Sixty-Seven

Russell’s face, even in decapitated death, seemed to say, See, I told you so. His head rested on an oriental rug, blood oozing between the wool fibers and staining his Mohawk. His body had dropped straight down. It rested against the wall, a tangle of arms and legs.

“Oh, no,” said Mel.

“Yeah,” I said.

“It just showed up on 4chan,” Bobby said over the speakerphone.

The smartest guy in the room, that’s me. Unless there’s a twenty-something girl around who, against all odds, thinks you’re hot. Then not so smart. Here. Here are my secrets. Here are the people who anger me. You want their real names? You want to know where they live? Sure! Why not! You’re purty!

I had set them up like bowling pins.

I called Dorothy. No answer. Texted. No reply.

“How long ago?” I asked Mel.

She crouched next to the body, touched it. “It’s still warm,” Mel said. She picked up a floppy arm, dropped it back into place. “No rigor. So less than three hours.”

Bobby said over the speaker, “Backup is on the way.”

“Nothing to do but wait for them,” said Mel.

“I have to go,” I said. “I need to get to Dorothy.”

“Far Li has only ever killed one a day.”

“Dies ultimus,” I said.

“The final day.”

“She knows she’s blown. She’s got to do it today. Call Lee. I’m going.”

My flip phone had no map. I jogged down Clinton toward Chestnut Hill Ave. Came upon a path cutting between two houses. Heard sirens approaching. Brookline Police would be here soon, wanting to talk to me. Get my insights. Sit with chins resting on their cupped palms, enthralled as Mr. Super Hacker told them how the whole thing had fit together.

Confessions of stupidity could wait.

I trotted down the path. It slipped between a pair of houses, forming a no-man’s-land of easement, then it came upon railroad tracks and Green Line trains. Then the path dove, forming a tunnel beneath the tracks. I ran into darkness, taking in the miasma of a recent urination.

The tunnel rose on the other side of the tracks. As I emerged I heard cheering ahead of me on Beacon Street. I followed the sound, a constant whooping, punctuated by cowbells and cries of “You got this!” “You go, Mike in the orange hat, you go!” “Woo!”

The Boston Marathon in full swing.

Cops had set up barriers across the street, funneling me through a checkpoint where a cop looked at my empty-handed status and waved me through. The whooping grew louder with each step, and soon I was standing behind college students who leaned over the barrier to shout encouragement at the runners who streamed past.

I turned up Beacon, heading toward Cleveland Circle. It was one o’clock. The elite marathoners were long gone, running their twenty-third mile faster than I could run any single mile. The runners passing were the nameless masses. Athletes who were still chugging along, burning off eight- or nine-minute miles. This group had been running for three hours, and they were almost home.

I reached Cleveland Circle and stopped. Marathoners filled Chestnut Hill Ave, running between barriers separating a sea of happy spectators. The runners reached the bottom of the hill and turned wobbly knees toward the finish line, four miles away.

Had E come here, merged with this crowd? How could she possibly have done it carrying a sword? She was resourceful, but the cops were wary. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’d decided to wait for another day, a day with fewer cops. I looked across the race toward Dorothy’s house.

Most runners wore bib numbers as their only identifying feature. Others had written their names on their jerseys. All received the enthusiasm of Bostonians who pressed against the barriers, cheering, waving, providing a corridor of encouragement and adulation. Together, the runners and crowd created a joyful space that celebrated spring, freedom, and triumph over adversity.

The image of Russell’s head flashed at me, his eyes sneering even in death, his Mohawk tipped in blood. It roiled my stomach, reminded me of how I’d been duped. The marathon receded into the background as I replayed my missteps. My first tryst with E. My need to tweak the Anonymous protesters with my clever makeup. My flaring temper. The Twitter mob was out there, doing their thing, tearing down their sacrifice of the day, and one day it was me. I hadn’t needed to participate in #TuckerGate, but I just couldn’t resist.

A college girl next to me in a BC hat and sweatshirt called out to the runners. “You’re almost there! You got this! Go, fuzzy hat, go!” Her calls of encouragement brought me back into the moment. Reconnected me with the danger.

I looked out across the stream of runners. Saw a girl with the name Miranda written across her tank top. The college girl yelled, “You got this, Miranda! You go, girl!”

Miranda gave a tired smile and a thumbs-up. She had this.

She found another runner. “You go, clown guy!” The guy, whose clown makeup had sweated off long ago, smiled, too tired to take his eyes off the road and make eye contact. A guy next to me rang a cowbell. One runner ran down the line, hand raised, high fiving the crowd.

Then I saw it, across the river of marathoners, behind the crowd of well-wishers, moving toward Dorothy’s apartment: a tube, one of those tall portfolio tubes carried by art students. It surely would have been inspected if it had gone through a checkpoint, but a cursory glance probably wouldn’t have caught what was hidden inside.

I knew what was hidden inside because I saw who was carrying it.

Far Li, aka Epomis, aka E, turning from the crowd, stepping over the MBTA tracks, and heading for Dorothy’s apartment.