wire-frame glasses, graying hair, and a razor-sharp mind. Two years had passed since the car accident that had sent his wife and daughter to their graves. It was more than enough time for him to heal, yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not let go of them.
He headed down a dirt path to the Shoreham nuclear plant where he worked. Shoreham had been built to generate power to two million Long Island residents, but shoddy construction had kept it from opening. That had been two decades ago. The state kept the plant operational in the hopes that one day its generators would be put to use. Carr’s job was to keep the generators from falling apart. After the accident, he’d considered turning the generators on and causing a meltdown, but had been afraid the staff would have stopped him. Better to come up with a careful plan, and stick with it. That was how smart killers worked.
He’d spent a year planning for this day. Now that it was finally here, he felt strangely calm. Soon it would be over, and he would be reunited with his loved ones.
And then Dr. Carr started to cry again.
* * *
Two black Doberman pinschers met him at the gated entrance. Carr swiped his plastic key against the security pad, and let himself in. He headed up the driveway with the dogs sniffing his heels. He had been coming to the plant on weekends, and had grown fond of the dogs. Being around them calmed him down, if just for a little while.
Reaching the front entrance, he stopped to have a look around. One of the staff was having a going-away party at a local tavern, and the last cars were leaving the parking lot. The lab would be empty. That was good, because he didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. In fact, he didn’t want to talk to anyone ever again.
His footsteps echoed down the hallway. His coworkers had been acting strange lately, watching him out of the corners of their eyes like a bunch of spies. They must have guessed he was plotting something, but were too afraid to confront him. Stupid them.
He entered the lab, and went to his desk. Standing with his back to the security camera in the ceiling, he opened the center drawer, and removed a Sig Sauer he’d bought at a gun show, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. There were security cameras everywhere inside the plant, and they were all operational. Big Brother was watching, but were they paying attention? He didn’t think so. People broke the rules all the time, and no one said anything.
The refrigerator hugged the far wall. His coworkers used it to store their lunches in. Carr didn’t think they would have done that, had they known what he was keeping in there. He pried open the double doors. A small blue knapsack that had belonged to his daughter was stuffed inside. He clutched it to his chest.
“Damn you all,” he whispered.
He’d come to the lab every weekend for the past year to prepare for his attack. Except for the maintenance people, there had been no one in the building except him. It had given him the freedom to experiment, and create a device that, once unleashed, could not be stopped.
He glanced around the lab a final time. It would have been easier to have shot his coworkers to death while they sat at their desks. He could have just gone postal, and gotten the whole thing over with. But he wanted to make a statement, and leave his mark on the world. He wanted to go out in style.
“No backing out now,” he said through his teeth.
A harsh laugh escaped his throat. It didn’t even sound like him. Before the accident, he wouldn’t have harmed a fly. But two years was a lifetime when the ones you loved were dead, and the blackness was festering inside.
He carried the knapsack to the garage where he’d parked his Ford Windstar. That morning, he’d removed the backseat, and replaced it with a stainless-steel footlocker filled with packets of dry ice. Sliding open the side door, he carefully placed the knapsack into the footlocker, and packed it down. Then he got behind the wheel.
His hands were trembling as he stuck the key into the ignition. He’d read in a book about ancient warfare that fear was only for those who were uncertain about their life’s path. A person should never be fearful of their destiny, no matter where it took them.
This was his destiny, and he told himself not to be afraid.
He drove out of the garage into the late-afternoon sunshine. He needed to hurry if he wanted to miss the rush-hour traffic on the Long Island Expressway.
“Carr! Hold on!” a voice called out.
A physicist named Dr. Stan Skarda ran over. An aging hippie, Skarda wore his long white hair pulled back in a ponytail, and an annoying gold earring. Before the accident, the Carr family had socialized with the Skardas, and taken several skiing vacations together in Vermont. Carr hit the brakes to avoid running over him.
“Aren’t you going to the party?” Skarda asked.
“I’m heading home. I’m not feeling well.”
Skarda put his hands on the door of the car, wanting to talk. “If you don’t mind my saying, you really need to get out more, and start socializing again. You can’t grieve forever. It’s not healthy.”
Carr gripped the wheel and looked straight ahead. “I need to go, Stan.”
“I know the anniversary of the accident is right around the corner. This must be a difficult time for you.”
“It’s today. The anniversary’s today.”
“It is? I’m so sorry.”
An awkward silence followed. Skarda glanced into the backseat of the Windstar.
“What’s in the footlocker?”
“Just some things,” Carr said.
“What things?”
Carr did not like the tone of Skarda’s voice. “That’s none of your business.”
“I heard you’ve been coming around on weekends, and doing work in the lab,” Skarda said. “One of the maintenance people mentioned it to me.”
“Really. Which one?”
“It was Jose. He said you were cooking up something using biohazardous materials.”
“Jose said that?”
“Yes. He told me he found them in the garbage. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing, Stan. I have no idea what Jose is talking about. I need to go.”
Carr started to drive away. Skarda reached through the open window, and grabbed his colleague by the arm.
“You’re not acting right, Lucas. Tell me what’s going on. I’m your friend.”
“Let go of me.”
“Not until you explain. I want to help.”
Carr’s rage bubbled up inside of him like so much poison. He threw the Windstar into park, and drew the Sig. It felt powerful in his hand, and he aimed at Skarda’s forearm.
“This is what’s going on, Stan.”
He squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered the windshield and the wheel. Skarda grabbed his arm and staggered back. His face was a mixture of pain and surprise.
“You shot me,” Skarda gasped.
Carr stared at the gaping wound that he had caused. The bullet had taken a small piece out of Skarda’s arm, and the wound was bleeding profusely. Not that long ago, the sight of blood had sickened him. Now, it had the opposite effect, and sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. He pointed the Sig and took careful aim.
“What are you doing?” Skarda gasped.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Please, Lucas. Don’t do it.”
“I read that there are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment in the future when your name is spoken for the last time. Do you believe that, Stan?”
“I’m begging you.”
