Leaving on his gloves and Chicago Bears cap, he peeled the fake red beard from his jaw. He wiped the rubber-cement boogers into a white supermarket bag, and added the beard and bloody knife. He crumpled it tight, looked around once more, ready to escape.
An olive-green minivan was pulling next to the curb.
Dammit.
He had to wait now. He couldn’t risk the woman behind the wheel telling a cop about the maroon Subaru wagon that peeled rubber when the sirens got close. Get out of here, he warned silently, each tick of the cooling engine loud as artillery. Thirty more seconds and you die, too. Not that he minded, but the kill would take time he didn’t have. Leave. Now.
She didn’t.
He gripped the .40-caliber Sig snugged in his waistband.
Five seconds . . .
His left hand squeezed the chromed door handle.
Three seconds . . .
Exit, walk, shoot till dead, walk back, drive away. Easy.
Two seconds . . . one second . . .
A skinny girl in pigtails hopped out of the van and dashed through a door with a sign shaped like a molar. The woman made a three-point turn and exited the lot.
Lucky you.
The Executioner slid out, tossed the keys down the storm drain. Hopped into the Subaru with the bag, started the engine with a gasoline-heavy vroom. Nosed out on Sherman then onto Ogden Avenue. Quickly scooted to the middle divider to let a police cruiser scream past. The cop hunched over the wheel made a little wave, “Thanks.”
He waved back, amused.
He drove the speed limit to Wisconsin Avenue, cranked the wheel in a quick hard right, and began his side-street escape from the city.
11:27 a.m.
Governor Wayne Covington tipped back in his buffalo-hide chair, allowing him to rest his crisp, white-blond hair against the paneling. He steepled his fingers, blew a thin river of smoke.
“What about riots?” he asked.
“Won’t be any,” Naperville Police Chief Kendall Cross said.
Covington snorted. “The anti-execution sissies agree with you, do they?”
“Yes.”
Covington’s tapered eyebrows flicked in surprise.
“Publicly, the protest groups will ‘take it to the streets,’” Cross said, tapping a tail of ash into the governor’s Baccarat ashtray. “But their leaders assure me privately it’s marching and singing only. They’ve forbidden any forms of violence.”
“Joe Citizen’s tolerance for that garbage ended September 11,” Covington said.
“Right. So I believe them when they say no rioting. But if it happens, we’re prepared.” He mimicked the swing of a riot baton. “We’ll talk softly but carry a big stick.”
Covington smiled, spun the brightly lacquered humidor.
Cross surveyed the fat Cohibas with the oily, dark-chocolate wrappers. Governorship hath its privileges. He took one and accepted the wooden match. He sat back, flamed the end bright, took a deep mouthful of smoke. He savored its mineral sharpness a moment, then released a perfect blue ring. It fluttered toward the window, where an air blower broke it into wisps.
He turned his attention to Covington, who suddenly seemed lost in thought.
“Your brother?” Cross asked gently.
“Ah. Yes. You’ve known me way too long,” Covington said, puffing furiously to cover the crack in his news-anchor voice.
“Since you were our county’s state’s attorney. And now you’re smoking Cubans in the Governor’s Mansion.” Cross tipped his head. “Helluva run you’ve had, Wayne.”
“I’d give up every bit to have Andy back.”
“I know,” Cross said, flexing his mutilated backside. Damn that shotgun blast. “I’m sorry I never had the pleasure of knowing your brother.”
Covington blinked. “You two never met? I’d have sworn - oh, that’s right. We buried him well before Naperville hired you as chief. Time flies.”
They smoked in silence.
“Earl Monroe murdered my brother in 1966,” Covington said after a while. “But it feels like yesterday. I still catch myself driving by our old house sometimes, seeing if he’s in the yard.” His eyes got bright. Cross stared out the window to allow him the moment . . .
“Sorry,” Cross said, reaching for his warbling pager. He checked the display, frowned. “Use your phone, Wayne? My cell doesn’t work in here.”
Covington pushed it across the coffee table. “NPD?”
“Nine-one-one from Hercules Branch,” Cross said, speed-dialing his chief of detectives. “He knows I’m here and wouldn’t interrupt unless - hey, it’s Ken. What’s happening?”
His expression darkened.
“How many dead?” he grunted.
Covington jerked straight up. He stabbed a button, and a wall of plasma TVs sprang to life. Each sported a news anchor with practiced motions and perfect hair. Each crawl spat “Naperville” and “dead” and “kill” and “slay.”