Then Peter realized that he could be losing valuable time. After peeking out the window and making sure that the detectives were nowhere in sight, he put on his Yankees cap and a pair of sunglasses and grabbed a pair of latex gloves. Moments later, he was outside, heading toward the subway.
When he arrived at the Ninety-sixth Street station, he bought a copy of the
New York Post
at the kiosk, and then headed toward the building where he had seen Frat Boy and Scrub Boy return to after their double date.
There was a bench alongside the apartment building on Ninety-fifth and Third. He looked around carefully, didn’t spot any security cameras, so he sat, with the open
Post
on his lap, watching the light flow of people walking to and from the building. He hoped that since Frat Boy had used this entrance, Scrub Boy used it as well. If he was wrong and Scrub Boy used a different entrance, like maybe one around the corner on Ninety-sixth Street, then Peter would be screwed.
Peter wished he had another option, but he knew he had no choice but to wait. The only other way he could find Scrub Boy would be to follow Katie around until she met him again. But he knew it would be too risky to be near Katie, even in a disguise. They were at a delicate stage in their relationship. He needed to win her back, not scare her off. Besides, what good would it do to find Scrub Boy when he was with Katie? He needed to get him someplace alone, someplace where he could kill him with no chance of getting caught.
He waited the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. He was watching for Scrub Boy, but he was also looking out for any cops, especially Barasco or Martinelli. It was possible that they could stop at the building to interview Scrub Boy, or one of his roommates—Katie had mentioned that Frat Boy lived with several guys—and Peter knew it would be very difficult to explain why he was hanging out in front of the building.
The rest of the afternoon, Peter peered through the sunglasses, occasionally flipping pages of the newspaper, watching every person who passed by. It was exhausting work, but he knew he couldn’t let up. Occasionally, he stood to stretch, but otherwise he didn’t leave his position.
After six o’clock, people—mostly anal-retentive-looking twenty-somethings—started returning from work in droves. Peter hoped that Scrub Boy had a normal work schedule and would be among them. Maybe Peter wouldn’t have an opportunity to get rid of him today, but at least it would help him plan for next time.
Peter was so focused on the people heading toward the building that he almost missed Scrub Boy walking in the other direction. He saw him from the back, as he was waiting to cross Third Avenue. He was wearing scrubs, of course, and looked as disgustingly arrogant as he had on the double date and in the pictures Hillary Morgan had taken.
Casually, Peter got up and went to the south side of East Ninety-fifth Street, and then waited to cross the avenue at the opposite corner. He was going to follow Scrub Boy wherever he went, but he knew he couldn’t follow directly behind him and be seen by some building’s security camera. He wasn’t an idiot after all.
The light changed and they crossed Third Avenue, Peter slowing to let Scrub Boy get about ten yards ahead of him. As they approached Lexington, Peter hesitated again, in case Scrub Boy crossed in his direction, but instead he made a right and headed toward the subway at Ninety-sixth Street. Peter crossed to the opposite side of Lexington and continued to follow. He assumed that Scrub Boy was planning to take the train downtown. Peter didn’t like that—too many people riding the trains at this time of day, too hard to kill somebody. Besides, in a subway station there could be cameras anywhere. Peter thought,
Don’t go to the subway, don’t go to the subway, don’t go to the subway
, and, sure enough, Scrub Boy passed the subway entrance and crossed Ninety-sixth Street, continuing uptown toward Spanish Harlem.
At Ninety-seventh Street, Scrub Boy crossed Lexington
and continued west. Peter continued to follow him on the opposite side of the street. It was a fairly quiet block, not too many people around. There were no stores or large apartment complexes and Peter looked around carefully, but didn’t notice any security cameras. If it wasn’t still light outside, he might’ve been able to do it right there.
They crossed Park Avenue and turned north onto Madison and then Peter saw Mount Sinai Hospital, the large buildings occupying several blocks, and realized that was where Scrub Boy was headed. He also knew that he probably wouldn’t have a chance to get rid of the skinny-necked fucker today. He couldn’t help feeling a letdown, the way you might psych yourself up about going out to some great party, only to find out that the party’s been canceled.
Scrub Boy crossed to the west side of Madison and continued uptown, alongside the hospital. Peter followed on the east side of the street. Near one of the entrances, the asshole spotted someone he knew, another guy his age in scrubs, and they shook hands and stopped to talk. Peter stopped as well.
