He stopped the cart about two hundred feet from the house. Leaving his golfer’s cap on the seat, he unstrapped Williams’s body from the back of the cart and lowered it to the grass. He removed another object from the cart and zipped it securely into the deep pocket of his windbreaker. Then, he slung a coil of plastic-covered cable over his shoulder.
The next tasks would be dangerous and physically punishing. Girding himself, he bent his knees, hugged his arms around the middle of the still-covered body, and heaved it onto his other shoulder. He had to stagger a bit to regain his balance. Then, placing his feet with infinite care, he advanced step by step toward the front yard.
His legs were screaming and he was sweating profusely by the time he reached the flagpole. Keeping an eye on the house, he eased the body to the ground, then unwrapped it. He took a breather while studying the top of the pole. There was no flag present at this hour, which was good: He would never dishonor Old Glory. But he knew that the pulley up there was capable of supporting only the light weight of a flag. It had taken him several hours in the shop to fashion his work-around.
Flexing his hands inside the gloves and taking a deep breath, he grabbed the flagpole and began his ascent.
From past training, he was used to shimmying up poles; but this one’s metal surface was damp with dew and proved to be tougher going than he expected. He had to pause twice to rest and regain his grip before he finally reached the top.
Clinging mainly with his legs, he unzipped his windbreaker pocket and carefully extracted the gadget. About eight inches long, it was a hollow steel cylinder, slightly greater in diameter than the flagpole itself. The cylinder was closed on one end and open at the other. On the sealed end he’d welded a much-stronger pulley. He slipped the open end of the cylinder over the ball atop the flagpole, then slid it down, like a sleeve. The flagpole now was capped by a new, heavy-duty pulley.
Then he took the coiled cable from his shoulder and fed one end through the pulley. Holding that end, he let the rest of the coil drop to the ground. Then he slid down the pole, taking the end of the cable with him.
He checked his watch; just ten minutes before the next patrol.
Moving fast, he looped a free end of the cable several times between the legs of the corpse, then up and around the chest, very tightly under the arms. He tied it off securely in the back. Dragging the body to the base of the flagpole, he added a final touch. From an envelope in the other zipped pocket of his windbreaker, he extracted a clipping of the article in Sunday’s Inquirer. He balled it up and shoved it into the mouth of the corpse.
Then, with his last great effort of the night, he braced a foot against the pole and hauled away on the cable. He had to half-wrap it around his forearms to prevent it from slipping; it bit painfully into his hands and wrists, despite the gloves. When the body at last reached the top, he tied the other end securely around the halyard fastener at the base.
He was panting hard; his hands and wrists were numb and his arms and legs quivered from the effort. With just five minutes to go, he gathered up the blanket and checked to make sure he’d left nothing more incriminating than his footprints. Then he half-trotted, half-staggered back to the cart.
As he started the engine, he took a last glance. And had to grin.
Silhouetted against the pink hints of the coming dawn, the body of a remorseless killer hung over the home of a corrupt judge.
*
Just before five a.m., the phone on the regional news desk at the Inquirer began to ring. Because the editor who usually sat there was off grabbing coffee, a young proofreader at the next desk picked up. Before he could say a word, he heard a metallic, distorted voice. It sounded like a recording.
Thirty seconds later, the editor returned and the kid rushed over to him, pale as raw newsprint.
“Alan, can we get a helicopter? And a photographer? I mean, right now?”
“Why?”
The kid told him.
His coffee sloshed onto the tile floor as he ran to his phone.
*
Judge Raymond R. Lamont was having a most pleasant dream about his mistress when he heard a thundering noise. Light, bright light, blasted against his closed eyelids. His wife, Corrine, was punching his back and yelling something.
His eyes opened to an incomprehensible scene. Outside his window, in midair, hung a large, dazzling light, accompanied by a deafening, thumping roar. He squinted and blinked.
“Ray! Wake up, dammit!” she was shrieking. “What in God’s name is happening?”
Lamont was not easily shaken, but he was now. He threw off the covers and swung his bare feet to the floor. “Stay here!” he shouted to her.
He moved to the side, out of the blinding beam pouring into the room, then huddled against the wall beside the window. Trembling, he peeked around the curtain and looked outside.
Then sank to his knees.
“Ray! What is it?”
He couldn’t speak. He heard her hurried footsteps padding toward him.
Then her screams, her nails digging into his shoulder, as she too saw the madness just sixty feet away.
A helicopter hovering low, a powerful spotlight aimed at their flagpole.
A man’s body dangling from the pole, right at his eye level, spinning crazily in the propeller wash…
EIGHTEEN
Falls Church, Virginia
Saturday, September 20, 9:35 a.m.
When she opened her door to him this time, she wore a chestnut-suede jacket over a cream-color sweater, snug brown slacks, and brown suede boots. She carried a garment bag and a look of mischief in her eyes.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. She grinned and shoved the garment bag at him. “Me too. But if we expect to see any wineries today, we’d better get going.”
“Sadist,” he said, taking the bag. She also handed him an “accessory bag.” That’s what she called it. He suppressed a smile. Where he came from, they were called “overnight bags.”
