by Warren Adler
“Meez FitzGerald,” someone said from behind her. It was Remington’s Spanish maid. “You come.”
She followed her up the winding staircase to a small paneled study. Remington sat at an antique desk and held a telephone. He was smiling broadly, red puffs rouging his cheeks.
“You tell her,” he said into the phone, handing her the instrument.
“I did it.” It was Bruce. In the background she heard shouting and music. He was screaming into the phone. “We creamed the bitch.”
“Wonderful, Bruce.” She was surprised at her lack of elation.
“You can’t ever give up in this business,” he shouted. He lowered his voice. “You love me?”
“I told you.” Again, she found herself strangely evasive.
“I’ll be home tomorrow. We’re going to celebrate. And Fi. I want you to kiss that son-of-a-bitch Remington for me. A real deep one. We owe him. Got to go. Love me.” She heard the click and replaced the instrument in its cradle. Remington was watching her, his face still flushed. She stood up and moved toward him. Fiona always does her duty, she thought.
“He says I should give you a kiss.”
He opened his arms and drew her in, pressing his lips against hers, forcing her mouth open. His urgency startled her and she felt his body press against her, his hardness clearly defined. My God, she thought, struggling against him. He held her in an unbreakable grip. Suddenly she sensed something that made her go limp for a moment. Some odd similarity to Bruce. She sniffed. Was that it, she wondered, the smell of them? Finally, he released her. He was panting and beads of moisture sprouted on his forehead.
“It was only supposed to be a kiss,” she said, when she had recovered her breath.
Would it have mattered to Bruce if she had gone further? She walked out of the room. Never, she thought. The man repelled her.
17
THE fact that November 22 fell on a Saturday was another sure sign of the rightness of his mission. It was a force of gravity, relentless, irrevocable.
Mrs. Ramirez left for the weekend on Friday night. Before she had gone she made him a dinner of cold salmon and fresh fruit and uncorked a bottle of white wine.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “No need to wait around. I’ll eat later.”
She looked at him with her shrewd eyes, shrugged, and soon he heard the front door close behind her. It begins, he told himself, feeling the latent exhilaration. Hadn’t he set impossible goals for himself? Rosen’s chances were almost nil when he came to his rescue. And hadn’t the first two “events” left him completely unscarred by suspicion? Such things meant something. They were signposts, urging him forward.
There were still many obstacles ahead. But he did not dwell on them. Everything would happen in due course. First one revelation. Then another. The cosmic eye was clever, its judgment infallible.
In the garage, he climbed up the ladder to a spot near the rafters where he had hidden the Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5. It lay in its grease-filled oilskin sack, a blanket wrapped around it. It had not been disturbed for five years. He had bought it from a secondhand dealer in Boston, not yet knowing the full implications of his purchase. How could he know that a sure hand was guiding him, even then?
Cradling the gun lovingly, he brought it up to his bedroom, along with a pile of rags. He stripped down to his shorts, spread papers on the floor and slipped the greased rifle out of its oilskin sheaf. For the next hour he rubbed it clean, dismantled it, then reassembled it. All its mechanisms worked perfectly. From a box of bullets, also wrapped in the blanket, he took out three cartridges and balanced them next to the silver comb and brush set on his dresser. Then he burned all the excess rags and newspapers in the fireplace, setting aside the oilskin sheath and the blanket for future use. All his weapons had been scrupulously preserved. Someday they would be permanently displayed, complete with descriptions recounting how he had used them.
Back in the bedroom, he attached a Japanese-made telescopic sight, and tested the effectiveness by pointing it at his neighbor’s house. A light was on, and he adjusted the scope to catch a remarkable view of a television screen. He pulled the trigger, heard the click, certain the bullet would have gone dead center into the set.
Then he posed naked with the gun in the myriad of mirrors. He felt like an ancient warrior with a modern weapon. He pointed the gun at his image and pulled the trigger. Moving it waist-high, he pulled it again, then lowered it, the flat of the stock against his erection. He pulled it again and again. He jumped on the bed, rifle in firing position, his erection rubbing against the smooth stock. Again and again he pulled the trigger.