Scrub Boy and the other doctor had a short conversation, smiling, then they parted and Scrub Boy continued uptown. At around One Hundredth Street, he entered the building through a large revolving door. Peter watched from across the street, trying to decide what to do next.
He knew that following Scrub Boy into the hospital was out. Too many security cameras, too many people around. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stick around, to see if an opportunity came up to do it somewhere else. It seemed unlikely, but he had nothing to lose.
Peter knew that people were creatures of habit; they stuck to routines. Maybe the predictability gave them comfort or something. Katie, for example, always took the same route to work every day. On their date in the park, she’d even told Peter that sometimes she felt like “such a rat.” Peter had seen the same ratlike qualities in other people. Stuff like that had always fascinated him. If he’d gone to college he probably would’ve majored in psychology, studied human behavior. Not to become a psychologist—he had no interest in helping
people—but to learn as much as he could about other people’s habits. While the hospital probably had many exits and Scrub Boy could take any one of them, Peter hoped that he was a rat and would exit the building the way he’d gone in. If he did, he’d probably retrace his steps home. Peter would have to be careful on the major streets, but he was confident that on Ninety-seventh Street, between Park and Madison, there were no security cameras and he could strangle Scrub Boy without being seen.
Peter knew he was taking a big risk. Doctors sometimes worked twenty-four-hour shifts, or longer, so, for all he knew, he would have to wait until tomorrow night to have a chance to kill the bastard. And if the guy didn’t stick to a routine, exited the hospital some other way, all the waiting could be pointless.
It didn’t help that Peter already had to take a leak. The street was too busy to go between parked cars, and the last thing he needed was a cop noticing, or someone seeing him peeing and reporting it to a cop. But there was no way he was going to leave the area now. He didn’t care if he had to hold it in all night and all of tomorrow; hell, even getting a bladder infection or some minor kidney damage would be better than missing this chance.
Peter stood near a bus stop, holding the open
Post
, pretending to read it, but he was really watching the revolving doors. Casually, he inspected the area and was confident that there were no security cameras in the vicinity. He didn’t want anyone to notice him loitering in one spot, so he alternated—strolling half a block in one direction, then back in the other—while continually, casually, looking out for Scrub Boy.
As it got dark, pedestrian traffic lessened. This was great because there was much less chance of being noticed and he was able to spend most of his time directly opposite the hospital entrance. He was thinking,
Scrub Boy appear, Scrub Boy appear, Scrub Boy appear
, but it didn’t work this time.
The hours went by. Peter’s feet ached, he was starving, and he had to piss like hell, but the idea of giving up didn’t even occur to him. Then, at around ten o’clock, it started getting
windy and Peter remembered that the weather forecast had been for rain, heavy at times, tonight into tomorrow morning. At around eleven, the storm arrived. It was raw, nasty, windswept rain, and Peter quickly became soaked. The rain had a couple of major upsides, though. Figuring he was wet anyway, so what difference did it make, he peed his pants. It was a huge relief. Also, by tilting his head back and sticking out his tongue, he was able to drink enough water to quench his thirst. Now he was confident he could easily last another twenty-four hours or longer if he had to.
He didn’t have to.
At about eleven thirty, Scrub Boy left the building. He headed downtown along the west side of Madison Avenue, holding an umbrella against the wind and rain. Peter followed along the other side of the street. As they approached the corner of East Ninety-eighth Street, Peter slowed, expecting Scrub Boy to cross at the same corner he’d crossed at earlier. He did, just like a rat in a maze going after a piece of cheese. As Scrub Boy crossed to his side of the street, Peter crossed to the other side to avoid any stores with security cameras. At the next corner, Ninety-seventh Street, Peter expected the asshole to turn left, and turn left he did. Peter crossed the street and followed him, again sticking to the opposite side of the street.
Between Madison and Park, the street was empty—probably even emptier than usual, thanks to the rain—but there were many tenements and Peter felt it would be best not to strike until Scrub Boy reached the other side of Park Avenue, a darker block where there were fewer residences.