He helped her into the Forester, then hung her garment bag in the back, against his. As he settled into the driver’s seat, he recalled the late-night phone conversation of almost a week before, when he’d invited her to spend this entire day with him, to culminate with dinner at a famous five-star inn. “You’ll have to bring along some dress-up clothes for the evening,” he’d told her.
She had not asked where she would change and get ready for dinner; nor did she ask when they might return. The unspoken questions and the implied answers filled a long silence before she said: “It sounds wonderful.”
The unspoken hung between them now, during the quiet moments. He drove onto Route 66 and headed west. He had a jazz station playing quietly and asked if she’d prefer something different, but she smiled and said it was fine.
It was well over an hour’s drive to the first of the wineries scattered along the Shenandoah Valley. During the ride, she wanted to know about the fallout from the latest killing.
“That judge up in P.G. County has taken an indefinite leave of absence and gone into seclusion with his wife someplace out of state,” he answered.
“I heard on the news that several of the criminals you profiled have vanished. Apparently, they don’t want to be next.”
“Good thinking.”
“So, Dylan Hunter, ace investigative reporter: How does it feel to be provoking all this uproar?”
He shrugged. “I have mixed feelings, Annie. I’m not weeping about what happened to those criminals. On the other hand, for an investigative reporter, it’s best to maintain a low profile. But the people doing these killings-they’re making that impossible for me now.”
“You say ‘people.’ Do you think it’s some kind of organized group?”
“That’s what the cops think. They told my editor that, given the quote sophistication unquote of the crimes-especially the latest one in Bowie-it has to be a team. Apparently, a variety of weapons are being used, and different vehicles, too. They think th
at it would take several people to conduct all the surveillance, planning, logistics, and do the killings, too.”
“Do they have suspects?”
“Not yet. But the theatrics with the flagpole raised this to a whole new level. I understand they’ve called in FBI profilers to come up with a psychological portrait of the perps. Since the shootings have taken place across several jurisdictions, they’ve also set up a joint task force. Perhaps by pooling their resources and information, they’ll get somewhere.”
“How’s the management at the Inquirer reacting to all this? Are you in trouble?”
He shook his head. “At first, the publisher was upset. He was fielding calls from prosecutors, mayors, even police chiefs urging him to shut me up. They told him I’m inciting people to take the law into their own hands. Fortunately, though, he answers to shareholders and readers, not to public officials. And our shareholders and readers love all this. Circulation is up over twenty-five percent during the past couple of weeks. So, our dear publisher has suddenly become a champion of my First Amendment rights.”
She chuckled. “How noble of him. Think he’ll give you a raise?”
“I’m not doing this for the money.”
“I know, Dylan.”
*
They talked about music, wine, the Smithsonian museums, travel. She spoke of a week-long trip she’d taken to western Ireland. About the “fairy trees” and an old Irish storyteller; about a vast region of bare limestone known as “the Burren”; about the spectacular Cliffs of Mohar and the rugged, rock-strewn islands off the coast.
When she asked where he’d traveled, he chose to tell her of a trip ten years earlier through Switzerland, when he’d stayed in the small town of Meiringen. “That’s the place Arthur Conan Doyle chose for Sherlock’s fight to the death with his arch-enemy, Dr. Moriarty,” he explained. He described the majestic Reichenbach Falls, where Doyle’s embattled fictional antagonists supposedly plunged to their deaths. How the locals had turned the tale into a tourism bonanza, painting a white cross on the cliff to mark the spot, and opening a Sherlock Holmes museum in the basement of a quaint little church.
“Do you like to take cruises?” she asked. “I love them.”
“I’ve never done that,” he said. “But I might try it out with an experienced guide.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile.
The Shenandoah Valley, Virginia
Saturday, September 20, 11:10 a.m.
The first winery was a two-story wooden structure that looked like a lodge, atop a hill covered with vineyards. They went inside to the counter for a tasting. Agreeing on the merits of a Cab-Merlot blend, he bought a couple of glasses plus some French bread, cheese, and cold cuts, and they went outside to picnic on the courtyard patio.
The breeze was chilly. Gray clouds that threatened rain drifted over the distant Blue Ridge chain. Near their little table, bees darted around a trellis interwoven with flowering vines, and water tumbled over the lips of a fountain. They ate, drank, and struggled to keep straight faces at each other’s jokes.
They visited another winery during the following hour and, after more sampling, bought several bottles. This one had a second-floor balcony overlooking a large willow and a duck pond. They took glasses of Syrah out there and sipped as dark clouds rolled in.
“Looks like the weather isn’t going to cooperate,” he said. “Perhaps we should head to the inn for an early dinner.”
A beat passed. “That’s probably a good idea.”
They drove down winding country roads, past pastures and small cattle herds, outrunning the rain until they reached the village. He pulled into a sprawling Colonial-style complex. The main inn and restaurant were surrounded by several charming cottages and outbuildings.
He took her hand as she emerged from the car. Held it as they headed up the wide steps and into the lobby. She veered off to explore the ornate decor while he made arrangements at the front desk.
