Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (27 page)

Checking his watch he noted it was twelve
minutes past eleven. Weaver should be home in another four to eight
minutes. Clay took the cigarette butt he had retrieved after Rocco
flipped it away out of a small plastic container and rubbed it
against the brick wall as if putting out the fiery end. It was
dropped on the ground against the wall where it was protected from
the weather. He was chilly because his clothing had been dampened
by the light rain while he approached the house. But now, in the
dry area under the overhang of the garage roof he was prepared for
a short wait.

In the distance a dog barked faintly several
times and then was silent. A car passed the house and the police
car, continued on to the second corner and turned to the left. The
dog barked again several times, and then another dog, closer than
the first, took up the anguished howling. Clay’s leg muscles were
beginning to ache from the position he had imposed on them. He
began to move slowly, keeping his torso low but straightening and
stretching his legs.

At twenty minutes past eleven he checked his
watch. No need for alarm, he told himself, Weaver is just a little
late getting away after being relieved. But, in spite of his
rationalization, he felt butterflies begin to swarm in his
stomach.

Eighteen minutes later headlights warned of a
car approaching from the direction Weaver should arrive from. Clay
checked his watch; eleven thirty eight. The car approached slowly,
and without using a signal, turned into the driveway. The car
tagging him pulled in behind the surveillance unit on duty and
turned off its lights. The cops whose shift was finished turned on
the car’s headlights and quickly drove past Weaver’s house and to
the end of the street.

Clay’s apprehension over Weaver being late
evaporated as he took a deep calming breath while crouching low in
the shadows. It’s show time. He felt a surge of energy flow through
his body in anticipation of the kill as he removed a stubby
silencer from his pants pocket and screwed it onto the
semiautomatic. He was three feet from the garage corner and had
shortened the distance as the door opener groaned, the door rattled
in its tracks as it rose, and a light in the garage turned on. When
the door stopped, the car advanced and entered the narrow opening.
As the front half of the car passed by him Clay gained the corner
and waited impatiently for the sound of the driver’s door being
opened and then closed. Brake lights on both rear fenders lit up,
the car stopped, and the engine died. The glow from the headlights
was extinguished and after eight to ten seconds the driver’s door
finally opened.

Ron Weaver held a brown paper grocery bag in
the crook of his left arm, and pushed the car door closed with his
left elbow. Clay pivoted around the corner of the building when he
heard the anticipated thud. His movement took him into the garage,
still crouched low, gun in hand.

In the dim light cast by a single 60 watt
bulb encased in opaque yellowed plastic, Weaver saw a crouching
figure spin smoothly around the edge of the entrance with eyes
peering at him through a soot black face. He froze in his tracks in
surprise and heard the muted Thump Thump Thump of three shots being
fired. The impact of the slugs shattered his ribs and breastbone
causing him to stagger and slowly collapse to his knees as the
intruder, still crouched low, approached closer. Weaver fell
backward, losing his grip on the bag of groceries he had just
bought at an all night market. His mind commanded his right arm to
release the keys in his hand and reach for his service revolver,
but the arm ignored his minds urgent plea. Instead he watched a
carton of eggs roll over the top of the crumpled sack and fall onto
the garage floor. Three eggs bounced out of the gray pressed paper
carton, two breaking and the other rolling under the car. He fought
with the knowledge his wife would be disappointed he had dropped
the groceries, while at the same time trying to deal with the
frightening spectacle in front of him. His left arm slid along the
side of the car, attempting to stabilize his fall. In silent horror
he watched as if hypnotized, as his demonic assailant placed a
silencer to his forehead and fired the gun again.

Clay leaned forward over the prone body,
while the head twitched several times, flexing his right wrist as
the gun was placed near Weavers right temple area he pulled the
trigger. The action was repeated on the left side of the head. The
six spent bullet casings were scattered around and under the car
after being ejected each time the weapon was fired. Crouching over
the inert body he spotted an unanticipated trophy. Weavers shield,
mounted on a leather backing was slipped over his belt in front of
his left hip. He grabbed the shield and then saw and removed a
revolver from Weaver’s holster at his side. Both trophies were
slipped into his jacket pocket.

Wheeling around he moved back to the
entrance, still crouching like a tree frog with his legs extended
horizontally from his body to stay low. He slipped back around the
corner staying between the bushes and the brick wall, figuring he
had ten minutes maximum before the men watching the house became
suspicious and came to investigate, or the wife went to greet her
husband. Slowly straightening up he looked again in the direction
of the new surveillance team and then moved just as slowly and
cautiously away from his work site as he had approached it. Taking
his time he moved from shadow to shadow, surveying each area before
moving ahead.

Reaching the stolen car he got behind the
wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the parking lot
with out hitting the breaks or turning on the headlights. Turning
to the left he drove down the street in the opposite direction the
guards had been pointed in. At the corner he made a full stop and
flipped on the headlights. Pulling through the intersection he
again checked the time; eleven forty five. Seven minutes had
elapsed since the blue sedan entered the garage. The police should
be getting curious as to why Weaver had not walked around the end
of the car and closed the garage door. They would move their car
forward to be in front of his open garage. The light on the door
opener would have turned itself off, and one of the officers would
enter the garage to check. An officer down call would be sent and
back up units would be dispatched.

By the time the radio call was made, Clay had
left the residential neighborhood and was on the approach to
Highway 290 heading east. A damp towel placed in the floor earlier
had been used to clean his hands and face of the sooty camouflage
makeup. With the heater on high the chill from his wet clothing was
being countered. Another adrenaline rush started to build and he
had to concentrate on maintaining his speed at the posted limit. An
urge came over him to accelerate and drive as fast as the car would
go in celebration and sheer ecstasy.

