The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel by T. Ainsworth Page A

thinking until he got to Diversey Harbor. He veered off the lakefront trail and went under the bridge, where he made his last cell phone call.
    “I’ll take the apartment. See you tomorrow at nine.”
    He dropped the cell phone into the dark water. The possibility of being tracked through it eliminated, he’d use a prepaid phone card to contact others, and only when necessary.
    The next morning Morgan signed a contract for a tired third-floor studio in a Rogers Park walkup. He paid cash, adding a hefty security deposit that would make the building manager forget about him. Utilities were included, isolating him more. The L trains rattled the sash windows incessantly, but drapes bought from Goodwill would buffer some of the noise. A canvas cot went in a corner, while a metal chair and two long folding tables took up most of the room. Several cheap lamps would add light, and an old television would give him the news he needed while he ate microwaved food. His weights arrived next, then he brought the boxes of CDs, books, maps, and some clothes from his car.
    Everything else that remained in the townhouse was now gratuitous; serving no purpose, so he left it all where is was—except for the box with Connie’s red heart. He could never part with that. He placed it in the BMW’s trunk next to the new carbon fiber bicycle that would provide additional exercise as he rode it throughout the city. He could dart everywhere, using alleys and one-way streets to allay anyone who might start looking for him.
    Morgan’s world was slowly becoming controlled.

NINE
    April 2002
    I n April Morgan drove the BMW to the panhandle of Texas and spent three weeks on a ranch learning everything he could about sheep and goats. The Slavic owner was delighted to have a sturdy guest who was not only willing to pay him generously but also to help from dawn till dark with the chores. In return, when Morgan told the rancher he had inherited a farm that also included pigs, the man made certain Morgan learned about them too.
    They were vile beasts, but worse were the sheep and goats, crapping wherever they walked. At every dinner the rancher’s wife served cheese from both as a side dish. Morgan had always tried to avoid the putrid muck in restaurants, and after spending days with the animals it tasted even worse, but he would never insult his hosts.
    “Delicious,” he said, raising his plate to welcome more.
    When his time at the ranch concluded, Morgan drove to Houston for several days. At every rest stop on the interstate, he’d go for a thirty-minute sprint through the sagebrush, dodging the occasional rattlesnake. Afterwards, he would wipe the sweat off with a damp towel, put on a dry T-shirt and get back in his car. He always sat on a plastic tarp with a CD playing and the cruise control on. He didn’t want to get pulled over by state troopers for speeding. That would change everything.
    Morgan checked in with his attorney from a campground payphone outside Houston.
    “Your place sold,” the lawyer said. “They don’t want the furniture.”
    “Tell the buyers I’ll take care of that by mid-week.”
    Morgan made a note.
    “So you know, when the sale finalizes, you’re total cash is going to be a little under five million.”
    “Take a fair fee,” said Morgan.
    “I’m not liking this,” said his attorney.
    “Don’t worry,” Morgan replied. “Just hold the money in your trust. After I get settled, you’ll hear from me.”
    “Do you have enough for now?” the lawyer asked.
    “Plenty,” Morgan said.
    “ When again am I supposed to mail your letter to Dr. Merrimac?”
    “Late May, about five weeks.”
    “You know, Wes…this is bothering me.”
    “I’ve done nothing but simplify my life,” said Morgan. “I’m going to take a long vacation.”
    “And throw away your career in the process.”
    Morgan said, “Call it a sabbatical.”
    “I still don’t like this,” his attorney said again, referring to not only his