The killer picked up a number two lead pencil and drew a line through Dr. William Martin’s name on his carefully drafted hit list. Twenty percent of the way done, he thought. He sat in the glow of his tube computer monitor and the yellowish, fluorescent overhead light and wondered what he would do when he ran a line through number ten. Would he draw up another list, or retire undefeated? He pushed the thought away. If he was honest with himself, he knew he’d be lucky to kill one or two more abortion doctors before they put him away, either in a tiny cell or a pine box. He wasn’t looking forward to either option, but he was committed to his mission.
The basement was cramped and dingy. This was no walkout. The only natural light entered from two casement windows no bigger than porthole windows on a small boat. Even that light was filtered by the hardened grit etched on the windows’ exterior. But the killer felt comfortable. He was waging an anonymous, one-man war and the basement was his command bunker.
He tried wriggling his toes but wasn’t sure if they all cooperated. He swallowed four Advil an hour before, but his feet still hurt. He pushed his chair back and pulled off his clean athletic socks. At least they’d been clean an hour ago when he put them on. Even in the scant light, the killer could make out the red and purple toes, lighter toward the outside of his feet and a darker plum by his big toes. Grape-like blisters grew on every toe, making them appear distorted and misshapen. Some had torn and popped and stained his socks.
His feet had gone from numb, to prickly, to excruciatingly painful on his ride back from Oshkosh. The pain lessened a little as the hours crawled by, but he was taking a lot more Advil than the label recommended. He doubted he’d be around long enough to hurt his kidneys or other organs, though. Not with every law enforcement agency in the country hunting him. He knew they had their own list, and he was at the top or close. He wondered about the work ahead of him. He knew that more walking would further damage his feet, but didn’t see that he had a choice.
He scooched back over to the counter and looked at his list again. Number three was Dr. Aarav Sadana. It felt a little odd to him, deciding who would die and who might be spared. He felt like he was playing God, but then he reassured himself that he was only doing God’s will. Like Father Wagner, he was nothing more than an instrument of the Lord.
He drew a star by Sadana. He didn’t have a clue how to pronounce the physician’s first name, but he was pretty sure he had the last name down. “Mañana, Sadana,” he whispered.