Rutledge had said that when the shooter told her never to text and drive, his voice had been very loud, as if he were talking through a loudspeaker on the motorcycle.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said, getting into the passenger side. “Highway patrolmen use those kinds of built-in bullhorns, but I’m pretty sure you can get them for just about any touring motorcycle these days.”
“Well, whoever he is and whatever modifications he’s made to his motorcycle, he’s killing people for traffic violations,” Sampson said as he started the car. “Three were speeding. And that girl last week, I’ll bet she was texting too.”
“Possible,” I agreed. “All of a sudden, though, I’m starving.”
“All of a sudden, me too.”
We drove west toward Willow Grove, and I caught sight of something shiny in the sky far away.
“There’s those blimps again,” I said. “What the hell are those things for?”
“One of the great mysteries of life,” Sampson said, pulling into the Brick House Tavern and Tap for lunch. I brought a road map into the tavern with me, and after ordering a chicken salad sandwich with kettle-fried potato chips, I used a pen to note where the five shootings had occurred and when.
The first was west of Fredericksburg, Virginia, months ago. The second was in southern Pennsylvania a few weeks later. Rock Creek Park was two weeks ago. Southwest of Millersville, Maryland, four days later. Willow Grove, three days ago.
“His time between attacks is shrinking fast,” I said, drawing a circle. “He could kill anytime now, and he likes it here, in this general area. He feels comfortable hunting from DC east.”
The waitress brought our food. Sampson took the map and bit into a tuna melt while looking it over.
After a few minutes, he laughed, shook his head, and said, “It was staring us right in the face, and we were too close to see it.”
I swallowed a gulp of Coke and said, “See what?”
He turned the map for me, picked up my pen, and traced short lines from each of the crash scenes to Denton, Maryland. The Rutledge scene was closest, no more than twenty miles away. The tavern we were eating in was closer still.
A half an hour later, as we drove down a dirt road south of Willow Grove, Sampson said, “I don’t think popping in again to say hi is the smart way to go.”
“Surprise is always good, though,” I said.
“Unless you’re surprising a lunatic-in-the-grass world-class sniper with a chip on his shoulder,” Sampson said.
“If we see orange flags, we’ll turn around.”
“How about we call in first?”
We rounded a curve onto a straightaway about three hundred yards long, and our options narrowed. The gate to Nicholas Condon’s farm was at the end of the straight, and it appeared to be opening, swinging out toward the road.
We were about one hundred and fifty feet from the gate when a Harley-Davidson appeared from the farm lane. Even though the rider wore dark leathers, a helmet, and goggles, I could tell by the beard that it was Condon.
He looked left toward us. Maybe his mercenary instincts kicked in, I don’t know, but the sniper saw something he didn’t like, popped the clutch, and buried the throttle. His back tire spun on the hard gravel, sliding side to side and throwing up a cloud of thick dust that curtained off the road behind him.
“Crazy sonofabitch,” Sampson said, and he stomped on the gas.
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STONES AND GRAVEL hit the squad-car windshield and we had to slow down for fear of crashing. Luckily the dirt road soon met asphalt at County Road 384. By the loose soil his tires had shed on the road, we knew Condon had headed north. Sampson accelerated after him.
“Stay near the speed limit,” I said. “We have no jurisdiction here.”
“I don’t think Condon cares.”
“I imagine he doesn’t, but—there he is.”
The sniper was weaving through the light traffic ahead and headed toward a stoplight at the intersection with Maryland Route 404. It turned red and Condon stopped, first in line. We were four cars behind him when I jumped out and started running toward him.
Condon looked over his shoulder, saw me coming two cars back, waved, and then goosed the accelerator on the Harley a split second before the light turned green again. He squealed out onto 404 heading west.
Sampson slowed as he came past and I jumped in.
“I’ve got to run more,” I said, gasping, as the squad car swung after Condon.
“We all do,” Sampson said. “Desk jockeys can’t move.”
Traffic heading east was heavier, but Condon was driving the Harley like a professional, roaring out and passing cars whenever he got the chance as we tried to follow him through Hillsboro and Queen Anne.
He was ten cars ahead of us when he took the ramp onto U.S. 50, a four-lane. He seemed fully aware of us, and every time we’d close the gap he’d make some crazy-ass move and put more space between us.
Condon got off at the 301, heading west again across the bay bridge. We lost him for a minute but then spotted him getting off the exit to 450 South toward the Severn River. Ahead of us entering Annapolis, he cruised down the middle of the street while we sat stalled in traffic. But by opening the door and standing up on the car frame, I was able to see him take a left on Decatur Avenue. Three minutes passed until we could do the same.
“He’s heading toward the Naval Academy,” Sampson said. “It’s straight ahead there.”
“Academy alumnus,” I said. “He’s going home.”
“Yeah, but where, exactly?”
I scanned the street, looking for Condon or his Harley. I wasn’t spotting—
“Got him,” Sampson said, pointing into a triangular parking lot at the corner of Decatur and McNair, right next to College Creek. “That’s his ride, sitting there with the other motorcycles.”
