When the dizziness finally passed, I went back to Google.
For some reason, Luther kept alluding to Dante’s Inferno.
I did some additional surfing on the work.
Inferno was the first part of The Divine Comedy, and it concerned Dante’s encounter with the spirit of the Roman poet Virgil, who takes him through the nine circles of hell to witness the suffering of various sinners. The torments those poor souls endured had been fodder for Christians going all the way back to the fifteenth century, since the Bible was oddly lacking in any detailed descriptions of hell. We had Dante to thank for fire and brimstone and demons who tortured the damned.
Ultimately, Inferno is about the path to enlightenment. Dante is lost at the beginning, and witnessing the suffering of those who had sinned helps to put him on the path of righteousness.
Or some bullshit like that.
I wasn’t a religious person, but I found the whole idea of a God who allowed people to be boiled in oil for eternity in direct conflict with an all-powerful, all-loving creator. Hell was a concept that helped church officials exercise control over the masses, and ultimately, make money.
Though I didn’t believe in hell, I wouldn’t have minded a little enlightenment in my life. But I was doubtful I’d get it from anything written centuries ago.
I yawned, rubbing my eyes again.
Then I tried rereading the excerpt from Blue Murder, but the picture I’d taken of the Kindle screen was too small to make out. That led me to buying another overpriced Andrew Z. Thomas e-book and searching for the location Luther had bookmarked.
According to Google, the line They think not there how much of blood it costs was another Dante quote. There was also mention of the intersection of Oak and Sycamore, but Chicago didn’t have any corresponding intersections, although there were about a hundred non-intersecting streets individually named Oak and Sycamore in Illinois.
I wasn’t feeling any traction there, had no idea what Luther was trying to tell me, and lacking any other ideas, I put my feet up on a pillow and dove into Blue Murder, trying to stay calm and focused in the face of knowing that someone was going to die horribly in—I glanced at my iPhone timer I’d programmed—seven hours and five minutes.
Unlike the stark realism of The Scorcher and The Killer and His Weapon, Blue Murder contained an element of the supernatural.
The plot concerned a man plagued with strange premonitions that kept coming true. I read for an hour, convinced that the hero wasn’t seeing into the future at all, but in actuality remembering horrific events from his past that he wanted to hide from himself, when I heard someone at the door.
In an instant, I had my Colt in my hand, my thumb on the hammer.
I heard Phin say, “It’s me,” before letting himself in.
He carried two suitcases, which he set on the floor next to the door.
“Did you ship off Duffy to Duffy?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Did he, uh, poop before you crated him?”
Phin raised an eyebrow. “No. Just pissed. Any particular reason we’re talking about your dog’s bodily functions?”
I noticed he said your dog rather than our dog, even though Duffy had taken a stronger liking to Phin than he had to me.
“I think he’s constipated,” I lied. “I’m just worried about him.”
Phin bent over, unzipping a pouch on my suitcase. He removed the blood pressure monitor and approached me. I was too preoccupied to have my blood pressure taken. But Phin had to touch me to do it, and I wanted to feel his hands on me, if only in a clinical way.
He wrapped the cuff around my forearm and pumped it up.
“I didn’t mean to treat you like that,” I said. “Your proposal caught me off guard.”
He made no response.
I put my hand on his.
“Please, Phin. Talk to me.”
“What would you like me to talk about, Jack? I proposed to the woman I love, and she still hasn’t given me an answer. ‘Will you marry me?’ isn’t a trick question.”
I took my hand back, unsure of how to reply, so I just went with, “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want apologies. I want a yes or a no. I think I deserve that.”
“It’s a bad time,” I said. “There’s too much going on.”
“Look, I know I’m not the most romantic guy in the world—”
“It’s not that.”
“—and the proposal could have been better. But I was nervous and wasn’t expecting to do it right then. I had it all planned out. I was going to take you out to that German place you love—”
My eyes welled up. “Phin, please don’t—”
“—get the tuba player to make the announcement. I was going to get down on one knee—”
“—it’s not that, Phin. I…I know it’s cliché…but it’s not you. It’s me.”
He waited for me to expound, plainly not convinced.
I did my best. “These past few months I’ve felt like an object, not a person. Something to be guarded at all times. Plus I’ve got a child growing inside me, which is pretty damn weird, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Aren’t mothers supposed to instantly bond with their unborn babies? Well, I haven’t. I feel more like a stranger has moved into my house, and I’m not sure I want them to stay.”
Phin studied me, staring hard.
I had no idea what he was thinking. Probably the same thing I was—I’m a loser that no one can ever possibly love.
“I didn’t mean to add to the stress in your life, Jack.”
“Goddamn it, that’s not what I meant.”
He glanced at the digital readout. “One forty-five over ninety. Still high.”
Phin undid the Velcro, taking his hands back.
Then he walked over to the sofa and sat down, using the remote to turn on the television.
“Will you come to bed?” I asked.
“I’m not tired.”
“Then let’s go out. It’s been ages since we played pool together. A little nine ball?”
“It’s not safe. There’s a madman after you, and you need to rest.”
“Sex?” I tried. I’d never felt less sexy in my life, but I could at least take care of his needs.
“I’m tired, Jack. You aren’t the only one with a lot on your shoulders.”
“I…we should be supporting each other, not fighting.”
Phin sighed. “Yeah. We should be doing a lot of things.”
“Phin—”
“Can we talk later?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.
I went back to Blue Murder, trying not to let Phin see or hear me cry.
Then I read until I could no longer hold my eyes open, finally drifting off to sleep, in bed alone.
April 1, 11:48 P.M.
All the planning, all the preparation, all the money, all the hard work—everything comes down to a single moment: this one.
The truck is ready. The van is ready. The gurneys are ready. The remote is ready. The aerosols are ready. The fans are ready.
Luther tests them all one last time, except for the aerosols; he only has a limited amount of each gas, and testing them on himself isn’t conducive to healthy living. Or living at all.
He recalls the last time he filled up with gasoline, hearing some jackass at the pump loudly bitching about the $4.06 a gallon, calling it a gas crisis.
Chicago is about to have a gas crisis, that’s for sure.
But it won’t be what that fool was talking about.
In the course of his research, Luther has learned everything about the catalog of criminals Jack Daniels spent her lifetime hunting down. He’s even met a few of them. One of the standouts was a serial poisoner known as The Chemist. Much to be learned from that one. So much, in fact, that Luther took a shortcut. Rather than delve into the science of chemistry on his own, Luther simply kidnapped a chemist from a local lab and applied the necessary persuasion to get what he wanted.