1
Everything with Mort worked well, but not perfectly. When he was led into the Department handcuffed, Cord noticed two things: Mort had dealt with the staff well, but with Crane, he had been fortunate. As it turned out later, the big fellow had thrown the guy into the wall so hard that he had severely impacted the back of his head. In his rage, Crane had not noticed the wound, and as he entered the interrogation room with a winning smile, he blacked out and collapsed to the floor from his injury.
However, everything worked out. Otherwise, Mort could have had far more serious problems than Cord had expected.
During the interrogation, Mort, as planned, acted like a fool, and Cord made a show of getting angry, so Chief decided to end the interrogation. This only played into Cord's hands.
The next task now needed to be complete: to stage an attempt on his own life and survive.
2
This time, Cord didn't simply walk on the razor's edge. This time he jumped up and down on it with one leg, drunk, and in a windstorm—far too much could go wrong. However, Cord considered the risk justified. Wasn't a happy life with a beloved wife, a child, and good friends worth such high stakes? Cord was worried about only one thing: in the event of a fiasco, he would inflict severe mental trauma not only on Dia but also on Fiddler, from whose hand he would die.
In fact, there were no ingenious plans in this venture. He could think of many other ways out, but Cord convinced his friends that there were none. He just wanted to stand in front of Death and say: "Here I am! Take me if you want me!" and then wait for a decision. It was still less fair than a headshot, but still risky enough to ease his conscience.
Then he would start a new life. He would no longer need the old one. He would no longer need to catch villains in order not to feel like crap. As for the killer of Flaminga and the rest? To hell with him! Even if a million more people get killed, Cord didn't care. And in fact, it had always been thus. He caught criminals because it was exciting, not because of a great sense of justice.
Was he a bastard? Supposing he was, but he would soon have a son or daughter, and he would not be a bastard to him or her, disappearing for long periods during routine investigations. He would be a father they could rely on and who would always be there at the right moment. He would lay down his life to give his child a happy childhood and raise a good person out of them. Not another bastard like he himself was.
3
First, it was necessary to determine the place and time of the event: it must be logical. For example, a point on the route Cord might take as he returned from work or the store. Obviously no dark alleys where not a single person in their right mind would deliberately go.
"What about in the park?" suggested Fiddler.
"Hmm… To be honest, this even had symbolism, albeit simple and obvious, but it was enough. It all ends where it began," Cord replied.
Ha-ha, the final battle of the Hero and the Villain. Me vs. me. My gambit.
Dia was also not too pleased. Without her, no plans would be carried out because she wanted to help. When confronted with the fair and just argument: "You will give birth any day now", she balked and said that she felt fine, and if Cord did not allow her to take part, she threatened to be deeply offended.
Seriously, such threats are illegal.
On the other hand, there would appear to be a reason for Cord to go to the park after work. It was warm outside, the flowers had blossomed, the young birch leaves were swaying in the wind, and recently the park has been treated for ticks, so you could now run barefoot on the freshly grown grass. Wasn't all that enough for Cord to invite his beloved wife for a walk in the evening after work? More than that, this automatically justified her presence at the "attack" site.
All that remained was to choose a location that was not too crowded.
"How about a place near the first murder?" suggested Fiddler. "Since you want symbolism."
"Well, no, too obvious. It might arouse suspicion."
"Hmm. You could go where I slept that night. There is just a bench there."
"Is it beautiful there?"
"Well, so-so."
"And the nearest payphone?"
"At the main entrance."
"Too far. Keep in mind that Dia is pregnant and cannot run like a cockroach."
Dia immediately hit him and then became thoughtful.
"Sorry, seems I just got mad because you said I am not a cockroach."
The friends laughed.
"We can get Sky. She is very athletic." Fiddler was full of reasonable proposals today.
"Well, no," objected Cord, "I want to have some friends who do not know that I can kill them at any moment."
They laughed again. The joke was sad, but today they were amused by everything. And it was not clear what their good mood was due to, was it the wine or nervousness. They were again all seated around the kitchen table, which was already becoming a tradition.
"I was just thinking…" said Dia. "Do you remember the birch under which we had a picnic?"
"When I was released from the isolation ward?"
"Yeah! It was hidden by lilac bushes, but now they have only started blooming," added Dia.
"Hmm…"
"From there, it is not so far to the center of the park, and there is a payphone."
"And the bushes will allow me to easily escape the scene of the crime," Fiddler added, "if anyone sees me at all."
"By the way, cool place. The key thing is that it would not busy. And I have a reason to be there since that is the place of my first date with Dia."
"The second, actually," Dia corrected. "The first was at the movies. Or even the third, if you count I visited you in the isolation ward."
"Yeah, you're right. Okay, let's waste me in the park."
***
They decided on the place, but the preparations were not yet over: Cord was to compose a letter that Fiddler would leave on his body. The method was determined immediately: by gluing fragments from newspapers and magazines because the killer had already left such a text. Fiddler suggested compiling it, using words only from Flaminga's articles about the Villain, but the idea was rejected: the letter was to be thorough, and the killer, according to the profile that Cord had worked up on him, would not have bothered with something like that.
Text composed of glued-together words would not require handwriting analysis. Still, there remained writing style assessment: Cord could not come up with the formulation himself because Chief, and who knew who else, was familiar with his manner of writing. So he sketched out a short outline with the key points and asked Fiddler to write the message in his own style while trying to get into the mind of the killer—a sullen and introverted professional who was just doing his job.
