He only needs one of them to work.

The five hollow-point Smith & Wesson +P cartridges are designed for maximum stopping power—and maximum damage. When one hits soft tissue, the tip mushrooms into a lethal miniature buzz saw that spins and bounces its way through the body, shredding tissue and organs.

One shot is more than enough to ensure John Lennon’s death.

A yellow cab slides up next to him. He puts his suitcase in the trunk, then gets into the back seat. He gives the driver the address for the West Side YMCA, off Central Park West. It’s only nine blocks away from his true destination.

He puts on his best smile and tells the cabbie, “I’m a recording engineer.”

The taxi pulls away from the curb.

“I’m working with John Lennon and Paul McCartney.”

The cabbie ignores him.

He glares at the back of the man’s head. If you only knew what I’m about to do, you would be paying attention to me. You wouldn’t be treating me like some nowhere man.

“Nowhere Man” is a song by his favorite group of all time, the Beatles. Well, they used to be his favorite, until they broke up. And he still hasn’t forgiven John Lennon for saying that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus.

That was blasphemy.

The taxi gets in line with the bumper-to-bumper traffic heading into Manhattan. Everyone is rushing to Rockefeller Center. A sixty-five-foot Norway spruce has just been delivered, and electricians are working feverishly to prepare for the annual Christmas tree-lighting ceremony, which is only a few days away.

He takes out a bag of coke. Snorts a line off his fist.

The cabbie is now watching him in the rearview mirror.

“Want some?”

The driver shakes his head and returns his attention to the road.

The coke isn’t working its magic. Instead of feeling a wave of intense pleasure, he’s sweating and working himself into a rage, all of it aimed at Lennon.

“But I’d plug him anyway,” he mutters. “Six shots through his fat, hairy belly.”

He arrives at his destination. He pays his fare, and as he steps out of the cab, he imagines police swarming him, their weapons drawn, ready to arrest him. He sees himself locked inside a jail cell for the rest of his life.

The thought brings him comfort.

Peace.

He turns back to the driver. “I’m Mark Chapman. Remember my name if you hear it again.”

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Isn’t he a bit like you and me?

—“Nowhere Man”

You’ll like John,” Paul McCartney’s friend Ivan Vaughan says. “He’s a great fellow.”

Paul knows John Lennon, but only by sight, really. John is older—almost seventeen—and the two have never spoken, even though they ride the same Allerton-to-Woolton bus to school.