Page 20 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

He inserted the needle at an angle between the ninth and tenth vertebrochondral ribs. The liver is the largest internal organ in the body; he knew with the correct angle, and using those ribs as a guide, he couldn’t miss the liver.

A small injection. About a third of an ounce. Two teaspoons.

That was enough.

There was no blood as the needle withdrew. He capped it, put it back in his bum bag, and rearranged the clothing on the body. Closed the lid, killed the beam on the headlight and climbed out.

Filling in a grave is much easier than digging one up.

He’d stitched a rod into one end of each section of plastic sheeting.

This meant he could lift it, and tip most of the earth straight back into the hole.

He set about doing just that, making sure the separate piles of clay and soil were returned in the order that they were removed.

It was due to rain heavily that morning, which would help with settlement.

He used a tool to help level the topsoil layer, then from his bag he removed a roll of lawn.

Same dimensions as the section he had dug up.

He rolled it out, bedded it in. Checked the surroundings to make sure there were no security personnel, then lit up his headlight for a final inspection.

To the casual observer, nothing would seem out of place.

Only if someone took time to examine the ground would they notice a little difference in the shade of grass and the composition of the soil.

Logan stretched his back, lifting his arms and stretching out his hands toward the tree canopy overhead. It was a peaceful resting spot for the dead.

He gathered his tools, packed up, shut off the headlight and made his way toward the railings.

His feet crunched through leaves and twigs.

He couldn’t help the noise, but he guessed unless there was someone very close by, no one would hear him.

Speed was better than silence at this point.

His eyes adjusted to the dark once again.

A dull throb of pain in his shoulders and back accompanied every step.

Even though he was in peak condition, tonight’s work had been heavy and hard. He’d had to be fast.

He thought an ice bath, followed by a sauna, would aid recovery.

Maybe afterwards he might call Grace, the beautiful butterfly girl from the train.

These thoughts were floating in his mind as he walked through the small city of tombstones. They were chased away, suddenly, by a blinding light in his face.

‘You there! What are you doing here at this time of night?’

Logan stopped, held up his left hand to shield his eyes, and disguise his face.

In his right he had a pick, a hoe and his spade.

The flashlight was like the sun; he couldn’t see anything but the vague outline of a silhouette behind it.

He angled his stance, trying to hide the tools in his right hand behind his body.

The flashlight angled down to his waist, and just for a second Logan could make out the figure of a security guard. A man in his fifties, in a dark uniform. One hand on his belt, but not on a gun – on a radio.

He would have preferred a gun. The radio was more dangerous.

‘You heard me – what the hell you doin’?’ said the guard.

‘Sorry, I’m just looking for somewhere to sleep,’ said Logan.

The guard said nothing. He was perhaps ten feet away. Logan began closing the gap. One step at a time.

‘It’s okay, sir. If I can’t camp here, I’ll just leave. No need to call the cops or anything. I’m really sorry.’

Another step toward the guard.

‘Stay right there, mister,’ said the guard, plucking the radio from his belt.

Logan heard it come out of the Velcro sleeve.

Saw his arm come up with the radio in his hand.

As well as weight training, and endurance, Logan took care to spend five hours a week training muscle twitch fibers in his upper body and legs, so that he had the capacity for incredible speed from a standing start.

These were advanced speed drills, the same training that Olympic fencers, boxers and sprinters do every day.

It’s one thing to be able to run a marathon, or bench three hundred pounds, but this was different.

This taught the body how to get from zero to thirty miles per hour in the blink of an eye.

Logan kept hold of the shovel with his thumb, opened his fingers and the other tools fell from his grip. As he did so, he sprang forward in an explosive movement, his right arm arching up.

The shovel came whipping forward.

The guard began to swear, leaning backward, raising his hands instinctively to protect himself. But Logan had elevation and momentum, and there was no stopping him.

As Logan landed, he swept the shovel down, feeling the ripple of impact through the shaft as the iron edge bit into the guard’s face like a blade. The sound made by the shovel cleaving flesh, sinew and bone sent a wash of goosepimples over Logan’s skin.

The force of the blow brought the guard to the earth instantly, as if he’d been flattened by a ton weight.

This was now messy. This was not how things were supposed to play out.

The guard’s head had been caved in by the blow, but his limbs still twitched.

Logan lowered himself down into a crouch beside the body.

‘What are we going to do with you, my friend,’ he whispered.

Instantly, Logan made calculations. What would the police think?

More importantly, what did Logan want the police to think?

He hid his gear behind a large tomb, sprinted to the family plot a quarter mile away from him and, still wearing his gloves, picked up a few of the discarded crushed beer cans.

He returned to the body of the guard, tossed the cans around him, some of them spilling beer on his chest. The NYPD would assume an altercation with drunken teens had gotten out of hand.

They would trace the boys from their fingerprints and DNA on the beer cans.

The remaining problem was that the fatal wound was inconsistent with the story Logan wanted to tell.

He stood beside the dead guard, raised his right leg off the ground, and stamped down on the man’s skull.

Again. And again. And again. Until his boot found solid ground.

The earth was hard from the cold temperature, but still he thought there might be some tracks.

The heavy rain would help cover them. There was nothing more he could do, but trust the NYPD to do what they always did – to use the data available to come to the easiest logical conclusion.

Standard procedure.

That’s what had brought him to the cemetery that night. That’s why he had dug up a corpse.

NYPD standard investigative procedure.

The best insurance policy in the world.