We pulled into the lot. A Marine Corps officer was just getting onto his bike, a midnight-blue Honda Blackbird with a partial windshield. We stopped beside him. I got out.
“Excuse me?” I said.
The officer turned, helmet in hand. He appeared to be in his late forties with the rugged build of a lifelong member of the Corps. I glanced at the nameplate: Colonel Jeb Whitaker.
“Colonel Whitaker, I’m Detective Alex Cross with DC Metro.”
“Yes?” he said, frowning and looking at my identification and badge. “How can I help?”
“Did you see the man on that Harley-Davidson come in?”
Colonel Whitaker blinked and then nodded in exasperation. “Nick Condon. What’s he done now beyond parking where he’s not supposed to again?”
“Nothing that we’re aware of,” Sampson said. “But he’s been avoiding having a conversation with us.”
“Regarding?”
“An investigation that we are not at liberty to talk about, sir,” I said.
The colonel thought about that. “This isn’t going to reflect badly on the Naval Academy, is it?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “What’s Condon to the academy these days?”
“He teaches shooting. On a contract basis, which means he’s supposed to park in a visitors’ lot, not here where you need an academy parking sticker.”
He gestured to a light blue sticker with an anchor and rope on it stuck to the lower right corner of his windshield.
“So we can’t park here?”
Whitaker said, “I suppose if you put something on the dash that said Police, you could get around it.”
I glanced at Sampson, who shrugged and pulled into a space.
“Where would we go to find Mr. Condon?” I asked.
“The indoor range?” Whitaker said, and he told me how to get there.
“Thank you, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Anytime, Detective Cross,” Whitaker said. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen you on the nightly news with those shootings of the drug dealers. Is this about that?
”
I smiled. “Again, Colonel, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Oh, right, of course,” Whitaker said. “Well, have a nice day, Detectives.”
The colonel put his helmet on and started to get on his bike, but then he stopped, patting at his pockets.
“Forgot my keys again,” he said, hurrying by us. “You’d think someone who teaches military strategy could at least remember his keys.”
“Age happens to the best of us,” I said.
Whitaker waved his hand and trotted stiffly toward the heart of the Naval Academy. He’d disappeared from sight by the time we passed a sign saying god bless america and reached Radford Terrace, a lush, green quadrangle bustling with midshipmen and plebes during this, the first real week of classes.
“Stop,” Sampson said, and he gestured across Blake Road. “Isn’t that Condon right over there?”
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I CAUGHT A fleeting glimpse of the sniper before he slipped inside the Naval Academy’s chapel, an imposing limestone structure with a weathered copper dome. We hurried across the street and followed Condon in.
The interior of the chapel was spectacular, with a towering arched ceiling, balconies, and brilliant stained-glass windows depicting maritime themes. There were at least fifty people inside, some plebes, others tourists taking in the sights. We didn’t spot Condon until he crossed below the dome and went through a door to the far right of the altar.
Trying to stay quiet while rushing through the hush of a famous church is no mean feat, but we managed it and followed him through the door. We found ourselves on a stair landing. There was a closed door ahead of us, and steps that led down.
We figured the door led to the sacristy and went down the stairs. We wandered around the basement hallways, not finding Condon but seeing the tomb of Admiral John Paul Jones before returning to our last point of contact.
Back on the landing, I stood for a moment wondering where he could have gone, and then I heard Condon’s distinctive voice raised in anger on the other side of the sacristy door.
“But they’re following me now, Jim,” Condon said. “This is persecution.”
That was enough for me to rap at the door, push it open, and say, “We’re not persecuting anyone.”
Condon and a chaplain stood in a well-appointed room with plush purple carpet and a clean, stark orderliness. The sniper’s face twisted in anger.
The chaplain said, “What is this? Who are you?”
“Really, Dr. Cross?” Condon said, taking a step toward us with his gloved hands clenched into fists. “You’d follow me in here? I thought better of you.”
“We just wanted to talk,” Sampson said. “And you ran. So we followed.”
“I didn’t run,” he said. “I was late for a meeting with the chaplain.”
“You saw us and played cat and mouse,” I said, dubious.
“Maybe,” Condon said. “But that was just entertainment.”
“What’s this about?” the chaplain asked, exasperated.
“You his spiritual adviser?” Sampson asked.
They glanced at each other before the chaplain said, “It’s a little more complicated than that, Detective …?”
“John Sampson,” he said, showing him his badge and credentials.
“Alex Cross,” I said, showing mine.
“Captain Jim Healey,” the chaplain said.
“What’s complicated, Captain Healey?” I asked.
“This is none of their business, Jim,” Condon said.
The chaplain put his hand on the sniper’s arm and said, “I am Nicholas’s spiritual adviser. I was also the father of his late fiancée, Paula.”
I didn’t expect that; I lost some of my confidence and stammered, “I’m—I’m sorry for your loss, Captain. For both of your losses.”
