Free Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini by J.A. Konrath Page B

hell. Seeing the immediate fruits of his labors is so much more rewarding than watching the victims on hospital ventilators on the news.
    He yearns to be closer to the action, to become a part of it.
    No one is looking at him, so he doesn’t even try to conceal the jet injector anymore. He reattaches the hose, arms the unit, and then pushes his way into the throng of people.
    Psssssssst.
He gets a man in the neck.
    Psssssssst.
A woman’s arm.
    Pssssssssst.
A stray hand that got too close.
    These first three he injects are so anxious to flee the restaurant that they don’t even turn to look at him. The Chemist knows the jet injector doesn’t hurt much. It’s more of a mild discomfort, like having a small rubber band snapped against your skin. In the panic of the moment, none of them feel a thing.
    He locates his waitress, the only person in the restaurant who got a good look at him, and gives her two trigger pulls under the chin.
    She opens her mouth to scream, then falls over, convulsing.
    The restaurant is almost empty now, except for the dead and dying. He hurries back to his table, drops the note, then picks up his plate and takes it along, dumping the contents on the floor. Ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks are starting to arrive. He crosses the street, tosses his plate into a Dumpster, and stands there for ten minutes, watching the commotion.
    The news crews arrive next.
    This will get more than a ten-second sound bite, he says to himself. Then he catches the bus for home, anxious to turn on the TV.

 

    CHAPTER 14

    I SPENT ALL DAY in the hospital, by Latham’s side. I held his hand, cried, and listened to the doctors tell me there was nothing else they could do but hope the toxin’s progression was stopped in time.
    Latham didn’t regain consciousness.
    Since I wasn’t a relative I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight, even though I flashed my badge and made threats. They kicked me out when visiting hours ended.
    Not having any other options, I went home.
    Sleep wasn’t going to happen. When all went well in Jack’s world, getting to sleep was difficult. With everything currently going on, sleep would be impossible.
    Instead, I worked out my frustration the way my mother always did. I cleaned the house.
    I began by just tidying up, but that progressed to knee pads and rubber gloves and Lysol and Pine-Sol and ammonia. Everywhere I looked I saw germs, poisons, toxins. I individually bagged all the food Latham had bought at the deli and set it outside on the porch, and then threw away every other piece of food in the refrigerator and scrubbed it out with bleach.
    Then I scoured the sink, disinfected the garbage can, mopped the floors, hosed down the bathroom, washed the bedsheets and pillowcases, and then the pillows themselves and the comforter. And, dressed in my Kevlar vest, safety goggles, and two oven mitts, I gave Mr. Friskers a bath.
    He didn’t like it.
    After applying hydrogen peroxide to the gashes on my arm and cheek, I broke out the vacuum and wondered if I had time to do a room or two before I needed to get ready for work. My mother’s bedroom was the smallest, so I figured I could at least get that one done.
    I plugged the vacuum cleaner in, pushed Mom’s twin bed over to the far wall, and bent down to pick up a shoe box she had under the bed.
    Mr. Friskers, apparently still angry about the bath, launched a surprise attack, bounding into the room and leaping onto my back. I twirled around, feeling one of his claws dig into my shoulder, and the shoe box opened up and spewed paper everywhere like a snowblower.
    The cat howled. So did I. Luckily, within reach was something he hated even more than the squirt gun—the vacuum.
    I pressed the on pedal with my toe, and the sound alone was enough to make him disengage and haul ass out of the room.
    All of those people who crow about how pets enrich our lives are full of shit.
    I kicked off the vacuum, looked at the mess of paper around the room,