Chapter II FROM THE JOURNAL OF CLIFF IVERSON Although I don''t consider myself particularly vain (except perhaps for considering myself more often than I should), I was pleased to have conceived such an expert murder, especially since I''d never previously considered committing one. My first year at Caltech I had initially pursued a dual major of aeronautic design and English literature, which was sort of like going to Juilliard to study piano and field hockey. As a man without a penny or parent to my name, I was quickly notified that the more-than-generous scholarship I''d been awarded was to develop my budding skills at design and not for any designs I had on deathless prose. I imagine there are a lot of people out there like me who discover they have a skill at something they like rather than love. But most of us have to earn a living, which is probably why there are any number of accomplished urologists in the world. (And if my sponsor who is reading this journal happens to be an accomplished urologist, thanks for your kindness up until this last sentence and I''ll start packing my things now.) Eventually Caltech led me to MIT, which led me to aircraft manufacturer Woltan Industries, which led me to homicide. This was not entirely MIT''s fault.

I don''t even blame Woltan that much, except for their choice of senior executives, one being my supervisor Merrill Fiedler, who needs to die. Please understand that by nature I oppose all senseless killing. but in Fiedler''s case, murder makes perfect sense. I have no idea if you know me personally, dear sponsor. If you don''t, let me simply say my looks have been described by some as studious and by my myopic aunt as handsome, but this matters little where this journal is concerned, for on the day my relationship with McMasters began, my face was concealed by an unfashionable fedora with its brim pulled low, a wig and false beard of straggly gray hair, and a pair of MacArthur-style sunglasses, at a subway station in Midtown Manhattan. My tall frame was cushioned like a department store Santa by a long vest of padding that amply filled a trench coat four sizes larger than my own. I maneuvered my newly cumbersome form as daintily as Oliver Hardy doing a soft-shoe with Stan Laurel, passing through the gauntlet of a turnstile and down concrete steps onto the subway''s uptown platform, and discovered with satisfaction that my target was standing exactly where I''d wanted him to be: Merrill Fiedler, a crisply groomed success story in his early fifties, in town on business for Woltan''s Baltimore plant, where he''d been my supervisor. He was currently thumbing a magazine by a newsstand at the south end of the platform only a few yards away from me, precisely as I''d managed to contrive.

I needed Fiedler positioned on the platform where uptown trains entered the station. At the far end, the train would already be braking to a halt and might not deliver an instantly lethal blow. I know. I''m such a nice guy. But it was the train that would kill Fiedler, I told myself for the hundredth time, knowing this to be the shabbiest of self-deceptions. I had all the intent of a killer but not the soul. Guns, knives, poisons. these were murder weapons, all of which I''m too inexpert or squeamish to wield with any guarantee of success.

But I''d also ruled out poisons and all other arms-length methods that had sprung to mind, for they seemed too calculated and detached, requiring the meticulous planning of a certifiable psychopath. Then the notion of giving Fiedler one good, hard shove had come to me. Yes, I could probably manage that, particularly after having to restrain myself from doing so for the last three years, each time Fiedler savaged another helpless employee. A shove, a push, a jostle seemed very unlike an act of murder. It was simply what might happen at the beginning of a good old-fashioned barroom brawl, before someone in authority called out, "Now-now, boys, there''ll be none of that here!" One justifiable shove for all the demeaning, degrading insults and condescending sneers Fiedler flayed and spewed in all directions each workday. The telling difference would be that this particular shove would occur while Fiedler was standing at the edge of the platform as the IRT train bulleted into the station. It was the train that would kill Fiedler. I had also further reasoned that shoves don''t have to be registered with the authorities.

