “I suppose you want to know why I’m doing this? And that’s fine, by the way. You have a right to know who wants you dead.” I leaned in until my lips were a scant distance from her ear. “Jason.”
Her muffled scream was like music to my ears.
I nodded. “Yes, your loving husband. Except he’s not so loving, is he, if he’d agree to me doing this? I think you also have the right to know why.” I beamed at her. “ You’re going to be what gets him elected.”
Her eyes held shock and pain.
“I know,” I said in a gleeful tone. “It’s a masterstroke of a plan.
Because if he plays it just right, the public will lap up every tear, every wrung emotion, every speech where he chokes out how much he loved you and how you supported him in his campaign.
The grieving widower who’s soldiering on because that’s what you would have wanted. ”
Her eyelids drooped.
I nodded once more. “You know, he surprised me. When I told him there was a way to get him elected, he didn’t protest. When I told him he didn’t need the details, he didn’t demand to know if you’d suffer. Isn’t it amazing what some people will do to achieve power?”
She’d stopped struggling, and I knew she was about to slip into unconsciousness.
“That’s right, you drift away,” I murmured.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to be awake for the next part.
” I grinned. “I found the perfect phrase to sum up what’s about to happen.
‘Go boil your head.’ It comes from Lancashire in the UK.
According to some, mothers would sleep with the butcher for the price of a sheep’s head.
” I chuckled. “With the eyes left in because it had to see the family through the week. Isn’t that delightful? ”
Heather Kelly didn’t get the chance to reply.
I propped her in her chair, then went to set up the apparatus. It would run until its water tank was empty. It was a pity I’d never get to see the results it achieved.
I’d be long gone by then.
And Heather would be unrecognizable. Well, her head at least.