The Third Rail by Michael Harvey Page B

asphalt. Nelson looked at the envelope on his dashboard, addressed to his favorite reporter. Then he put on his gloves and cracked open the driver's-side door.
    The parking lot wasn't much more than an afterthought, shoved under the highway between the Clinton Blue line stop and the Greyhound bus station. During the day it was filled with the cars of Loop workers who couldn't afford downtown parking. At night, it became a black hole. Tonight was no exception. A brown Ford with a cracked windshield and rims for tires sat in a far corner. Otherwise, Nelson had the place to himself.
    He moved out from under the highway and took a slow walk around the block. The bus station had a single cab out front, motor running, driver asleep in the front seat. The rest of the buildings on the street were factories, locked up for thenight. Nelson ducked back under the overpass and moved past his car to a far wall abutting the L station. There he found a green door with black stenciled letters that read CTA .
    Nelson turned his back to the wind and pulled out the keys he had made. The third one fit, and the door opened. He stepped out of the weather and into a greasy darkness. Nelson found a light switch and flipped it on. A stairwell uncoiled to his left, down and into the belly of Chicago's subway system.
    Nelson walked back outside, popped the trunk on the Impala, and considered a local prostitute named Maria Jackson, smiling red at him through the thick plastic. Robles had done a good job wrapping her after he'd finished, and the blood did not seem to have leaked. Nelson took a last look around, lifted the body, and carried it inside. Then he drove his car two blocks and parked on a deserted section of street. From the backseat he pulled a duffel bag. Inside it was a rifle, his scopes, and the hard black case he'd taken from Robles. Nelson hiked back to the access door and opened it again. Maria hadn't gone anywhere. He hefted her body across his shoulders, duffel in his right hand, and began to walk down the first staircase.
    NELSON TOOK HIS TIME , resting frequently. Two flights of stairs and a long sloping ramp threaded him back toward the Loop and deep into the lower levels of the subway. A second door opened out to the first run of tracks, an auxiliary spur reserved for trains in need of repair. Nelson walked another hundred paces before allowing the body to slip from his shoulders. Maria Jackson fell among the cinders with a graceless thump. Nelson kept moving.
    A quarter mile later, he stopped again. The auxiliary tracksplit here. Nelson took the right fork and came to a second set of tracks. This was a primary set for the Blue Line's run into the Loop.
    Nelson stepped gingerly across the rails and onto the main track. He would hear the train well before it came around the bend, roughly two hundred yards away. Besides, he didn't figure the job to take long. The track Nelson was standing on was the oldest usable section in the entire CTA. It had been scheduled for renovation in 2004. The work had been delayed once, twice, and now, in 2010, still hadn't been done. Which was why Nelson was here. Unlike the other three hundred miles of subway track, this portion had not been updated with sealed fluorescent lighting. Nelson looked up at the bare lightbulbs. Heavy-duty, yes, and partially shielded with steel covers. But lightbulbs all the same.
    Nelson found the ladder he knew they kept in a maintenance shed and positioned it under a bulb. Then he took Robles' black case out of his duffel, climbed the ladder, and unscrewed the bulb from its porcelain fixture. He knew this fixture well. He'd bought a half dozen like it from a man who collected CTA odds and ends. Nelson knew it took six turns to secure the bulb in the fixture. Four turns and it would still be all right. Three turns and the vibrations from passing trains would begin to turn the bulb in its grooves and eventually loosen it. Fewer turns ... or more vibrations ... and the bulb