“We meet to talk about Paula once a week,” the chaplain said, and he smiled faintly at Condon. “It’s good for us.”
For a second I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry to have interrupted,” I finally told him. “We just wanted to talk to him for a few moments, Captain.”
“About what?” Condon said, pugnacious again. “I already told you I didn’t have anything to do with those killings.”
“You actually never answered our questions about that, but this is about six motorists shot by a lone motorcyclist within an hour’s drive of your house.”
“One of them just up the road from your place,” Sampson said. “Beyond Willow Grove.”
The sniper shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You own a forty-five-caliber handgun?” I asked.
“Somewhere,” he said.
“Would you let us test it?”
“Hell no,” Condon said, and then he cocked his head. “Wait, you think I shot these people from my Harley? For what?”
“Breaking traffic laws,” Sampson said. “Speeding. Driving and texting.”
“This is insane, Jim,” the sniper said to the chaplain, throwing up his hands. “Every time a nutcase appears on the scene, they come after me. Even when a cursory glance at my medical record would show that I am not capable of shooting a forty-five-caliber handgun from a motorcycle going fast or slow.”
“What are you talking about?” Sampson asked.
Condon looked over at the chaplain and then pulled off his gloves, revealing that he wore wrist braces. He tore those off too, revealing scars across his wrists.
Captain Healey said, “Nick shattered both wrists in a training exercise when he was with SEAL Team 6. He can still shoot a rifle better than any man on earth, but his wrists and hands are too weak to shoot a pistol with any accuracy. It was what got him his medical discharge.”
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SAMPSON PULLED UP in front of my house just as the sun was setting.
“Don’t look so glum,” Sampson said. “We’ll come up with a new battle plan tomorrow.”
“I feel like we had preconceptions about Condon,” I said, opening the door. “He was the easy person to look to, so we did.”
“We had to look at him,” Sampson said. “It was our job.”
“But it wasn’t our job to insult a war hero and tarnish his reputation,” I said, climbing out.
“Did we do that?”
“In a roundabout way, yes.”
“Are we supposed to be dainty or something in a murder investigation?”
“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I just need food and some sleep before I try to learn something from today.”
“Me too, then. Best to the chief.”
“And to Billie,” I said and climbed up the porch steps.
When I went inside, I was blasted by the smell of curry and the sounds of home. Jannie was in the television room, her foot up and on ice.
“How’s it feel?”
“Like I could run on it,” she said.
“Don’t you dare. You heard the doctor.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But my legs are starting to ache from inactivity.”
“They said you can start pool therapy on Monday and the bike on Tuesday. In the meantime, stretch. Where is everyone?”
“Bree’s upstairs taking a shower,” she said. “Nana Mama’s in the kitchen with Ali. They’re working on a letter to Neil deGrasse Tyson.”
“He’s not going to give this up, is he?”
Jannie grinned. “He’s like someone else I know once he gets something going in his brain.”
“Ditto,” I said. I winked at her and went through the dining room to the new kitchen and great room we’d had put on the year before.
“God, it smells good in here,” I said, giving my grandmother a kiss as she stirred a simmering pot on the stove.
“Bangalore lamb,” she said, tapping her wooden spoon and replacing the lid. “A new recipe.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, and then I crossed to Ali. “How’s the letter coming?”
“It’s hard,” he said, head down, studying his iPad. “You really have to think about what you want to say, you know?”
“Keep at it,” I said, tousling his hair. “I have time for a shower?” I asked Nana Mama.
“Dinner’s on the table in exactly half an hour,” she said.
I hoofed it up the stairs, knocked twice on our bedroom door, and went in. Bree sat on the bed in her robe, studying a document on her lap. She didn’t look up until I was almost at her side.
“Hey,” she said softly and with some sadness.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Muller and I went to Howard’s storage unit to take a look through his things on behalf of his ex-wife and daughter. We found two envelopes and … here, draw your own conclusions.”
She held out the envelopes. “First one’s a will and an explanation of his investing theory.”
“Terry Howard had an investing theory?” I said, taking the documents.
“It’s all there,” she said, and she turned toward the closet. “Take five minutes to read, if that.”
I read the pages while she dressed. When I was done, I looked up. Bree had those sad eyes about her again.
“So I might be right,” I said.
“Looks that way,” she replied. “Which is why I’m beginning to think I am a pretty shitty chief of detectives.”
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BREE PUT HER hand to her mouth and tears welled in her eyes.
I got up off the bed fast and went to her. “You know that’s not true.”
“It is,” she choked out, coming into my arms. “I was playing politics when I said Howard was good for Tommy’s death, trying to clear a murder so I could get the chief and the mayor off my back.”
“Is that what you were doing?”
“Well, I definitely wasn’t making sure Tommy McGrath’s killer was caught.”
“Then the most you’re guilty of is being human,” I said, rubbing her back. “You were caught between a rock and a hard place, and Howard looked good for a suicide. The chief agreed.”
Cross the Line: (Alex Cross 24) Page 16
