shooting.â
âIâll follow you to your apartment then.â
âMy place is too close, too. And Iâll have no alibi if the cops come by or try to call.â
âThen where, in Maryâs name, do you want to take it?â
âDowntown. Back to Beckermanâs apartment, maybe. I can say I was so upset I went for a long walk. It wonât take long.â
OâNeil shook his head. âYou always were prissy about details, James.â
Hawker smiled. âIâm still alive, arenât I?â
Twenty minutes later, they had the two corpses propped in the backseat of the canary yellow Chevy. They looked like passengers. Hawker wore gloves, and he had covered the front seat of the car with plastic so he could remove all microscopic traces of his own spore: clothing material, hair, and skin scrapings.
He shifted the Chevy into gear and drove north on Damen, into the industrial stink beyond the south branch of the Chicago River. The cold September wind was ripe with the foundry and diesel smell of the canal area. Hawker kept his window rolled wide open, because the stink in the car was worse.
It was 3:42 A.M .
The city that never sleeps was asleep.
The streets were deserted. Many of the factories had shut down during the recession. A golden corona of light glowed above the smokestacks of those still in production.
Hawker swung west on Twenty-third Street, sticking to the back streets.
OâNeil followed a safe distance behind.
On Sacramento, Hawker turned south past Harrison High School. A few blocks beyond that, he steered down a deserted alley he knew. He parked the car beyond a garbage bin. He bundled up the plastic and stuffed it far down into the trash.
Even if the police went through the garbage bin for clues, they wouldnât give the sheet of plastic a second thought.
Satisfied that no one was around to see, Hawker slid into the Mercedes beside OâNeil.
âNice and easy, Jimmy. Get us out of here. Donât drive straight to your bar. Head in the opposite direction. I want to make absolutely sure that no one is following us.â
âAs good as done, Hawk,â OâNeil said softly. And after a long silence, he asked, âWhy here?â
âWhy what here?â
âWhy did you decide to leave the stiffs here?â
They were gliding down Sacramento, through empty streets. To their left was a hulking civic structure. âI know your sense of humor,â explained Hawker.
âWhat?â
Hawker tapped at the window. âYou donât know what that building is?â
OâNeil smiled. The lighted sign out front read MUNICIPAL COMMUNICABLE DISEASE HOSPITAL. âDeath is communicable?â he asked.
âSooner or later, every single one of us catches it,â Hawker said soberly. âSome just sooner than others.â
When Hawker was satisfied they werenât being followed, he told OâNeil to head for the Ennisfree, the Irish pub he owned on Farrell Street near McGuane Park.
âFine, fine,â said OâNeil. âBut first I have to stop and make a telephone call.â
âTelephone call? Who do you have to call at this hour?â
âA dear friend of mine is staying at the bar.â
âYouâre turning the place into a hotel?â
âWhen the occasion calls for it.â OâNeil straightened himself behind the wheel. âJames, old friend, youâve never asked me anything about my dealings with the Irish Republican Armyâone of the few Irish-Americans around here who hasnât, I might add. And Iâve always appreciated it.â
âYou know how bored I get when you give speeches, OâNeil, I spared myself, not you.â
OâNeil ignored the sarcasm. âEven so, itâll probably come as no surprise to you that Iâve kept my hand in the fight. Right here in America.â
âIâm shocked,â said Hawker with even more