The Liar's Lullaby

by Meg Gardiner

  “Multiple shots fired. Suspect is a white woman with long brown hair, wearing a black suit. Armed and extremely dangerous.”

  What?

  “I repeat, the suspect has fired indiscriminately at civilians.”

  Behind her, the stairwell door flew open. She heard breathing. She ran into the lobby. It was full of cops.

  “Hey!” she yelled.

  Before the officers could turn, before Jo could raise her hands in surrender, the Desert Eagle fired with a bass-clef roar.

  57

  THE LOBBY SPREAD OUT TO JO’S RIGHT, GLEAMING AND FULL OF echoes. And full of cops. They had guns. When they heard the blast of the Desert Eagle pistol, they crouched and threw themselves against the marble walls.

  Drew their weapons, aimed them at Jo, and shouted, “Freeze.”

  “No. No.”

  She heard the slide rack again on the giant pistol. The white-haired woman was in the hall behind her, coming, and the cops couldn’t see her.

  “On the ground,” the cops yelled. “Now, do it. Do it.”

  If she stopped, she’d die. “The shooter’s in the hall behind me!” Jo screamed.

  Ahead was a side door, an emergency exit. The giant pistol fired.

  The cops fired. Jo crashed through the door into the sunshine and kept running.

  Holy shit. The cops thought she was a bad guy. A bad guy, her, how the hell?

  She ran, hearing more gunfire inside. She didn’t dare look back. Look back and they’d shoot her, and this was how it happened—how undercover cops got shot by DEA agents, how Army Rangers ambushed their comrades by mistake and we brought home soldiers in caskets and called it friendly fire. She would explain later. She ran.

  She heard the emergency exit blow open behind her. She didn’t look back.

  GABE SCANNED THE street. He saw too many cops. Up the block, a black-and-white was stopped sideways in the street. A uniform was waving traffic toward a detour. Vehicles and pedestrians were being ushered away from Waymire & Fong’s building.

  He kept his right hand on the gearshift. This was pit-of-the-stomach bad. He looked at the building. The side doors. The emergency exit.

  And he saw Jo. She was running straight toward him. And she was being chased, only this time it wasn’t by a news team. There were cops behind her. Were they running from the building too? It didn’t make . . .

  “Oh, crap.”

  “Gabe, unlock the doors,” she yelled.

  He did. She leaped in.

  “Go,” she yelled.

  CHENNAULT WAS A hundred yards up the street, behind the wheel of the armored car, when he saw the cops storm the building. There must have been shooting. And then he saw a 4Runner pull out from a side alley and accelerate toward him up Sacramento.

  Black 4Runner. “I’ll be damned.”

  It was Beckett’s boyfriend, driving the SUV he’d seen on TV—the SUV whose license number he’d written down, for a time such as right damned now. He was a certified genius.

  The 4Runner raced past him. The boyfriend, the National Guard prick, was driving. Beckett was in the passenger seat, more or less, fighting to close the door, turned around backward, staring at the scene behind them.

  Chennault phoned 911.

  “I’m on Sacramento Street near the terrorist attack.” His voice quivered, panicky. “One of the terrorists jumped in an SUV and drove away—a woman with long brown hair, dressed in black. It’s a Toyota FourRunner with a Hispanic guy driving. Or maybe Middle Eastern.” He grinned. “Oh my God—they just hit a woman in the crosswalk. Ran her down . . . Jesus, she’s just lying there. And the woman is shooting at people.”

  The dispatcher asked him a question. He smiled like the god he was.

  “Yes, I got the license number.”

  He gave it to the dispatcher. Hung up and put the armored car in gear.

  THE 4RUNNER DRUMMED through traffic, swerving around cars and delivery trucks on the one-way street. Jo knelt backward on the front passenger seat. Through the rear window Waymire & Fong’s office building receded. She felt like she’d grabbed a lightning rod just before a bolt cracked from the clouds.

  Gabe kept the pedal down. “Any time.”