After a while, he picked up the telephone, asked for information and got the number of the Russian Embassy.
“I want Marina,” he said to the embassy operator. He was barely able to control his laughter.
“Who?”
“Marina,” he repeated. Then he hung up and dialed the Cuban Mission.
“This is A. H. Hiddel,” he said.
“Who?” said a Spanish-accented voice.
“A. H. Hiddel,” he shouted into the phone, repeating the name until the voice at the other end hung up. Surely the cosmic force would not deny him these sly little joys. He could not remember when he had been so happy.
“Look at me, mama,” he shouted at his image in the mirror. He held the gun in one hand and his erection in the other. “See me, mama. I know you can see me through that mirror. Your little boy. Watch it come out.” He moved closer to the mirror and, hand working feverishly, ejaculated on its surface. “Watch it, mama. See it, mama.”
He calmed down slowly. His heartbeat decelerated, his breathing normalized. He slipped between the sheets of his bed, put the gun beside him and wrapped his legs around it. The metal barrel began to warm. He grew drowsy and soon fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
Waking up, he was instantly alert. He shaved, took a hot shower, toweled himself dry and traced the name, O. H. Lee, in the mist of the mirror.
Unzipping a garment bag, he removed brown chino pants, a T-shirt and a blue reversible jacket. How long had they been hanging there? He was not certain. He had little memory of time. From the dresser drawer he withdrew a small container and took out $13.87. He counted out the change carefully, making sure of the amount. It was all there, as he had left it.
He taped the gun to his flank; it was awkward, but necessary. He drew on his pants and tested his walk, then checked his appearance in the mirrors. His left leg had stiffened but he could bend his right leg at the knee, which would enable him to drive. He took the three bullets, still balanced on top of the dresser, and put them in his pants pocket. Then, he drew out a pair of gloves and placed them in the pocket of his blue jacket.
He limped down the stairs, made himself a mug of instant coffee, and drank it quickly. From the closet where he had stored the other weapons he took a .38 Smith and Wesson Victory revolver with a sawed-off barrel, checked to be sure it was fully loaded, then stuck it in his belt.
It was impossible to drive the Volkswagen with his stiffened left leg; he had to take the Bentley, which he maneuvered smoothly out of the garage. He was calm, fully alert. He felt no sense of danger or anxiety. Because it was Saturday, the traffic was light on Connecticut Avenue. Yet he deliberately drove slowly. He had plenty of time. The car swept past the Mint, below an underpass, then swung into the Southwest Freeway.
The plan was like a precircuited matrix in his mind and he drove ahead without the slightest hesitation. He took the exit marked “U.S. Capitol,” then turned right and moved the car into the front parking rim of the Jefferson Building at the Library of Congress. He had no permit, nor did the question of tempting fate give him the slightest sense of insecurity. Besides, it was Saturday and most of the staff was off. The force would provide.
A black guard paid little attention as he signed his name at the door. A. H. Hiddell. It was all routine. No ID required. He smiled pleasantly.
He limped up the staircase
to his left. He had been through the Library of Congress only once before, a tour by the chief librarian, who had been a guest at his house. He remembered having suffered through the entire tour. The chief librarian relished every moment of it, explaining, lecturing, citing the library’s eminent history. His only interest was to find the way to an upper window.
Now he moved up the stairs, gripping the banister, to the top floor, limping through the corridors. He opened a door, discovered a small alcove office with one window overlooking First Street, which he had remembered from his tour. Across the park he could see the Capitol rotunda, looking like molded ice on this cloudy day. The Capitol parking lot was only half filled.
Locking the office door from the inside, he untaped the rifle. Then, pointing the gun in the direction of the Capitol, he looked through the telescopic sight. He stroked the trigger, listened as the mechanism moved in perfect sync. Satisfied, he lay the rifle against the wall and opened the window.
