The October List

daughter all right?’
    A man entered the room quickly. But it wasn’t Daniel Reardon or Andrew Faraday, returning from their mission to save her daughter.
    Joseph wore a black jacket and gloves and yellow-tinted aviator glasses. His glistening golden curly hair dangled to mid-ear.
    In his gloved hand he held a pistol whose muzzle ended in a squat, brushed-metal silencer.
    ‘No!’ Gabriela gasped, looking toward Sam.
    After scanning the room quickly, Joseph turned toward them, lifting the gun in a way that seemed almost playful.

CHAPTER
35
     

5:50 p.m., Sunday
40 minutes earlier
     

 
     
     
     
     

 
     
    The warehouse was just as he’d left it on Friday, when he’d been here making preparations.
    Damp, brick walls covered with scabby light green paint, redolent of cleanser fumes and oil and pesticide and rust, lit by unkind fluorescents. One began flickering and Joseph rose from the table where he’d been sitting, took a mop from the corner, the strands molded into a mass, sideways, like windswept hair, and with the tip of the handle shattered the offending tubular bulb. There was nothing sturdy enough to stand on to remove it. Shards fell, dust too. The crackle was satisfying.
    This building was similar to the one where he’d done his little surgery last night, the warehouse west of Times Square. Here, in SoHo, there was a demand for industrial spaces to turn into private residences – at astronomical sums, of course. This particular building would probably never be converted. There were no windows. Bad for resale to chic-minded lawyers and brokers. Good for Joseph’s purposes, though. In fact, he could just make out a faint spatter of dark brown dots on the floor. Several months ago those discolorations had been bright red. The man had finally told Joseph what he wanted to know.
    Solid brick walls. They absorbed the screams well.
    Before returning to the chair, he walked to the heater panel, turned the unit up. Mold-scented air slipped out of the vents. Warmish. Still, he kept on his gloves – thin, flesh-colored cloth. Not for the comfort, though. Force of professional habit. Joseph recalled many times in the heat of summer when he’d worn gloves like these.
    He sat once more, in the chair on whose back his leather jacket was draped. Pulling off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick golden ringlets, Joseph reached into the bag he’d brought with him and extracted the distinctive green box of Dom Pérignon champagne. He then removed from his pocket two mobile phones – his own iPhone, and the one lifted from the same apartment where he’d taken the boxed wine. His phone he set on the table. The other he scrolled through – clumsily because of the gloves – and noted the phone numbers and texts.
    He set the Samsung down then stretched out his legs, checking the time. He wouldn’t have long to wait. That was good. He was tense. You always were on edge at times like this. You had to be. He’d known plenty of men who’d relaxed when they shouldn’t have. They were dead or changed for the worse, much worse.
    But adrenaline got you only so far.
    He glanced toward a door at the back of the warehouse, secured with a thick dead bolt. It led to a small storeroom. From beneath the door warm yellow light flowed. You could hear the Dora the Explorer DVD.
    ‘ Hey, Boots! Let’s go over there! ’
    Joseph looked once more at the box containing the champagne. It was marred with a bloodstain on the side. Six dots in a row, like part of the Morse code for S-O-S. He knew the prestige of Dom Pérignon, though he’d never had any. This reminded him that he had a thirst. He rose and, walking stiffly from the chill, went to a cupboard in the corner of the warehouse, where he’d stashed a bottle of his Special Brew. He twisted off the cap and thirstily drank down nearly half of the contents. Felt the rush, felt the comfort.
    Slow down, he told himself.
    But then slugged the rest.
    He wiped his lips on his sleeve. He set the bottle on the table. He’d take it with him when he left, of course, after slicking the glass with his telltale DNA.
    Then settling his heavy form back in the chair, Joseph winced at a sharp pain in his hip. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed the Glock 9mm pistol, dropped the mag and reloaded, replacing the two bullets he’d fired not long ago. He recalled the eyes of the victim staring at him in shock – too numb even to be afraid. Always curious, those moments