Page 41 of Two Kinds of Stranger

He needed to see clearly for this part of the job, and he flicked on his headlight.

The beam fell on the face of the corpse.

Hollow cheeks, sunken eyeballs–the lids stitched shut as well as the lips. Teeth were visible through the decayed, paper-thin skin.

Logan worked quickly, first unbuttoning the jacket, then lifting up the shirt. The ribs were visible through the skin. This helped Logan. No point in injecting anything into a vein. There was no blood flow. For all he knew, there was no blood at all, just embalming fluid.

The air was thick with the smell of the dead. He didn’t know if it was the odor or the light from his flashlight, maybe both, but moths gathered and swooped around him, the beam catching their wings–some were pale and some bright colors.

Logan ignored them and concentrated.

He inserted the needle at an angle between the ninth and tenth vertebrochondral ribs. The liver is the largest internal organ in the body; he knew with the correct angle, and using those ribs as a guide, he couldn’t miss the liver.

A small injection. About a third of an ounce. Two teaspoons.

That was enough.

There was no blood as the needle withdrew. He capped it, put it back in his bum bag, and rearranged the clothing on the body. Closed the lid, killed the beam on the headlight and climbed out.

Filling in a grave is much easier than digging one up. He’d stitched a rod into one end of each section of plastic sheeting. This meant he could lift it, and tip most of the earth straight back into the hole. He set about doing just that, making sure the separate piles of clay and soil were returned in the orderthat they were removed. It was due to rain heavily that morning, which would help with settlement.

He used a tool to help level the topsoil layer, then from his bag he removed a roll of lawn. Same dimensions as the section he had dug up. He rolled it out, bedded it in. Checked the surroundings to make sure there were no security personnel, then lit up his headlight for a final inspection. To the casual observer, nothing would seem out of place. Only if someone took time to examine the ground would they notice a little difference in the shade of grass and the composition of the soil.

Logan stretched his back, lifting his arms and stretching out his hands toward the tree canopy overhead. It was a peaceful resting spot for the dead.

He gathered his tools, packed up, shut off the headlight and made his way toward the railings. His feet crunched through leaves and twigs. He couldn’t help the noise, but he guessed unless there was someone very close by, no one would hear him. Speed was better than silence at this point. His eyes adjusted to the dark once again. A dull throb of pain in his shoulders and back accompanied every step. Even though he was in peak condition, tonight’s work had been heavy and hard. He’d had to be fast.

He thought an ice bath, followed by a sauna, would aid recovery.

Maybe afterwards he might call Grace, the beautiful butterfly girl from the train.

These thoughts were floating in his mind as he walked through the small city of tombstones. They were chased away, suddenly, by a blinding light in his face.

‘You there! What are you doing here at this time of night?’

Logan stopped, held up his left hand to shield his eyes, and disguise his face. In his right he had a pick, a hoe and his spade. The flashlight was like the sun; he couldn’t see anything but thevague outline of a silhouette behind it. He angled his stance, trying to hide the tools in his right hand behind his body.

The flashlight angled down to his waist, and just for a second Logan could make out the figure of a security guard. A man in his fifties, in a dark uniform. One hand on his belt, but not on a gun–on a radio.

He would have preferred a gun. The radio was more dangerous.

‘You heard me – what the hell you doin’?’ said the guard.

‘Sorry, I’m just looking for somewhere to sleep,’ said Logan.

The guard said nothing. He was perhaps ten feet away. Logan began closing the gap. One step at a time.

‘It’s okay, sir. If I can’t camp here, I’ll just leave. No need to call the cops or anything. I’m really sorry.’

Another step toward the guard.

‘Stay right there, mister,’ said the guard, plucking the radio from his belt.

Logan heard it come out of the Velcro sleeve.

Saw his arm come up with the radio in his hand.

As well as weight training, and endurance, Logan took care to spend five hours a week training muscle twitch fibers in his upper body and legs, so that he had the capacity for incredible speed from a standing start. These were advanced speed drills, the same training that Olympic fencers, boxers and sprinters do every day. It’s one thing to be able to run a marathon, or bench three hundred pounds, but this was different. This taught the body how to get from zero to thirty miles per hour in the blink of an eye.