Carnival Of Mayhem Part 33

"In the refrigerator," Ramirez said.

Smythe opened the doors of the stainless steel laboratory refrigerator. The samples were individually wrapped in clear, air-tight plastic bags. There were two hot dogs, a corn dog, three slices of pizza, and a piece of fried chicken. He had an idea.

"Did you eat lunch?" he asked.

"No, sir. I've been working straight through."

"Take a break. You earned it."

"But..." Ramirez looked at the gas chromatograph.

"The machine will still be there after you eat," Smythe said. "I need some fresh air, anyway. I'm going to take a long walk outside. I'll come back after I figure out how I want to proceed."

"Yes, sir."

Smythe went back to the guest quarters, where he was staying. It was a large bedroom with a private bathroom. A plain, wooden dresser contained his small collection of clothes. The room seemed empty, but it contained all of his remaining personal possessions.

He grabbed a heavy coat from a coat rack. He left his phone behind since Ethel might use the radio signal to track him. Then, he hurried back to the laboratory. Ramirez was gone. Smythe took a hot dog and a slice of pizza from the refrigerator, and he gently stuffed the wrapped samples into his pockets.

Now it was time to leave. On the way out, he pa.s.sed Jack, who was sitting in his bullet proof control booth. His console had dozens of small video displays. b.u.t.tons at his fingertips controlled the many security measures in headquarters. He could lock down the entire place in an instant and activate batteries of defensive weapons.

"Hey," Smythe said, "I'm going out for a long lunch. I need to stretch my legs."

Jack's blue eyes showed no emotion. "Yes, sir."

"Can you give me some cash? I don't have any."

Jack took a stack of twenty dollar bills from under his console. He pa.s.sed them through a slot in the thick gla.s.s. "Will that be enough, sir?"

Smythe counted out five hundred dollars. "Yes, thanks. I'm curious, how much money do you have under there?"

"We always have at least a million dollars in cash and gold on hand in case of emergencies."

"Oh."

"We like to be prepared, sir," Jack said.

"Don't you ever feel like taking a bundle for yourself and having some fun? There's plenty to do in Chicago."

Jack raised his eyebrows.

"Sorry I asked," Smythe said. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

"Yes, sir."

He went out through the garage and took the lift up to the street level. When he walked out into the shadows of Lower Wacker Drive, a chilly wind hit him in the face. Too many sunspots? Or too few?

He didn't know Chicago, but he felt certain he would find what he was looking for quickly. He headed north and crossed the Chicago River on a rusty steel bridge. Slow moving traffic filled the city streets, and all the drivers had irritated expressions. Car horns blended with the wind noise.

A lot of people were wearing Cubs baseball caps. He vaguely recalled that the team had made the playoffs, and he wondered if they were still playing. Probably not, he thought. The Cubs always lose in the end.

He spotted a grocery store in the ground floor of a tall building. He went inside.

He purchased a small ice chest, two bags of ice, duct tape, and a permanent marker with a fine tip. After paying for the items, he went back outside and walked around to an alley where he could have some privacy.

He poured all the ice into the chest. He took the poisoned food samples from his pockets and pushed them deep into the ice.

On the inside of the lid he wrote, "These samples contain the poison that causes PRooFS. a.n.a.lyze immediately. Use extreme caution. A group called the Order of Eternal Night is responsible. - Captain Timothy Smythe"

He closed the lid and wrapped the chest with duct tape. He used the entire roll in an attempt to make the package as water tight as possible.

He went off in search of a public pay phone. In the era of the cell phone, public phones were a rarity, but he eventually found one in a train station on Grand Avenue. He flipped through the directory to find a courier service. Using change from the grocery store, he made the call.

"Amazing Messenger Service," a woman answered. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a package delivered immediately," Smythe said. "It's extremely urgent."

"Where are you? Where is it going?"

"I'm standing in the 'L train' entrance at the corner of Grand and State in downtown Chicago. The Red Line. The package is going to the Saint Athanasius Hospital in Naperville. I'll give special instructions to the courier when he gets here."

"How large is the package?" the woman asked.

"It's an ice chest. Maybe fifteen pounds."

"What are the contents of the chest?"

"Medical samples," Smythe said. "This delivery is very time sensitive."

"Is the package hazardous?"

"No." He was lying, but telling the truth would wreck the entire plan.

The woman paused. "That will be one hundred and seventy five dollars, sir, paid in advance. We take cash and credit cards. No personal checks. The courier will be there within an hour."

"If he gets here in fifteen minutes, I'll give him a hundred dollar tip."

"I'll let him know that, sir. Look for a green car with the words 'Amazing Messenger Service' on the side. What number can I call you at?"

Smythe read the phone number off the pay phone.

"Thank you for your business, sir. Good bye."

