A woman’s urgent voice said, “Dr. Ashley?”
“Yes…”
“Pete Grimes is havin’ a heart attack. He’s in pain somethin’ awful. I think he’s dyin’. I don’t know what to do.”
Edward sat up in bed, trying to blink the sleep away. “Don’t do anything. Keep him still. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He replaced the receiver, slid out of bed, and started to dress.
“Edward…”
He looked over at Mary. Her eyes were half open.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
“Wake me up when you come back,” Mary mumbled. “I think I’m going to feel sexy again.”
Edward grinned. “I’ll hurry.”
Five minutes later, he was on his way to the Grimes farm.
He drove down the hill on Old Milford Road toward J Hill Road. It was a cold and raw morning, with a northwesterly wind driving the temperature well below zero. Edward turned up the car heater. As he drove, he wondered whether he should have called for an ambulance before he left the house. The last two “heart attacks” Pete Grimes had had turned out to be bleeding ulcers. No. He would check it out first.
He turned the car onto Route 18, the two-lane highway that went through Junction City. The town was asleep, its houses huddled against the bitter, frigid wind.
When Edward came to the end of Sixth Street, he made the turn that took him onto Route 57 and headed toward Grandview Plaza. How many times had he driven over these roads on hot summer days with the sweet smell of corn and prairie hay in the air, past miniature forests of cottonwood trees and cedars and Russian olive trees, and August haystacks piled up alongside the roads? The fields had been filled then with the odor of burning cedar trees that had to be destroyed regularly because they kept taking over the crops. And how many winters had he driven on this road through a frosted landscape, with power lines delicately laced with ice, and lonely smoke from far-off chimneys? There was an exhilarating feeling of isolation, being encapsulated in the morning darkness, watching fields and trees fly silently past.
Edward drove as fast as possible, mindful of the treacherous road beneath the wheels. He thought of Mary lying in their warm bed, waiting for him. Wake me up when you come back. I think I’m going to feel sexy again.
He was so lucky. I’ll make everything up to her, Edward promised himself. I’ll give her the damnedest honeymoon any woman ever had.
Ahead, at the intersection of highways 57 and 77, was a stop sign. Edward turned at Route 77, and as he started into the intersection, a truck appeared out of nowhere. He heard a sudden roar, and his car was pinned by two bright headlights racing toward him. He caught a glimpse of the giant five-ton army truck bearing down on him, and the last sound he heard was his own voice screaming.
In Neuilly church bells pealed out across the quiet noon air. The gendarmes guarding Marin Groza’s villa had no reason to pay attention to the dusty Renault sedan cruising by. Angel drove slowly, but not slowly enough to arouse suspicion, taking everything in. Two guards in front, a high wall, probably electrified, and inside, of course, the usual electronic nonsense of beams, sensors, and alarms. It would take an army to storm the villa. But I don’t need an army, Angel thought. Only my genius. Marin Groza is a dead man. If only my mother were alive to see how rich I have become. How happy it would have made her.
In Argentina, poor families were very poor, indeed, and Angel’s mother had been one of the unfortunate descamisados. No one knew or cared who the father had been. Through the years Angel had watched friends and relatives die of hunger and sickness and disease. Death was a way of life, and Angel thought philosophically: Since it is going to happen anyway, why not make a profit from it? In the beginning, there were those who doubted Angel’s lethal talents, but those who tried to put roadblocks in the way had a habit of disappearing. Angel’s reputation as an assassin grew. I have never failed, Angel thought. I am Angel. The Angel of Death.