In between worrying and hating myself, it occurred to me that the Chemist probably hadn’t attacked Latham at my house. The food, the German dinner he’d prepared last night to celebrate, he’d bought at Kuhn’s, a deli on Irving Park Road. The Chemist claimed to have contaminated a deli on Irving Park. I hadn’t made the connection.

Latham wasn’t sick because of my job. He was sick because of my stupidity.

I stared down at my left hand, at my naked ring finger, and cried until I had no tears left.

CHAPTER 13

THE CHEMIST WAKES UP ANGRY. Last night had been a bitter disappointment. Months of planning, and only six cops dead.

After morning coffee, he considers returning to the greenhouse, working on more liquor bottles. Instead he flips on the morning news.

Twenty seconds of taped action on CBS. On ABC, he only catches the tail end of the coanchor banter, their grave voices bemoaning the loss of police life. Channel 5 doesn’t have anything at all.

He flips on CNN, and the story doesn’t even warrant a scrolling graphic at the bottom of the screen.

Back to CBS, and they’ve wrapped his story, moving on to some earthquake halfway across the world. Channel 7 has a bit about the botulism outbreak, but the footage is recycled from an earlier broadcast.

Disappointing. Actually, more than disappointing. Infuriating.

How had Jack Daniels managed to get out of there alive? He’d almost died several times himself, setting up all of those traps. That bitch must be unbelievably lucky.

He lets the anger build. Living with anger is something he’s become expert at.

What happens to rage deferred?

It explodes. It explodes in spectacular fashion.

He allows himself a small smile.

Last night went poorly, but the Plan hasn’t changed at all. The second phase will soon be in effect, and he needs a patsy for it to work. Lieutenant Jack will be perfect for that. And she’ll be all alone when it happens.

Not that 911 would help much anyway.

The Chemist switches off the TV. There will be more news in a few days. National news. World news. Books written, movies of the week, covers on Time and Newsweek…

But why not get the media ball rolling a little sooner?

“Do I dare?” he says, alone in his living room.

He has everything he needs. He even has a spot picked out, a backup in case one of the other locations went bust.

A deviation from the Plan doesn’t seem smart. Everything has been thought through to the tiniest detail. Improvising at this point might lead to a mistake.

Still…

“Let’s do it,” he says.

There will be news. This very morning.

The trick to a good disguise isn’t to hide your own features, but to make a certain feature stand out; one that witnesses will remember. He chooses a black mustache and a temporary tattoo of a black playing card spade that he applies to his right cheek. A ratty jean jacket, a bandanna, and some Doc Martens boots complete the transformation. Instant biker.

He types a note on his computer, prints it out, then fills the jet injector bag with a tincture of monkshood and lily of the valley. He hides the tube up his sleeve, arms the spring.

It’s a beautiful day. Warm. Sunny. The Chemist walks past the semitrailer in his driveway, adjusts the tarpaulin that the wind had blown off the portable chemical toilets stacked against the garage, and considers which car, if any, to take.

He decides on neither-such a fine day is perfect for public transportation. Plus, no risk of a car being seen. Sammy’s Family Restaurant is a few miles away. He takes the bus. Sammy’s is open twenty-four hours, and at this time of morning it caters to the prework crowd and the people getting off late shifts.

It’s part of a chain. He wonders if it’s publicly traded. He wonders how much money will be lost when the stock takes a dive tomorrow.

Get ready for a bear market, he thinks, then enters the restaurant.

Just his luck, the place is so full there’s a ten-minute wait for tables.

The Chemist studies the crowd. Lots of twenty-somethings. A few loners. Old people. Yuppies. And some off-duty cops, waiting to be served.

Perfect. This is going to be exciting. Really exciting.

He buys a newspaper from one of the coin machines in the restaurant lobby, leans against the wall, and waits.

A few minutes later, he’s given a table for one. He makes small talk with the fat waitress, and eventually orders the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet that Sammy’s is famous for.

He approaches the salad bar like a sinner approaches an altar, reverent and nervous. The owners of Sammy’s have installed a clear plastic sneeze shield at eye level, so germs don’t contaminate the food.

How thoughtful of them, the Chemist muses. So concerned for their customers’ health.

The Muzak can barely be heard above the loud conversations, so he knows no one will hear the hiss of his gun. He picks up a plate from the stack, still warm from the dishwasher, and gets in line behind two blond girls with jeans that just barely cover their butt cracks.

The big bowl of diced fruit, resting on a bed of crushed ice, gets his attention first.

Psssssssssst. Pssssssssssssst.

Then he moves to the pan of scrambled eggs. Then the bacon. The dry cereal. The obligatory red gelatin. Sausages. French toast. Waffles. And a large tray of Danish and bagels.

The Chemist leaves the buffet spread with a large plate of food that he has no intention of eating. He surreptitiously detaches the jet injector and sticks it into his pocket. Then he returns to his table, opens the paper to a random page, and pretends to read.

But he’s really watching the salad bar.

The cops are the first ones there, and he has to bite his lower lip to stop from grinning. They pile their plates with enough poison to kill a large town.

A yuppie couple next. Then some black guys. A father with a young son who demands Jell-O-he should have gone to school today, Dad. A single guy going for toast seconds. One of the blond girls, returning for more eggs. An old man who is filling two plates, one for his crone of a wife waiting back at their table. The Chemist loses count after a dozen people have come and gone.

The first person begins to convulse less than five minutes later.

It’s one of the cops. First he’s patting his forehead with a napkin. Then he’s clutching his stomach. Then he’s on the floor, shaking like he’s plugged into an electrical outlet.

The Chemist can stare openly, because everyone else is as well. One of the other cops places a call on his radio, doubles over, then spews a lovely green vomit all over his fallen partner.

People are on their feet now, their shocked expressions priceless. The Chemist stands as well, feigning horror.

The little boy is next. His face plops right into his plate of gelatin, and Dad begins screaming for help.

Soon many people are screaming.

One of the yuppies, moaning nonsensically, runs full-tilt into another table, sending food and patrons flying.

The old man has something spilling from his mouth that appears to be drool, and he’s shaking with palsy so badly that his false teeth pop out.

More vomiting. More moaning. A mad rush for the door, where a girl who didn’t even eat at the salad bar is trampled. The last cop, apparently hallucinating, fires his gun into the crowd, then begins aiming out the window at people on the sidewalk.

It is absolutely glorious. Truly a scene from 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.