But when they reached Park, Peter thought he might’ve blown his best opportunity. The pedestrian-crossing light on Park was red. Rather than waiting, Scrub Boy started to turn right and Peter feared he would go to the much busier Ninety-sixth Street, and the chance to kill him would be gone. But before he took two steps, Peter thought,
Rat, turn back, Rat, turn back
—in his desperation, he almost said it out loud—and, like magic, Scrub Boy decided not to head to Ninety-sixth, and instead turned back and jaywalked across the avenue. Remaining on the other side of the street, Peter followed.
As Scrub Boy headed toward Lex, Peter knew it was nearing time to strike. Confident from his earlier observation that there were no security cameras in this area, Peter crossed to the south side of Ninety-seventh Street and followed about twenty yards directly behind him. The spattering of rain against the pavement was loud enough so that he didn’t notice Peter. And if he did happen to turn around, what would he see? A very normal, nonthreatening guy, walking home in the rain. He would have no reason at all to be alarmed.
Midway along the block, Peter increased his pace, while staying light on his feet, making as little noise as possible. He was gaining ground fast now, the distance between his hands and Scrub Boy’s neck decreasing with his every stride. As Peter put on the latex gloves, he imagined that Scrub Boy was thinking about Katie, about how he couldn’t wait to see her again. He was probably planning to call her when he got home, see if he could arrange a late-night booty call. Maybe he was hoping she was lonely, vulnerable because of what had happened to Frat Boy, and that he could use that to his advantage. Not because he liked her or wanted to get to know her better or even because he thought she was particularly pretty. No, the last thing he cared about was her, or about her feelings. He wasn’t even thinking about making love to her. No, love had no meaning at all to that prick. He didn’t want to love her, he wanted to fuck her, jam his dick into her as far as he could, pound against her body so hard that it would make her wail in pain. All guys like him were the same; they didn’t know the first thing about love. It was all about hate, about pain. Guys like him didn’t deserve to live. What was one less dick bag in the world anyway?
Peter was several feet away from Scrub Boy when he noticed the group of kids up ahead near Lexington. There seemed to be about five or six of them, but they were far away and seemed distracted, talking amongst themselves. If Peter had time to process the threat of the kids on the corner, he probably would have decided against attacking Scrub Boy right then. He would’ve waited for another chance, even for another day. But it was too late to reconsider. He was beyond
the point of no return, lunging forward, grabbing the skinny fuck’s neck.
He was glad that it was a thin neck, thinner than Frat Boy’s, and easier to get his hands around. Still, the wetness from the rain made it difficult to get a firm grip, and as the rat reacted instinctively, dropping the umbrella, trying to pry his attacker’s hands away, Peter was afraid he would scream and that the kids on the corner or maybe someone else, in one of the nearby apartment buildings or tenements, would hear something and call the cops. To prevent this, Peter let go of Scrub Boy’s neck altogether and then, moving quickly, wrapped his arms around his midsection, tackled him to the ground like a linebacker taking down a running back, and rolled together with him off the curb into a space between two parked cars. Scrub Boy managed to scream a couple of times, but even if someone heard, it wouldn’t matter. They were out of view now, between the cars, and, besides, what was a little screaming in New York City? In New York, screaming was normal background noise, as normal as honking horns and car alarms.
But Peter knew he had to move ultra-fast now. Maybe a couple of screams would go unnoticed, but if the screaming was loud and persistent enough, someone could become alarmed. Peter managed to get his hands around Scrub Boy’s neck, but the son of a bitch was a fighter. He kept wriggling and twisting and fighting and managed to break away from Peter’s grip long enough to scream, “Help me! Help!”
Peter couldn’t risk any more of this. The screaming was hoarse and probably wasn’t carrying very far, but if Scrub Boy was able to belt out a few more “helps” the kids at the corner or someone else might hear. There was no way in hell Peter was going to let that happen. The big thing Peter had in his favor was that he was much stronger than Scrub Boy. They were probably a similar size and weight, but in muscle mass there was no comparison. The fucker was grabbing Peter’s forearms, trying to free himself, but Peter was able to overpower him. But then, instead of trying to strangle him, Peter grabbed his head and started banging it against the gutter
again and again. It made a surprisingly hollow sound, reminding Peter of the time in Mexico that he tried to open a coconut by cracking it against a rock. It shut the rat up, though; that was the important thing. It was also a much easier way to kill someone this way than strangulation. Within thirty seconds Scrub Boy’s eyes closed as he lost consciousness, and after another thirty seconds, he seemed to be dead. Just to make sure, Peter banged the head for another minute or so.