  Back at the Waymire building cops poured into the street. Cars started and their light bars lit up.

  “Get out of sight so I can phone the police,” she said.

  He cast a look in the mirror. The view was full of uniforms. “You seem to be missing an opportunity here.”

  “Head for Grace Cathedral.”

  “Jo.”

  “And give me your phone.”

  Grimly he slapped the phone into her hand. They barreled across an intersection. Sacramento steepened, traffic thinned, and the signs changed from English to Chinese. Jo turned and sat down.

  “Vienna’s law firm was attacked.” Her voice began a slide toward a cliff. She clenched her teeth to keep it from tumbling off. “There’s going to be an assassination attempt on the president.”

  Gabe hit the brakes, as hard as a wrecking ball. He spun the wheel and swerved left to the tree-lined curb.

  He turned and took Jo’s face in his hands. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “What do we need to do?”

  A revving engine drowned out his voice. Jo glanced in the wing mirror. An armored car loomed and filled it and kept coming.

  “Gabe—”

  The armored car sideswiped them, hard. It shoved the 4Runner into a row of bollards, crushing Jo’s door. The noise was horrendous. Glass shattered. Jo was flung against the dashboard.

  She bounced back against the passenger seat, stunned.

  Through the buckled windshield, she saw the armored car stopped in the street fifty yards ahead. Its backup lights came on, its wheels spun, and it reversed toward them.

  “Out,” Gabe shouted.

  He grabbed her arm, threw open his door, and pulled her across the gearshift to safety. Jo jumped out as the armored car screeched into the 4Runner and sliced off the wing mirror. It braked. Beneath a helmet and dark glasses, the driver’s boyish face looked mean. His left hand, encased in a blue cast, could barely grip the wheel.

  At the bottom of the hill, sirens and lights filled the road. For a moment Chennault glared at Jo. Then he put the armored car in gear and floored it up Sacramento. Jo glanced back at the orchestra of police sirens.

  “Run,” she told Gabe.

  They sprinted into the warren of streets that made up Chinatown.

  ACCELERATING, CHENNAULT WATCHED Beckett and Quintana vanish down an alley. He urged the Blue Eagle Security armored car up the street.

  Grace Cathedral sat on top of Nob Hill, across a park from the Fairmont Hotel. The view from its steps coasted over the Financial District, the deep waters of the bay, and the distant hills of the People’s Republic of Berkeley—which would soon be laid to waste. Who was going to defend Berkeley, the homeless and old hippies?

  Two blocks from the cathedral, police cars barricaded the intersection. A Filipino cop approached Chennault’s window.

  “Street’s closed.”

  “I’m late for a pickup at the Wells Fargo on Fillmore.”

  “You’ll have to find another route.”

  “Come on, man. Ten seconds and I’m straight across.”

  “Sorry. You can get through on Washington.”

  Chennault’s nerves flared. That was exactly the information he needed. And this little dandy dog ROW cop would soon regret his arrogance.

  He detoured toward Washington Street. He skirted the edges of the no-go zone, angling around the cathedral, until he found a parking spot. His chest swelled. Half a block away from Sacramento on a cross street, he had a beautiful view of the cathedral. He parked the rear end of the armored car facing the church.

  In the back of the truck, he changed from the Blue Eagle uniform into a dress shirt, jacket, and tie. He tucked his broken arm back in the sling, and his invitation to the memorial service in his pocket.
He was, after all, closer than family. He was Tasia’s ghost.

  JO AND GABE ran down a narrow street between redbrick buildings on one side, a chain-link fence and playground on the other. The concrete stung Jo’s bare feet.

  “Nobody knows Chennault’s behind this,” she said, “except me and K. T. Lewicki. And Lewicki . . .”

  Her voice caught. Again she saw him and the attacker plummet to their deaths.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Gabe said.

  “They won’t believe me.” She still had his phone. “Tang.”

  She slowed and stared at the phone, trying to remember the number. It wouldn’t come. Gabe took the phone from her shaky fingers. He scrolled through his phone book. Punched a number and handed the phone back.