One can''t test-fire a shove and trace it back to its origin, there''s no entry wound revealing its angle, nor does it leave telltale residue. Yes, I might leave a bruise mark, but the oversized leather gloves I was wearing would conceal the size and shape of my hands, not to mention my fingerprints. In its oafish way, it really was a pretty well-constructed murder method. To any witness on the platform, I was a bulky man in a trench coat at least fifty pounds heavier than my real weight, face obscured by my hat brim, dark glasses, false gray hair and beard. Sure, maybe I looked laughable, a man who might even be remembered by witnesses, but certainly not anyone who resembled myself. I peered over the top of my sunglasses, wondering who such witnesses might be. A few steps away a drab, slouch-hatted man with features and complexion as hard and dark as onyx was waging a duel of wits with a Chiclets vending machine. An elderly nun stood alongside the stairs I''d just descended.

A short, muscular fellow directly to my left licked the tip of a pencil stub while laboring over a tabloid''s crossword puzzle. A piercing metallic squeal sounded from somewhere down the tunnel like a tin pig being dragged by a chain through a steel slaughterhouse. I could hear my heart now and feel it pulsing in my wrists and temples. From my research I already knew that this ear-splitting screech occurred eleven or twelve seconds before a train on the northbound track burst into the station. If I were really going to do this unthinkable thing, it had to be now. My target would never be more perfectly in place, thanks entirely to my own ingenuity. How I wished at this moment I could whisper in Fiedler''s ear the same words I''d spat at him on that last degrading afternoon in the Woltan employee parking lot. I''d approached my car to discover Fiedler standing at its rear, arms folded and security guards at his elbows.

They''d clearly forced open the trunk and spread out for display the sober black-and-yellow-striped folders reserved for Woltan designs, whose removal from the premises was forbidden. Scattered atop them were a litter of American Communist Party pamphlets laid out for my peers to see, as if the parking lot was hosting a rummage sale. Fiedler had planted them, of course, and he informed me in his most officious voice that I was in breach of the Industrial Secrets clause in my contract, Jacek Horvath and I were no longer employed by Woltan, a report had already been telexed to New York and Munich, and I''d soon be thoroughly discredited and persona non grata in the industry. I heard my voice but didn''t recognize it. "The things you do to people, Fiedler." I flailed. "One day you''ll get what''s due you." Yeah, that sure showed him.

"I have gotten what''s due me," Fiedler answered evenly. "That''s why they made me your boss. And sometimes those in charge have to do unpopular things. Surgeons cut people open. Generals order men to their death--" "We''re not patients or soldiers!" I yelled. "We just work here. And when we took our jobs nobody said, ''Incidentally, the real reason we''re hiring you is because we have this one executive whose ego takes priority over the well-being of everyone else.'' It isn''t as if the company had been searching for a house bully and you came highly recommended.

Someday I hope it gets knocked into you how you made decent people dread going to work." I looked at the other employees hovering by their cars; they all seemed to have taken a sudden interest in their shoes. At least Cora wasn''t seeing this low point in my life. but of course, that was only because her own life was over. "The results speak for themselves, and for me," Fiedler replied with maddening self-assurance. "We''re number one in the region." "Anything good we did on the job would have happened without you. The 1950s are going to be boom years for companies like Woltan, all you''ve achieved is making life harder for all of us!" I moved to square off with him but the security guards blocked my way.

"Woltan''s a good fit for you, but you''d be as happy running a prison or a hospital, you wouldn''t care. You just need to be The Boss." But now, on the subway platform, Fiedler had no security guards, and the train would soon be upon us or, more importantly, upon Fiedler. The curved rails leading from the subway tunnel into the station were beginning to glow where the long beam of the front car''s headlight was hitting them. I was about to become a murderer. Who''d have thought my life would have come to this? The only law I''d ever knowingly broken was white wine with steak. What would Cora think of me, in this ridiculous costume and about to do this unspeakable thing? I shook off second thoughts by picturing the horrified passengers on the W-10, that I''d designed, as its cabin suddenly went dead quiet, its electrical power as lost as every soul on board, its stabilizer locked and gently tipping the plane''s nose toward the ground ten thousand feet below. If I hesitated now, surely I''d never have this chance to save them again.

My intended victim was looking down the tunnel, impatient for the arrival of the train that would kill him. I eased up behind him, my.