He clamped the penlight between his teeth, found a vein, then inserted the needle. Pabon flinched, but the heroin already streaming through him kept his brain subdued. He emptied the barrel then stuffed the spent syringe into the hand, pressing the appropriate fingers hard to leave sufficient residual fingerprints where they would be expected. Next, he laid the syringe on the night table, dropping the one already there into a plastic bag for later disposal.
Even with all the talk about the dangers from needle sharing, junkies routinely used one another’s syringes. Any subsequent autopsy would find Pabon’s blood full of heroin. The addition of the Valium would be chalked up to pure stupidity. No one would think twice about the overdose. Nothing to pique any investigator’s curiosity.
He stood at the foot of the bed and surveyed Brandon Pabon. Long-haired. Scruffy beard. Acne-worn face. A residual scar, most likely from a knife wound, decorated a scrawny chest. His initial estimate hadn’t changed. A worthless piece of crap good for only one thing—playing along with some clever workers’ compensation lawyer who knew exactly how to manipulate the system. But others understood the system too and knew exactly what needed to be done to eliminate a claim. Pabon’s demise would come from a totally non-compensable, non-work-related injury. At death the disability checks would stop, including every fourth that, by law, went to his lawyer.
Pabon’s breathing became sporadic.
The chest heaved.
He checked for a pulse.
Faint and waning.
Just a few more minutes and one less claimant would be around to milk the system.
9:30P.M.
BRENT PARKED AT THE CEMETERY.
St. Mark’s Lutheran Church loomed dark beyond a curtain of oaks, the swan atop the whitewashed wood building barely visible in the glint from a half-sickle moon. After the union meeting he’d taken Hank back to the restaurant to get his truck, and they’d said their goodbyes. It had been years since he’d last attended one of Hank’s monthly union revivals, and it had been nice to see things hadn’t changed.
He climbed out of the Jeep and noticed the sky, flashing with distant lightning, rumbles of thunder in the distance.
A storm was coming. Fitting.
He wandered through the graves, the tombstones providing a vivid testimony to the area’s rich history, markers dating back to colonial times. Hard to believe it had been eleven years since Paula drove away.
An hour later his wife was dead.
A one-car accident on the Augusta highway. Her vehicle had slammed into a steel electrical pole, ramming the engine through the passenger compartment, killing her instantly. He’d known the sheriff’s deputies and the highway patrolmen who’d worked the scene, and appreciated what they did afterward. In the box markedCAUSEthey checkedACCIDENT.
But nothing was further from the truth.
That highway was lined for miles with towering steel, electrical poles, spaced 150 feet apart, twenty yards off the shoulder. The tire tracks from Paula’s car bore into the turf in a straight line from the pavement to one of the poles. If she’d fallen asleep, or become distracted, or passed out, the tracks would have been erratic. Instead, their intent was not in doubt. She killed herself. In a horrible, violent way. No note, no warning, no explanation.
Just dead.
If he could relive that last day with her, would he have done anything different? That question had tormented him for a decade. They’d been married for two years and thought they were in love. But he’d been wrong. He’d tried to make things work and had remained faithful. Finally, he decided to take the advice of every relationship counselor on the planet and be honest, telling her it was over. No more. They were through.
“You loveher? Don’t you?” Paula asked.
It had been the question he most dreaded, but he decided to be honest there too.
“I think I do.”
“You sorry bastard.”
Those were the last words she ever said to him.
God, how he wished he’d lied.
He found her grave. A few chickweeds had sprouted near the white granite headstone. He stared down at the darkened grass and studied the lettering that summed up her life.
DAUGHTER SISTER WIFE.
A part of him died that day too. No question. His life changed after the funeral. He’d lingered for a while in a daze, then closed his practice in Concord and found a new job 300 miles away in Atlanta. He went from being a small-town street lawyer to a metropolitan prosecutor. He’d been good at his new job. Made a name for himself. Tried to forget his mistakes and do his best.
More thunder rolled through the air.