He looked at his watch. It was 12:15. Still fifteen minutes to go. He inserted the three bullets in the rifle, put on his gloves and knelt in front of the window, the rifle butt down on the floor beside him. His mind was clear, his thoughts calm. Lee, inside of him, was surely watching with approval, equally calm and self-assured. Anxieties had disappeared. How wonderful to have been chosen, he thought, grateful, humbled.
At the proper time, he knew that his mind would register the hubbub, the cacophony of noise, the hum of motorcycles, as the motorcade moved ceremoniously through the streets, bearing the Golden God. He waited, listened. His body tensed, the adrenalin charging, Lee’s voice calmly commanding. Steady, the voice said, as he looked again at his watch.
It was 12:25. Slowly he lifted the gun into the window, the barrel steadied against the sill. He placed his chin against the stock, knowing that in a few minutes the god would flash across the scope, the person meant to be sacrificed, the necessary symbol. I will be worthy, Lee, he whispered. We are the chosen ones. We must obey the command.
Time froze. Visions burst in his mind, like the pieces of a broken mirror suddenly made whole again. He saw his mother’s face, watching him in the mirror of time.
“It is your destiny, son,” he heard. “Your divine destiny. I can feel it.” He was touched with her gentle truth. She held him in her arms. Them. Lee and him. As she had also embraced the others. Soon she would also embrace John, sweet handsome John.
He squinted down the barrel. His finger tensed. The moment was coming. He could hear the sounds, the motorcade. A car moved slowly. An open window, a man’s elbow leaning out. Beside him, a woman’s smiling profile. Sandy hair. A sure sign. It was him. Guide me, Lee, he cried, and steadied the gun, the scope searching for the spot behind the ear. Then it was there, frozen. The car seemed to stop, inviting him to act. Rifle tightly braced against the sill, he squeezed the trigger. The man slumped. He squeezed again, and the man jerked sideways. He could see the woman lean over and he pulled the trigger one more time. Then silence.
Working swiftly, he retaped the rifle to his flank. He had intended to recover the spent cartridges but he could not bend properly; he had to leave them there. Wasn’t that meant to be, as well? He opened the office door and moved down the corridor, his hand groping for the pistol in his belt. There was one more thing he had to do—Lee would remind him that the act had an encore. He dared not incur Lee’s wrath.
He moved down the stairs with surprising ease, slowing as he reached the lobby. A few people milled about, looking at the exhibits. Pausing before the guard, he nodded and smiled. The guard’s eyes, however, were busy elsewhere, watching some activity occurring across the street.
“What is it?” Remington asked.
“An accident.”
“I thought I heard something,” he said.
“Backfire probably,” the guard shrugged.
He heard a siren in the distance. He retrieved his Bentley from the parking lot and drove it into First Street. Police cars began to gather. The traffic slowed, and a policeman got out of his car to direct traffic. That one? He gripped the pistol. No. He turned into the Southwest Freeway, put the pistol in his lap and turned off on Twelfth Street, heading northwest. He looked at his watch. It was nearly one.
He parked the car in an alley just below Thomas Circle, untaped the gun, placed it on the floor behind the front seat and began walking north, crossing the circle, passing in front of the International Hotel. He held the revolver in the side pocket of his jacket, his eyes searching the semi-deserted streets. Few pedestrians were visible. Suddenly he saw the blue uniform walking away from him east on N Street, lumbering along aimlessly.
He walked quickly, hearing only the tap of his shoes along the pavement. He caught up with the figure, a big man. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 1:15. The policeman had nearly reached the intersection. A few cars passed. An old woman carrying a paper bag was coming toward them.
“Officer!” He was surprised at the sound of his voice. The policeman turned. A black face. He was momentarily startled, but it was too late. He saw the man’s mouth open in a vague response. Drawing his gun, he pumped four shots in the vicinity of the man’s heart.
“Poor dumb cop,” he said, or heard himself say, knowing now it was not his voice.
