Coma

It was seven-fifteen when she was ready to leave her room. As if she were in some spy movie, she checked out the parking lot from her window, to see if she were under obvious surveillance. She looked over the cars, but saw no one. Susan pulled the curtains closed and locked her door, leaving her lights on. In the corridor, she stood for a moment, then, extrapolating from her movie experience, she rolled a small wad of paper into a ball and carefully inserted it between the door and the jamb, next to the floor.

In the basement of the dorm there was a tunnel leading over to the Anatomy and Pathology Building. It carried steam pipes and power lines, and Susan and her classmates occasionally used it during inclement weather. Susan had no idea if she would be followed but she wanted to make it difficult, hopefully impossible. From the anatomy building Susan used the passageway to the Administration Building, which she found unlocked. From there she exited by the medical library, catching a cab on Huntington Avenue. She had the cab do a U-turn after a quarter of a mile and drive back, passing the spot where she had hailed it. Nestling down in her coat to keep from being seen, Susan tried to see if anyone was following her. She saw no one at all suspicious-looking. Relaxing, she told the cab to take her to the Memorial Hospital.

Like any professional “hit man,” Angelo D’Ambrosio felt an inner satisfaction at having successfully completed a job. After communicating the message he had for Susan, he had walked back to Huntington Avenue and caught a cab near the corner of Longfellow. The taxi driver was delighted: finally he’d found an airport run which meant a decent fare and undoubtedly a good tip. Prior to D’Ambrosio he’d had nothing but old ladies going to the supermarket.

D’Ambrosio settled back in the cab, content with his day’s work. He had no idea why he had been contracted to do what he had done in Boston that day. But D’Ambrosio rarely knew why, and in fact he did not want to know why. On the few occasions when his information and briefing had been more complete, he had had more trouble. On the current assignment, he had been merely told to fly to Boston in the evening of the twenty-fourth and stay at the Sheraton Downtown under the name of George Taranto. The following morning he was to proceed to 1833

Stewart Street and to the basement apartment of a man named Walters.

He was to have Walters write a note saying, “The drugs were mine. I cannot face the consequences.” Then he was to dispose of Walters in a fashion that would suggest suicide. Then he was to isolate a female medical student by the name of Susan Wheeler and “scare the shit out of her,” telling her that she would be in danger if she did not return to her usual occupation. The orders had ended with the usual exhortations about being careful. There was a packet of information about Susan Wheeler, including the photo of her brother, some background, and a schedule of her current activities.

Looking at his watch, D’Ambrosio knew that he could easily make the 8:45 American flight back to Chicago. He also knew his thousand dollars would be in the usual twenty-four-hour locker, number 12 near the baggage claim for TWA. Contentedly, D’Ambrosio watched the play of lights flicker past the window. He thought about the ghoulish Walters and tried to imagine the connection he could have with the attractive Wheeler. D’Ambrosio remembered Susan’s appearance, and how he had had to fight with himself not to put it to her. He began to imagine a series of sadistic delights that awakened his sleeping penis. D’Ambrosio found himself hoping that he’d be ordered back to make a second contact with Miss Wheeler. If he ever was, he decided he’d screw her in the ass.

When he reached the airline terminal D’Ambrosio entered a phone booth. There remained one small detail in a routine assignment: he had to call his central contact in Chicago and report that the job was done.

The number rang the agreed-upon seven times.

“The Sandler residence,” answered a voice on the other end.

“May I speak to Mr. Sandler, please,” said D’Ambrosio, bored. He did not quite understand this maneuver and it took a few minutes. He always had to remember the current name. If the wrong name was used he was supposed to hang up and call an alternate number. D’Ambrosio wet his index finger with his tongue and drew circles of saliva on the phone booth glass. Finally the voice returned.

“It’s clear.”

“Boston’s done, no problems,” said D’Ambrosio with no inflection in his voice.

“There’s an update. Miss Wheeler is to be disposed of as soon as possible. The method is up to you but it must appear to be a rape. You understand, a rape.”

D’Ambrosio couldn’t believe his ears. It was like a dream come true.

“There’ll be an extra charge,” said D’Ambrosio matter-of-factly, carefully concealing his anticipation of sexually assaulting Susan.

“There will be an extra five hundred dollars.”