The Day After Tomorrow

34

A WHITE Citroën was parked on the street at the end of the alley and Osborn heard Kanarack say something about it being their destination.

Then, unexpectedly, a large delivery truck pulled off the street and turned into the alley, coming toward them. If they stayed together as they were, there would be no room for the truck to get by without hitting them. That gave them two choices—separate, or step back against the alley wall and let the truck pass. The truck slowed and the driver gave a toot with his horn.

“Easy,” Kanarack said, and pulled Osborn back against the alley wall. The driver shifted gears and the truck started forward again.

As they pressed against the wall, Osborn could feel the gun dig into his left side. That meant Kanarack had the automatic in his right hand and was holding Osborn’s arm out of view of the driver with his left. Somehow Osborn managed to calculate that it would take the truck six to eight seconds to get past them. That same clarity of thought made him see an opportunity. The hypodermic syringes were in his right jacket pocket. If he could get one into his right hand while Kanarack was distracted by the passing truck, he’d have a weapon Kanarack wouldn’t know about.

Carefully he turned his head to look at Kanarack. The gunman’s full attention was on the truck that was almost upon them. Osborn waited, timing his move. Then, just as the truck reached them, he shifted his weight against the gun, as if to press farther back against the alley wall. As he did, he slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, digging for a syringe. Then, as the truck passed, he took hold of one.

“Okay,” Kanarack said. And they moved off toward the end of the alley where the Citroën was parked. As they went, Osborn eased the syringe from his pocket and held it tight against his side.

There were now maybe twenty yards between the two men and the car. Earlier Osborn had put a rubber nosing over the tip of each syringe to protect the needle. Now his fingers worked feverishly to slide the rubber off without letting go of the entire works.

Suddenly they were at the end of the alley, with the Citroën less than ten feet away. Still the rubber tip hadn’t come loose, and Osborn was certain Kanarack would see what he was doing.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, trying to cover.

“Shut up,” Kanarack breathed.

Now they were at the car. Kanarack looked up and down the street, then walked them to the driver’s side and pulled open the door. As he did, the rubber tip came free and fell to the ground. Kanarack saw it bounce and glanced at it, puzzled. At the same instant, Osborn jerked hard to the right, wrenched his left arm free of the gun and drove the syringe through the overall material and deep into the flesh at the top of Kanarack’s upper right buttock. He needed four full seconds to inject all of the succinylcholine. Kanarack gave him three before he tore loose and tried to bring the gun around. But, by then, Osborn had enough presence of mind to shove the open car door hard at him and Kanarack fell backward, hitting the pavement and dropping the gun.

In an instant he was on his feet, but it was too late; the gun was in Osborn’s hand and he froze where he was. Then a taxi screeched around the corner, blasted its horn, swerved around them and sped off. After that there was silence and the two men stood facing each other in the street.

Kanarack’s eyes were wide, not with fear but resolve. All the years of wondering if they would ever catch up to him were over. Out of necessity, he’d changed his life and become a different, simpler man. In his own way he was even kind, caring very much for a wife who was now to bear him a child. He’d always hoped that somehow he’d gotten away with it, but in the back of his mind he knew he hadn’t. They were too good, too efficient, their network too broad.

Living every day without going crazy at a stranger’s glance, a footfall behind him, a knock at the door had been more difficult than he could have imagined. The pain, too, in what he’d had to keep from Michele had kept him nearly at wit’s end. He still had the touch, though, as he’d proven with Jean Packard. But this was the end and he knew it. Michele was gone. So was his life. Dying would be easy.

“Do it,” he said in a whisper. “Do it now!”

“I don’t have to.” Osborn lowered the gun and put it in his pocket. By now nearly a full minute had passed since he’d injected the succinylcholine. Kanarack hadn’t gotten a full dose, but he’d gotten enough and Osborn could see him beginning to wonder what was wrong. Why it was such a struggle just to breathe or even keep his balance.

“What’s the matter with me?” A look of bewilderment settled over his face.

“You’ll find out,” Osborn said.