He did not run. There was nothing to fear. Slowly he walked south. He saw a movie marquee, a string of lights, shining brightly, beckoning. Soon he was standing in front of the ticket seller.
“One,” he said, holding up a finger. From his roll he peeled off five ones and entered the darkened theater. A porno film was playing. The slithering bodies, the strange gyrations on the screen hardly aroused him, and he watched them blankly for more than an hour. Men came and went, shadowy figures, concentrating on the action on the screen. Finally, he got up and left.
The Bentley was exactly where he had left it. Before he got in, he checked the rifle on the rear floor.
I am invulnerable, Lee, he whispered after he had settled into the car. He headed south again. He made a right turn on K Street, then right again on Connecticut Avenue.
“Three done. One to go,” he said, regarding himself in the mirror. His eyes. It was his voice now. Waiting, he knew her answer would come.
“You can do anything you want to do, Tad.”
He felt her presence in the car. The warmth of her aura gushed through him. He pulled into a side street, cut the motor and, overcome with an ecstatic happiness he had never known, cried tears of joy.
18
JEFFERSON sat beside her, silent and morose. She had sensed the welling of emotion in him at the church and she had deliberately taken the wheel for the slow ride to Arlington Cemetery. Officer Temple had served with Jefferson in Vietnam and his senseless murder had moved him to a rare show of feeling. He had actually cried in church; the incongruity with his usual macho bluster tore the mask off his vulnerability. The Department had determined to make a big show in Arlington Cemetery to underscore Temple’s service to his country and the community. The killing of a cop always united the disparate elements of the police fraternity. Intrigue and politics were suspended. All infighting was postponed. The family had been attacked.
Fiona felt it too. Hadn’t the same thing happened to Old Fitz, her grandfather? Officer Temple had been a ten-year veteran with a family of five. Not a world beater, his record was, nevertheless, a good one, achieving sudden new heights by this brutal killing. Temple’s wife worked as a secretary in the Census Bureau and he moonlighted as a cabdriver, sometimes going with less than four hours sleep. It was a not uncommon occurrence. There was quiet heroism in that.
The newspaper stories made much of his selflessness, his family life, with a self-conscious determination to create a hero out of the black cop. Representatives of police departments from as far west as Chicago were in the funeral procession.
“Damn,” Jefferson said beside her, wiping his tears, “the poor bastard. Another dead nigger.”
“What the hell has that got to do w
ith it?”
“Everything,” he muttered. She let it pass. For some reason, she thought of the other man who had also died that day. She wondered whether there was an outpouring of grief for him, at that other funeral in a Methodist church in Prince George’s County. A white man also struck down by an unknown killer. Probably only a handful of relatives were present, bewildered by the popping flashes, the strangers in attendance, their eyes watchful and suspicious. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to connect the killings. And yet . . . she shrugged away the possibility.
The dead white man was a used car salesman. He was, according to the woman customer with him, taking the Chevy Impala in which he was killed on a test drive. She had insisted, she told the police, that he drive a minimum of twenty-five miles and he had come all the way down from Lanham, driving around Capitol Hill in aimless patterns to show her how the car handled in city traffic. The only common thread of the killings was the fact that both men seemed to have no compelling reason to have been wasted.
Fiona had read the woman’s verbatim statement. Her dress was splattered with blood, a detail noted in parentheses. She was a waitress with a salty tongue, reddish hair, blousy, cynical, wary, much used and abused. “I was driving,” she told them. “But the car was a piece of shit inside. They had made it all shiny and new-smelling and I told him to drive the damn thing himself once we got into the city. He had just taken the wheel and was saying: ‘See . . . smooth.’ He was going slow, just rolling. It wasn’t smooth. No way. And the brakes were too tight. I also didn’t believe it only had fifty thousand miles on it. That was bullshit, too.” They had grilled her. She was a hard broad and despite the horror, the humor trivialized it. USED CAR SALESMAN KILLED BY SNIPER the headlines read in the Post, as if the headline writer, immune to the endless saga of news terror, could not resist the absurdity.
