Hardbingers

11

Jack sat in the family lounge. His body craved sleep, his brain screamed for a time-out, but it wasn't in the cards. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Emma lying cold and white in that body bag.

He shook himself and checked his watch. A little after eleven. Time to go see another corpse.

He exited the hospital and headed uptown. John Jay Park and its environs were fast becoming a familiar haunt. More familiar than he wished. He hoped this would be his last visit.

He trotted across the overpass and down to the promenade. A swift recon-noiter showed a couple of hardy old souls strolling the riverside, gloved hand in gloved hand. He waited until they passed, then he ducked into the alcove under the steps.

Zeklos's body was where he'd left it, but stiff as a four-by-four. As he'd hoped, none of the sparse passersby had ventured into the alcove today.

Now came the touchy part—the really touchy part. He wriggled into a pair of latex gloves, then pulled out the Yarborough knife he'd brought along. He used it to slice away Zeklos's shirts. The black blade slipped easily through the fabric, exposing the pale, sparsely haired chest. Jack took a deep breath, hesitated a second, then crunched the blade through the right upper ribs. Using both hands he sawed down, angling toward the midline. No blood spurted—it had long since congealed and frozen. He repeated the process on the left, then grabbed the lower tip of the breastbone with both hands and yanked it up with a sickening crack. The exposed heart seemed to contract within its fat pad as the icy wind found it.

Without allowing himself any time to think or reconsider, he cut the heart free and set it aside. When he'd wiped the knife clean on Zeklos's shirt, he pulled out the note he'd written earlier and pinned it to the dead man's coat.

Then, after checking again to make sure no one was in sight, he hauled Zeklos out and laid him next to the telephone. No one walking by could miss him, but the lights of one of the passing cars on the FDR might pick him out first.

Jack then grabbed the heart and tossed it into the East River. He couldn't see it land in the dark, but heard the splash.

He removed his gloves and stored them in a Ziploc, then dashed up the steps and crossed back to 78th Street. He stopped at the corner of York Avenue and leaned against a wall. He'd dreaded that grisly task, but at least it was done. Poor Zeklos deserved better than that, but Jack had to work with the materials at hand. Zeklos was one of those materials.

As he started down York he took out his phone and dialed 911. After three rings a woman answered.

"Emergency services."

"Look, I was just on the riverside walk near Seventy-eighth Street and I think I saw something that looked like a body by the overpass."

"Could I have your name, sir?"

Jack hung up.

The rest was up to the papers. He knew the note and the condition of the body would earn front-page coverage.