Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [15]
His carried a dart gun, currently broken down, but easy to reassemble in the field. He checked the inside pocket of the attaché case, pulled out the metal box, and counted the darts inside. One dozen hits, preloaded with five hundred and fifty milligrams of ketamine. He had prepared each dart just this morning.
He returned the metal box and pulled out two rolls of duct tape, heavy duty, followed by a plain brown paper bag filled with nails. Beside the duct tape and nails, he kept a small glass bottle of chloral hydrate. A backup drug, which thankfully he’d never had to use. Next to the chloral hydrate, he had a special insulated water bottle he’d been keeping in the minibar freezer until just fifteen minutes ago. The outside of the container froze, helping keep the contents cool. That was important. Ativan crystallized if not kept refrigerated.
He felt the bottle again. It was ice cold. Good. This was his first time using this system and he was a little nervous. The plastic drinking bottle seemed to do the trick, though. The things you could buy for $4.99 from Wal-Mart.
The man took a deep breath. He was trying to remember if he needed anything else. It had been a while. Truth be told, he was nervous. Lately, he’d been struggling a bit with dates. Things that happened a long time ago seemed bright as day, whereas yesterday’s events took on a hazy, dreamlike quality.
Yesterday, when he had arrived here, three years ago blazed in his mind with vivid, Technicolor detail. This morning, however, things already started to fade and curl at the edges. He was worried that if he waited much longer, he’d lose the memories altogether. They’d disappear into the black void with his other thoughts, his nonflaming thoughts, and he’d be left sitting at the edges again, waiting helplessly for something, anything, to float to the top.
Crackers. Saltines. And water. Gallon jugs. Several of them.
That’s right, he had these things in the van. He’d gotten them yesterday, also from Wal-Mart, or maybe it had been Kmart—now see, that detail had disappeared, slipped into the pit, what was he supposed to do? Yesterday. He’d bought things. Supplies. At a very big store. Well, what could the name matter anyway? He’d paid cash, right? And burned the receipt?
Of course he had. Even if his memory played tricks on him, it was no excuse for stupidity. His father had always been adamant on that point. The world was run by dumb-fuck idiots who couldn’t find their own assholes with a flashlight and two hands. His sons, on the other hand, must be better than that. Be strong. Stand tall. Take your punishment like a man.
The man finished looking around. He was thinking of fire again, the heat of flames, but it was too soon so he let that thought go, willed it into the void, though he knew it would never stay. He had his travel bag; he had his attaché case. Other supplies in the van. Room already wiped down with ammonia and water. Leave no trace of prints.
All right.
Just one last item to grab. In the corner of the room, sitting on the horrible, fake carpet. A small rectangular aquarium covered in his own yellow faded sheet.
The man slipped the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, followed by the strap for his attaché case. Then he used both arms to heft up the heavy glass aquarium. The sheet started to slip. From inside the yellow depths came an ominous rattle.
“Shhhh,” he murmured. “Not yet, my love, not yet.”
The man strode into the bloodred dusk, into the stifling, heavy heat. His brain fired to life. More pictures came to his mind. Black skirts, high heels, blond hair, blue eyes, red blouse, bound hands, dark hair, brown eyes, long legs, scratching nails, flashing white teeth.
The man loaded up his van, got behind the wheel. At the last minute, his errant memory sparked and he patted his breast pocket. Yes, he had the ID badge as well. He pulled it out and inspected it one final time. The front of the plastic rectangle was simple enough. In white letters against the blue backdrop, the badge read: Visitor.
He flipped