He had done it; another successful job. No
evidence left behind, no loose ends, no witnesses. Only a corpse
left in silent testimony to prove he had been there.

Now he could finalize the rest of his plan to
deal with Johnny Lover Boy Rocco.

The next morning Clay slept in until nine and
then went to the gym for a work out. After hitting the weight
machines and working through a yoga session he spent an hour in the
lap pool. Later, a soak in the hot tub and a long hot shower left
him feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

While sitting in the hot tub he watched a
special televised news report recounting the previous night’s
murder of local policeman Ronald Weaver. Weaver, the subject of an
internal police investigation, had been shot to death at his home
shortly after his arrival last night. An investigation was being
conducted into how Weaver was killed while police surveillance was
positioned across the street at the time of the execution style
murder. A statement released by the Police Commissioners Office
said the authorities had no leads and no suspects in the death.
Anyone having information pertaining to the crime was asked to call
a hot line number set up specifically for the case. Clay smiled,
confidant no one could ever provide the information needed to lead
the police investigation to him.

After leaving the health club he drove by the
Twelfth Street Saloon to see Tony. He joined Tony and several other
men at the round table and drank his first glass of beer while
listening to their small talk. Tony brought up the subject of last
nights shooting. To the group in general he said, “I guess you read
the article in this morning’s paper about a cop getting whacked
last night?”

Donny Palmotto said, “Yeah, and I saw a
report a little while ago on the television about it too. It took
some cool mother fucker to hit a cop right in front of those other
cops while they was watching his house. They still aren’t releasing
any details about how it was done.”

“Because the dumb bastards haven’t figured it
out yet,” mused Charlie Rosen. “Give them a couple of months and
they might have a clue.”

Donny leaned forward, “It had to be somebody
from out of town; Chicago doesn’t have a hitter of that caliber. Do
you know of a local who could have done it Tony?”

“Whoever it was knows what the hell he’s
doing and probably made a real killing on his fee. It took balls to
whack the fucker right under their noses.” Tony looked over at Clay
and said, “What do you think about it, kid?”

“This is all way over my head Tony. But I
agree it was a pretty brazen piece of work.” The men at the table
all knew about Clay’s role in dealing with the Russians and Donny
and Joey Tadono both looked at him with a quizzical expression.

Later, after Tony had dismissed the others he
said, “Damn good job Kid. I gotta hand it to you; you’ve certainly
got a talent for it. By the way, when the other boss’s who were
being fingered learned about Weavers timely demise, they insisted
on contributing to pay a part of the fee. I didn’t tell them you
were doing me a favor. When they get the money to me there’ll be a
forty grand payment for your work. Plus, I’m certain there’ll be
more business from them. They were all very impressed.”

Clay left the bar and headed home for supper,
where of course, the main topic of discussion during the meal was
the recent killing of a policeman. Walter had learned from his
customers the man was considered a dirty cop who was about to
testify against some of the local criminal leaders.

“I swear,” Walter remarked, “the Chicago
criminal element is getting as bold as they were in the twenties.
The mayor had better start getting things under control before the
crooks take over the whole city and decent folks start moving out.”
Clay just smiled and excused himself. After glancing through the
evening newspaper, he kissed Margaret good bye and told her he was
going to visit his girl friend and might not be back until late, or
possibly in the morning. Lizzy just smiled at him and said, “Good
night and good luck big Brother.” Margaret cocked her head and gave
him a disapproving frown as he grabbed his jacket and headed out
the back door.

Clay drove to a pay phone and once more
called the dealership where Rocco worked. Rocco was with a
customer, so Clay gave a phony name and requested an appointment
with him for later at eight. Continuing on to the warehouse where
he had returned the stolen Firebird the previous night, he prepared
for the next step in his plan. Items he had purchased over the past
two days were placed in the car along with those furnished by Joey
Tadono. Several of the items were put in a large cardboard box in
the trunk, and the others were placed in a brown paper grocery bag
on the passenger’s seat. Changing his clothes, he put on a light
weight charcoal gray sweatshirt, another used running suit, a pair
of cheap black tennis shoes and jersey gloves. Only one job
remained before he could leave. After disassembling the Italian
Glisenti automatic used to kill Weaver he carefully wiped down all
surfaces, including the clip and the remaining five cartridges.

Leaving the warehouse at six o’clock, he
drove to Rocco’s apartment, found a parking space behind the
building three cars down from garage number 2306 and backed into
it,. Looking in the rearview mirror he applied a shaggy fake
moustache to his upper lip, and pulled the hood of his jacket up
and tied it loosely below his chin. A pair of clear glass
non-prescription safety glasses without side shields completed his
disguise. In less than thirty minutes a car pulled in to park and
he exited the car. Following an elderly lady he hurried to enter
the apartment building close behind her and went to Rocco’s door
where he rang the bell three times. When no one answered the door
he removed a set of lock picks from his pants pocket and worked on
both of the door locks.

Inside the apartment he turned on lights as
he began a search for photographs of Lizzy. His plan called for
finding them in an hour or less and then exiting the apartment. In
less than ten minutes he found two eight inch square containers of
pictures of young women being subjected to the same type of sexual
abuse Lizzy had endured. Taking a plastic bag from his pocket he
loaded the containers into it. Continuing his search he found nine
more containers and a spiral bound notebook with personal
information on thirteen women. Lizzy was the last entry. Checking
through each of the nine containers, he learned Lizzy’s pictures
still had not been located. In most of these pictures Rocco was the
lone male assailant. As he sorted through the pictures before him
he was amazed Rocco had been able to gain the confidence of so many
beautiful young women to take advantage of them. He would like to
spend a night with several of them, but not in the way Rocco had
used them. The notebook and all of the pictures were placed in the
bag with the others. Checking his watch, he noted his allotted time
was running out.