“Oh, this is nice. Dressing me like an old man.”
“You are an old man. Not really a disguise,” Justin whispered to McKenzey. “Welcome to Harvard Square.”
“I’m not welcome here,” McKenzey said and chuckled.
“Come on. This is our stop.”
The nefarious two exited the MBTA red line subway and strolled around the long ramp that led to the stairs. In typical tourist fashion, McKenzey pulled out a camera and snapped a photograph of the train station sign, which confirmed that he had just entered Cambridge, Massachusetts, the home of Harvard University. At that point, he had one job in life and that was to be an ordinary old man having retired to the Boston suburb.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they were greeted by a large crowd surrounding a Harvard student. The student was an employee of Trademark Tours, and about to take the crowd on the tour. But first, she went through the crowd and asked where everyone was from. McKenzey and Justin stepped right into the crosshairs of the student who yelled at McKenzey, “And where are you from, pops?”
McKenzey chuckled and quickly said, “Amsterdam.” His smile was meant to be all-out laughter.
“Another foreign visitor,” the student said and moved onto the next person.
“Where have you brought me?” McKenzey asked Justin as they walked away from the Common Area and onto the street.
“To the best place to hide you for a bit. This lovely national manhunt...”
“That you created.”
“And you love, will be on far beyond the three days that it has thus far.”
“Three days, huh? I have a very vague memory of what happened and while I see that I am out, it’s dubious that you pulled this off alone and killed a man to do it.”
“No one else helped me and no one else knows, Mac. Trust me on that. My mission was to get you out and now my mission is to get them sons of bitches that have seemed to trap you into their web of lies and deception.”
They had walked off Harvard Square and made their way down Brattle Street and passed Brattle Square. They passed Harvard University’s Kennedy School of Government, and McKenzey smiled. He hated the government, and contemplated murdering a few students that had the audacity to study to be a part of the corrupt clan.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the lobby of The Charles Hotel. Justin checked them into the hotel that had hosted notables from Barbra Streisand to former President Bill Clinton and Senator Hillary Clinton, to Ben Affleck to even His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Another celebrity was headed to an elegant room, which overlooked the Charles River: Mr. Lucas McKenzey.
They reached the room and McKenzey watched Justin flop on a double bed perfectly made up and covered in a white down quilt with black squares at the bottom. All of the furniture was wrapped with wood, and a sexy living room furniture complimented the suite.
“So, why are you sitting?” McKenzey asked and turned on the flat panel television. “We have work to do.”
McKenzey turned the TV to CNN and newscasters talked about the earthquake that rocked the East coast.
“Is this still a topic?”
“What, you didn’t know?”
“I was locked in a cell and my only bit of news came from the USA Today and the Philadelphia Daily News.”
“Damn, no TV for over a year. That’s absurd.”
“No, this is absurd,” McKenzey said and wrapped his hands around Justin’s throat.
Justin struggled and fought to get up. His legs kicked and swam in the air.
“I’m not as old as you made me. You think that this is a game. Setting me up for the kill.”
Justin gargled out a muffled sound. It wasn’t recognizable and didn’t matter to McKenzey. His paranoid schizophrenia had kicked in. His delusions that Justin broke him out of jail to kill him, forced him to rob an ally of breath. “Sorry, I just don’t need witnesses for what I plan to do.” He had been without his Abilify for three days, and it was time for him to do things his way: The Lucas McKenzey way.
Justin stopped moving and fighting. McKenzey said, “I bet the neighbors think we had a quick romp. Who knows, while you’re dead, we just might.” He squeezed even tighter on Justin’s throat for good measure before he let him go.
McKenzey walked over to the bag that Justin had carried. He snatched his faux identification and passport out along with all of the cash: $6,976. “You won’t be needing this,” McKenzey said and chuckled. He picked up the hotel telephone and called the Avis rent-a-car station located in the hotel’s lobby. Seconds later, he walked out of his room and smiled at a woman who exited a neighboring room.
“Hi, how are you?” she asked coyly.
“Oh, just great,” he replied and entered the elevator. “Just headed to get my car and take a road trip.”
“Oh, really. Where ya headed? There’s so many fine things to see.”
“Canada. I’ve seen enough of Boston and the surrounding area.”