We'll Meet Again

88

Dr. Peter Black stood at the window of his upstairs bedroom, a glass of scotch in his hand. He watched with blurring eyes as two unfamiliar cars pulled into his driveway. He did not need to observe the businesslike manner in which the four large men emerged, and came walking up his cobblestone walk to know that it was all over. Cal the Mighty has finally crashed, he thought with a trace of humor. Unfortunately, he’s taking me with him.

Always have a contingency plan-that was one of Cal ’s favorite mottoes. I wonder if he has one now? Peter Black thought. Truthfully, though, I never liked the guy, so I really don’t care.

He crossed to his bed and opened the drawer of his night table. Then he took out a leather case and extracted a hypodermic needle, already filled with fluid.

With a look of suddenly personal curiosity, he studied the instrument. How many times had he, with compassion in his face, given that injection, knowing that the trusting eyes gazing up at him would soon lose their focus and then would close forever?

According to Dr. Lowe, this drug not only left no trace in the blood, there was also no pain attached to its effect.

Pedro was knocking at the bedroom door, to announce the uninvited guests.

Dr. Peter Black stretched out on his bed. He took a final sip of scotch and then plunged the needle into his arm. He sighed as he briefly thought that at least Dr. Lowe had been right about there being no pain.