“The sangria is in that small refrigerator behind you. Would you mind reaching back and getting it for us?” I asked.
“Surely,” he responded and twisted in his chair to reach the door of the refrigerator.
As he did so, I reached under the newspaper lying on the floor near our table, retrieved the small insulin syringe that I had purchased earlier and, lifting myself from my chair, jabbed the needle of the syringe immediately behind Wenger’s ear, quickly injecting the modest contents at the base of his skull.
He reacted immediately, reaching to the injection spot with his left hand and letting out with a volatile “Ow!”
“What have you done?” he screeched, holding the spot with his hand.
“Completed my commission,” I replied.
“I don’t understand,” he stammered as he struggled to keep himself upright in the chair. His hand still clutched at the spot where the needle had entered.
“Let me explain,” I began.
“I had already been informed about you, Mr. Wenger, or whatever your real name is. I know that you are a blackmailer and have been blackmailing an acquaintance of mine for several years. He has recently balked at paying you anything further and you didn’t like it, so you set up this elaborate tale about his being a drug kingpin and hiring me to get rid of him so that you could terrorize his family into continuing to make payoffs. This is a good man and he has raised a good family and is well-respected in his community. The sins he committed in Vietnam many years ago have been long paid off by the many good things he has done since, and it was a time of war when a lot of good men did things they later regretted. He’s been punished enough and your greed is endless, so I’ve decided to end it another way.
“The injection you’ve just gotten is a very small dose of box jellyfish venom. I’m sure you’re feeling the effects of it already. The burning, the dizziness, the numbness in your limbs. This stuff works really fast. It has to because jellyfish don’t have a good way to pursue prey; they have to paralyze it quickly. Soon, the paralysis you’re experiencing now will expand to all parts of your body and your heart, being a muscle, will react and stop and I will call the front desk and advise them that my guest has just had a heart attack. They will call 911 and the paramedics will arrive just in time to pronounce you dead and beyond medical help and my friend and his family will be able to live out the rest of their lives without you leeching off them. And so, I bid you farewell, Mr. Wenger.”
I sat calmly and watched as Wenger became comatose and slumped in his chair. Shortly, I rose, moved to his side, and felt the side of his neck to try to detect a pulse. There being none, I picked up the phone and rang the front desk.
After a few brief questions, the paramedics left with the covered gurney and Mr. Wenger’s body.
I packed the few things I had brought with me to Cincinnati and carefully wrapped the empty syringe, to be disposed of at some location remote from the hotel. The lady at the front desk was quite understanding as to why I would not want to stay the extra night I had booked and I walked to my car which had been brought to curbside by the hotel valet service.
Curious, I decided to find the address that had been listed on the letter I had received from Wenger. Pulling away from the curb, I headed north on Vine Street and turned right onto one-way Seventh Street, heading east to Walnut Street where I turned right again. Then another right onto one-way Sixth Street headed west. Three blocks later, another right turn onto Elm and within a block-and-a-half I found 717 Elm Street.
‘How ironic,’ I thought. Covenant First Presbyterian Church!
As I entered onto I‑75 heading south, I dialed up the classical music station and settled in for the drive back to Winchester.
A light drizzle began to sprinkle on the windshield and I turned the wiper on its intermittent setting, switched on the driving lights, and set the speed control for sixty-five. A wet road and a desire not to draw any attention from a stray traffic control officer suggested conservatism of speed today.
By the time I pulled into my driveway I had left the rain behind and the sun shone brightly around scudding cumulus clouds.
Pulling the overnight bag from the trunk, I was interrupted by the crunch of gravel and turned to see John Nash’s old pickup pulling up behind me.
“Hey, Michael!” was his exuberant greeting as he emerged from the vehicle.
“Hi, John,” I replied, smiling. “Just pulled in from Cincinnati.”
“Yeah, I was right behind you from the south of town. How’d it go?”
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“Oh, it was fine. Pretty routine. Cincinnati’s a nice place to visit. Lots of great places to eat. Friendly people. Good hotel.”
“Well, good to have you back. What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing, John. This one’s on the house.”
“Thanks, Michael. I really appreciate it.”
“That’s what neighbors are for, John.”
