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The Ahmen had also spent the early morning near the Archer building, facing out of the second floor of a parking garage a block away. He had an unrestricted view to track the movements of every vehicle moving in or out of Archer. When he worked there, he had taken the time to inventory all the vehicles in the lot and tied them to Archer employees. He had that list before him, propped up against the steering wheel next to his organizational chart of Archer. He checked off the cars as they arrived, filling up the Archer organization as the parking lot filled up with their vehicles.
The Ahmen tapped the organization chart with his pen.
“Oh, there’s Dorothy Miller still driving her burgundy Jetta. On time, as usual. Good old Dorothy.”
He drew a line from her to Karl Novak, as she was Novak’s private secretary.
“Oh, there’s that asshole Director Tower. He’s early! Good God! Why is that, I wonder?”
The Ahmen put a question mark beside Director Tower on the org chart. He underlined Novak and circled Dorothy Miller several times, finally drawing a big arrow pointing from her to Novak.
“Karl is late, again. I swear I don’t know how the man keeps getting promoted with the hours he keeps!” he said, underlying Novak’s name on his org chart.
The Ahmen waited for ten minutes before Novak’s Porsche Boxster wheeled into view, turning smartly into the lot. He completed his checklist, folded it up neatly and tucked it inside the glove box.
He looked up to see a Jeep turn into the lot, driven by a man he thought was dead.
“Oh, surprise, surprise...”
The Ahmen pulled out his list again and noted the plate of a late-model BMW as it pulled into the executive lot. He followed it with his binoculars as it parked and an attractive woman got out, with another man exiting the passenger side. He could see who it was and cursed.
“She’s still alive as well!”
He looked at his watch, then back to the road as a Jeep pulled in behind Danielle. He turned to his companion on the front seat, “Your son is alive, Dr. Kipling.”
“I told you he was a warrior. Like you. I hope he chokes the life out of you,” said Dr. Kipling.
“My, we got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn’t we? Don’t worry, if your son is any good, you may get your wish. I’ll give him one shot at me. How is that for a sporting chance, my friend?”
“Go fuck yourself,” said the shrunken head.
The Ahmen’s right hand flashed across the divide between the seats and slapped Dr. Kipling across the face. “There will be no more of that talk, my friend.”
Dr. Kipling went quiet.
“That’s better. We are a team to the very end, you and I. The gods have guided me on all things, and they wish us to walk this spirit path together.”
The two spirits sat in silence, staring at the parking lot.
“All the players have entered the stage, my Discoverer. It is fitting having your son here. The Gods have willed it so, and now I see the precise beauty of it.”
“You are mad, you know that?” said the head of Dr. Kipling.
“You of all men should know the fine line between genius and madness,” said the Ahmen.
“If you’re so smart, what do we do now?”
“Oh, it’s time for a coffee!”
He leaned forward and turned on the radio, scanned for a loud rock station, which he cranked until the dashboard vibrated. He put the Lincoln in reverse and backed out of his parking spot.
The Ahmen entered the Coffee Bean, just a few blocks away from the Archer Foundation. He ordered a double cappuccino and took a seat at the counter facing out the window. He noted the time and waited. Twenty minutes later, he had another double cappuccino just as a burgundy Jetta pulled up and Dorothy Miller opened her car door and climbed out. She had that harried, irritated look of a servant as she marched into the coffee shop.
“Poor Dorothy,” said the Ahmen. “Karl still has you running around getting him his special coffee.”
He sat at the window, with his newspaper over his face, as she walked past him to the counter. He heard her order two double cappuccinos to go. She waited for her order and then dashed out with the two coffees, back into her car. He lowered his paper as she turned in her seat to back out of her parking spot. It helped that Dorothy was in such a hurry.
He knew he would remember it, but he jotted it down in his black notebook, anyway. Two double cappuccinos. He was a compulsive note-taker. He learned it in medical school, and could never break himself of the habit. Once he quit his current job, he would preserve his research notes, file them, bind them in volumes, and eventually donate them to the Harvard Medical Library. He visualized the ceremony in his mind. The long robes, the speeches, the applause. He could see himself at the podium, being modest and gracious, as he joined the elite group of great discoverers. He would be eloquent and the world press would quote his words and flash his face around the globe. Ah, future glory was so close, he thought.
The Ahmen closed his notebook and climbed off his stool. As he opened the door to leave the coffee shop, he tucked the details of his next murder safely away in his pocket.