He approached behind her as she examined an antique curio cabinet. Placed a hand on her shoulder. “I made early dinner reservations. So that we can watch the rain while it’s still light outside.”
“That’s good.” She didn’t look at him.
“We have about an hour. Perhaps you’d like to get ready.”
“All right.”
Her shyness both amused and touched him. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back to the car. He drove the short distance to a small outbuilding. The two-story cottage was painted deep red with cheerful yellow shutters and was dominated by a broad field-stone chimney. The entrance was through a small outdoor dining pavilion adorned with wicker furniture and hanging plants.
The first scattered drops of rain greeted them as he helped her from the car. He held out the room key, smiling. “Why don’t you go on in and explore, while I bring our things.”
“Okay.”
She went ahead. He gathered up their bags and the wine they’d bought. When he entered, she was standing in the middle of the living room, her back to him, facing the gray stone fireplace. The staff had already prepared a cheerful fire for their arrival.
He set down the items, keeping his distance. She didn’t face him.
“I know, Annie. I’m a little scared too.”
“I’m more than a little scared.”
“That’s all right. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready. I’ll use the bathroom down here.”
She turned to him. She looked small and vulnerable. “It’s so beautiful, Dylan. It’s perfect.”
“It is now that we’re here.”
*
The inn’s five-star restaurant was renowned for its spectacular cuisine and service. All tables were filled for the Saturday night, and Hunter felt fortunate to have reserved an isolated one for two. Carved oak wainscoting embraced their corner table; a fringed silk shade muted the overhead lamp; thick, coffee-colored drapery, drawn back with golden rope ties, highlighted the window beside them. Outside, the lawn rolled away to a distant grove of trees almost hidden in the misting rain.
Her head was turned toward the window, taking in the magical scenery. She wore a sleeveless red taffeta dress, cut low, slit to mid-thigh. A black velvet sash fell at an angle across her narrow waist; she had matched it with teardrop earrings of black tourmaline and a black velvet choker.
They feasted on lamb carpaccio, cold pear soup, filet of halibut, and braised veal. The wine pairings were superb, and by the second glass, she began to relax. Laughing and gazing into each other’s eyes, they fed each other morsels from their plates and talked about things that he knew he would never later recall. By the time the dessert sampler arrived, he had slid his chair around the table to be next to hers.
He treated her to a spoonful of rum-flavored creme brulee; it left a small dab on her lower lip.
“Miss, I’m afraid you’ve got some dessert on that mouth,” he said, leaning close.
“Do I, now.” She greeted his lips with hers.
*
They walked hand in hand under a broad hotel umbrella to their cottage. His hand shook a little as he inserted the key in the lock.
Then they were inside. He kept his eyes on her as his hand sought the switch to turn out the lights.
The burning coals in the fireplace were the only illumination. They had made the room hot. She stood unmoving, her back to him, a curving silhouette against the glowing rectangle.
He reached around from behind her and undid the clasp at her throat that held her short fur jacket. It slid to the floor; he left his palm moving over her breasts. Intoxicated by her scent, he leaned down and his lips traced the curve of her bare shoulder to the back of her neck with light kisses. She drew in a sharp breath and he felt her shiver. Still behind her, he pulled her head around and met her open mouth.
Then she was crushed against him, her breasts squeezed to his chest, her hands pushing the jacket of his tux from his shoulders. He let it fall. One hand under her, his other tight around
her back, he lifted her against his body. In response, she hooked a leg around him. Somehow he carried her that way up the stairs, to the waiting canopy bed.
*
Annie did not know how many times they made love that night. It was beyond her experience, beyond even her fantasies. She could not believe his insatiability, or her own. It had begun as desire, runaway desire. But it descended into ruthless need-then into sheer savagery, into a dark place where pain and pleasure lost any distinction.
A place where there no longer was any distinction between the two of them.
Somewhere in the night, hours later, as they once again lay gasping and trembling, as she stroked the head of thick tangled hair lying heavily on her breasts, she knew that their passion at last was spent. She was beyond exhaustion; she was in physical pain from their excesses. She felt his warm breath against her belly, his big hand resting on her thigh. His breath slowed. She smiled. He was finally falling asleep.
Then he stirred. Raised his head, looked at her. In the dying light of the fire, his eyes seemed to be blazing coals, too.
He slid up her body, resting his face on the pillow next to hers. His hands moved up and down her skin, owning her. She shivered under his touch.
“My God, Dylan, I can’t. Not again.” She moved his hand away. “No!”
He grabbed the back of her hair. Pressed his lips into light contact with hers. His eyes, so close, bore into hers.
“You listen to me, Annie Woods. The one word that’s forbidden when we’re in bed is ‘no.’”
She felt the power in his arms, in the thighs against hers. Impossibly, she found herself stirring once again.
“Tell me something, Annie Woods,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “Is there anything you’ve ever imagined doing in bed with a man, that you’ve never gotten around to doing?”
She swallowed, felt her lips part against his.
“Yes.”
*
He heard the phone purring. He opened his eyes, finding himself entangled with her. Then hers blinked open, too. She looked at him and smiled, said “mmmmm,” then closed them once more.
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