He hung up the phone.

Smiling, he sat on a bench on the sidewalk. The location gave him a full view of the street, and he could also hear the phone if it rang.

He was very satisfied with himself. He had found a simple solution to a difficult problem. By the time he returned to headquarters, the deed would be done, and Ethel would never know about it. The only remaining issue was explaining the missing samples to Ramirez, but Smythe was confident he could deal with it.

Two Chicago police officers stepped in front of him. They were burly men, wearing bullet proof vests.

One of the cops said, "Hey, do I know you? I never forget a face."

Smythe shrugged. "I don't think so. I'm sure we've never met." He stood up.

"Wait! I remember. You were all over the news a few days ago."

"You must be thinking of somebody else." He shook his head and started to move away.

"Hands up! You're wanted for murder!"

Both officers drew their guns.

Chapter Twenty.

Smythe sighed. He had been sitting in an interview room in the police station for a long time. There was no clock on the wall and he had no watch, but at least an hour had pa.s.sed. Before coming here, he had spent more time in a holding cell. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do but wait and sweat.

When Ethel found out what had happened, she would be furious, a terrifying prospect. If he survived her wrath, which seemed impossible, he would go to prison for murder. Either way he was thoroughly f.u.c.ked.

He kept thinking about what she had told him at the carnival. "G.o.d made the rules we follow, and if you violate them, you will offend Him." Was he being punished? Had G.o.d sent those police officers to arrest Smythe? The traditional scientist in him rejected the notion, but he was starting to accept the possibility that traditional science wasn't always right.

A short man in a blue business suit entered the room. His thick, black hair was neatly trimmed. He had a large nose and brown eyes that never stopped moving. He sat across from Smythe and placed a manila folder on the table between them.

"Captain Timothy Smythe?" he said.

Smythe nodded. "Who are you?"

"Detective Bourke, Chicago Police Department."

Bourke took a newspaper clipping out of the folder and pushed it across the table. The headline read, "Army Captain Murders Man in Front of Three Witnesses." There was a reasonably good picture of Smythe attached to the article.

"The death was an accident."

"You'll have to convince a jury, not me. I want to talk to you about something else." Bourke opened the manila folder, and it was empty. "Do you see my problem?"

"You forgot your paperwork?" Smythe raised his eyebrows.

"There is no paperwork. The Naperville police can't find your arrest warrant."

"Oh."

"It's very strange." Bourke frowned. "The Army can't find your file, either. All the paperwork is lost, if there ever was any. Did you actually serve in the Army?"

"I fought in Afghanistan, and I have the scars to prove it."

"Those scars are the only proof. According to the government, you don't exist. No records at all. Not even a social security number. All the information I have about you came from this one newspaper article."

Smythe realized the Society had wiped out his service record. All his honors and medals were gone. In a sense he had wasted the blood, sweat, and pain expended in earning them.

"Can you explain this mystery?" Bourke said.

Smythe shrugged. "No, sorry. Am I free to go? You can't arrest me without paperwork, right?"

"I won't let a murderer walk out of my station. Paperwork be d.a.m.ned."

"Ah." Smythe settled back in his chair. "I appreciate your stubborn sense of duty, but I'm afraid it won't do you any good this time. What happened to my cooler? I had one when I was arrested."

"It's in the evidence locker."

"Did you open it?"

"We found some food and a note."

"That food is poisoned," Smythe said. "I hope n.o.body opened the bags and contaminated the samples."

"Don't worry." Bourke sniffed. "We didn't eat your lunch."

"Did you hear about the outbreak of tuberculosis in Naperville? It isn't really tuberculosis. The truth is that it's a degenerative disease caused by poison. Those samples have to get delivered to a secret Army laboratory near Saint Athanasius Hospital for a.n.a.lysis."

"Now I'm your delivery boy?" Bourke said. "Who is the Order of Eternal Night?"

"A secret group of a.s.sa.s.sins. They are the source of the poison. They've killed hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people."

"How do you know all this?"

Smythe had another choice to make. So far he had only talked about the Eternals, and Ethel might forgive that sin. He didn't like the odds, but the possibility did exist. However, if he talked about the Society, there would be no mercy. She wouldn't rest until he had suffered a slow, cruel death.

"I can't say."

"Oh?" Bourke said. "I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?"

"Sure."

"You're suffering from paranoid delusions. You went crazy and threw a man off a hotel balcony. You've been wandering the streets ever since. Poison? A secret laboratory? a.s.sa.s.sins? You must think I'm an idiot."

"Just check out the Order of Eternal Night," Smythe said.

"I did. They have a creepy web site. So? n.o.body in the department ever heard of them. I even ran a search through a couple of government databases. No hits. Your story is a load of bulls.h.i.t."

"How do you explain my missing ident.i.ty?"