It ended up like this:
"I try not to kill innocent people, although there are none. But not every culprit should be killed. I was hired to get rid of Familiar and was told the inside story. He killed two. I fulfilled this order. But I refused to accept the second order. Flaminga demanded I remove her ex. I said no. She then tried to blackmail me, so I had to get rid of her.
Force identified Flaminga and me. His murder was necessary. But that evening, when I was about to kill him, Cord came to visit him. Surely Force told him everything. It is just a matter of time before he comes after me. This I can also not allow.
I am done with murdering. You will not find me. Farewell."
The result was better than Cord had expected.
There was only one thing left to do: glue the text onto the paper. Dia was already plugged in here: in gloves, medical masks, and swimming caps (so that their hair did not accidentally fall anywhere), the three of them studied the materials of magazines and newspapers, looking for words and sometimes even phrases, in the format they needed. Then Fiddler cut them out, and Cord carefully glued them, making sure that nothing superfluous got into the text—not saliva, not blood, not even a hair. Of course, then he would check everything "under a microscope" again, as it was always better to be extremely thorough.
***
On May 23, the day before the plan was to come to fruition, they rehearsed everything again at home. Cord stands by the birch and waits for Dia. His first necessity is to take care of the props—a bottle of wine and flowers—to best fit the profile of a person going on a date. Well, and he would have to look neater, which would also be great if it caused him to be noticed at work.
Around seven-thirty, Fiddler should come up to Cord and stab him, then leave a letter on the body and disappear (in fact, call an ambulance: better to duplicate Dia's function than bleed out in an unforeseen situation). After that was done, all he had to do was simply survive.
Nothing complicated.
4
The decisive day has come.
The idea with the outfit worked: ("Going somewhere in the evening?" — "I have a date with my girlfriend."). That was good, as it gave him some extra breathing room in case anything happened.
After work, Cord went to the flower shop and chose the most beautiful bouquet, and then to the elite liquor store for a bottle of dry red wine.
There were still about forty minutes left, and Cord spent them walking to the park.
And soon, he was under the same birch. Fiddler's arrival was still seventeen minutes away.
***
Fiddler, who was sitting on a bench, noticed Cord while he was still in the alley. The homeless man was in an old raincoat, a cap, dark glasses, and black gloves. He felt strange and nervous. It seemed to him that he looked as suspicious as possible. His feet were sweating from two pairs of woolen socks, which he had to wear to get around normally in boots that were four sizes to large. He was clearly not dressed for the weather: it was twenty degrees outside, and he was wrapped up for minus ten. However, others apparently did not care: many homeless people carry their entire wardrobe around on themselves.
***
At that same moment, Dia approached the park gate. She did not confess it to Cord, but in the morning, she had felt sick. It was okay, a slight malaise, but her husband would have been scared and forbade her from participating. He was also too stubborn to cancel or reschedule the "event". Since Dia could not dissuade him, then she must help.
***
Fiddler had moved. Now he was close to the scene.
***
A strange calm had seized Cord. This, they say, happens to some death row prisoners near the time of the execution of their sentence. You are standing in front of a firing squad with a bag on your head. Your senses sharpen. You hear the executioners draw their guns, cocking the hammers, and you don't care: shoot already! And they shoot. And you feel good.
Although it was possible that Cord had imagined this story to distract himself.
***
Dia was halfway there. Something was wrong. She was very sick. Am I going to give birth? No, no, not now!
Dia stopped abruptly. Pain. Pain!
***
Fiddler came out from the lilac bushes. Cord turned around at the rustle.
"Are you sure?" asked Fiddler.
In his right hand, he gripped the knife, and in his left, the slightly crumpled letter.
"You only held the knife with gloves on?"
Fiddler lowered his eyes to his hands.
"Well, yes, as you said."
"Don't pull it out of me. Stick it in and go."
"Why? You said that then they might think that you stabbed yourself."
"I just thought, if you do not pull it out, there is a better chance of surviving: the wound will clog up, and the blood will not gush. I hope."
"And the envelope?"
"Throw it nearby. Or… Hmm… Do you think it will be readable in the blood?"
"Of course, the letters were cut out, not written."
"Then let's do this: put it on the knife and only then stab me."
Fiddler did as Cord said.
"Ready?" Fiddler asked uncertainly.
"Yes, who the hell knows? Stab me. Only aim well, please."
"Fuck…"
Gathering his will into his fist, Fiddler stabbed his friend with the knife.
***
Dia dropped to her knees. Her stomach ached like hell. She started screaming. People ran up to her and asked what had happened. Someone rushed to the payphone. She couldn't think anymore. Everything started floating in front of her eyes. I must say something about Cord. Cord!
***
He dropped the bottle and grabbed the knife with his right hand. However, he did not release the bouquet. Why do I need it now?
Fiddler disappeared, and that was good. When he did what was required, Cord at first felt nothing special, just a light prick. But now… The pain had become unbearable. He coughed up blood twice, bent over. No. No. I am doing everything wrong. I had read how to deal with such a wound! Throw back my head? Or forward? Lie on the ground or try to resist?
And where is Dia?
He took into account that she may not have time to reach the payphone. Fiddler will call anyway. But where is she?
He decided to go out to the alley along which she was supposed to come. Every step was swallowed up by the roaring pain. Another attack of coughing deprived him of several more clots of blood. But he walked. Hobbled. He was barely moving his legs, trying not to fall, writhing in pain.
He pushed his way through the bushes, fell out into the alley, and fell to his knees.
"Help…" he tried to mutter, but another fit of coughing made him speechless.
Before consciousness left him, he noticed Dia lying on the asphalt.