  “Tang gave me her cell number a few months back. And I never delete a cop from my contacts.”

  Jo put the phone to her ear. Pick up. After four rings, she heard, “Tang.”

  “Amy, I need your help and I need it now.”

  She explained. She felt like a climber sliding down a rock face toward the fatal drop into a chasm. She was digging her fingers in, trying to arrest the fall.

  “Where are you?” Tang said.

  “Hang Ah Alley, near Sacramento.” She glanced back across at the steep hillside and saw an ornate, red-tiled Chinese gate. “Near the YMCA.”

  “I’ll find out what’s going on and call you back,” Tang said.

  “Amy, I ran from the cops. They think I’m one of the bad guys. They drew on me. I made tracks like hell.”

  “I’ll call them off.”

  “This attack isn’t a surgical strike. These people think they’re the vanguard of a revolution. They want to spill blood. They want major damage.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Tang said.

  “Don’t look for a highly disciplined sniper. I think Chennault is more likely to launch a brute force assault. And he won’t care who gets killed, as long as it includes the president.”

  “I’ll meet you outside the cathedral,” Tang said. “I’m in Chinatown. I’ll be right there.”

  Jo said good-bye, and kept running. They passed bright awnings, tight Chinese script, and stores where silk dresses lent an aura of glory, of past empires. They ran by elderly Chinese San Franciscans in Reeboks, chinos, and Giants sweatshirts. When they came out on Clay Street, pedestrians eyed them with more-than-idle curiosity. Jo’s suit was filthy, covered with dust and teak splinters. Her hair was snarled. Her bare feet slapped the hot sidewalk. She winced against grit on the concrete.

  Without warning, Gabe veered into a corner shop. “Keep going. I’ll catch up.”

  Winded, Jo ran. Two minutes later, he caught up and shoved a cheap pair of ballet shoes into her hands. They were lime green with orange plastic daisies, ugly-ass, and brilliant. She jammed her feet into them.

  “Thank you.”

  A police car roared over the lip of Nob Hill toward them, lights whirling. They ducked into an alley. Jo leaned back against a brick wall. The car raced past.

  She tried to catch her breath. “They think I’m a killer. A president-hunting killer. And now they think you’re in it with me. Jesus God.” Her voice skipped. “If they take us down, they’ll never believe my story in time.”

  “Then let’s hope Tang can call off the hounds. She’s the only one who can protect us.”

  The street was clear. They ran uphill, breathing hard.

  “Jo, we’re running toward the president. How’s that going to look?”

  She didn’t answer. They reached the top of the hill and saw the Gothic towers and rose window of Grace Cathedral.

  58

  IN FRONT OF GRACE CATHEDRAL, HUNTINGTON PARK WAS BLOCKED off by police. Barricades were set up around the gray stone, fake- Notre Dame façade of the church. Police were checking everybody who sought to get inside the cordon. Chennault adopted a pleasant face, laced with sadness, and walked toward the entry checkpoint.

  A mob had gathered, thousands of sheeple. Ahead, he saw tables set up where guests going into the church were placing their purses and coats for search. At the top of the cathedral steps, near the doors, the Secret Service was checking invitations.

  Distrustful black shirts, turning the nation into a police state. His blood frothed.

  He had to decide where to make his stand. He had little time. News of the attack on Waymire & Fong was bound to reach the Secret Service, and when they learned that a White House apparatchik had been there, they would yank the president out of the church behind a bristle of automatic weapons.

  Reverent and eager, he pushed through the crowd toward the barricade.

  JO AND GABE emerged onto the plaza in front of the Fairmont. Behind barricades, a thick crowd had gathered around the perimeter of Huntington Park. On the far side of the park, across Taylor Street, the cathedral doors stood open. People in sober clothing climbed the stairs toward the entrance.

  Jo and Gabe jogged toward the park, past the chocolate brownstone building that housed the Pacific-Union Club. Television news vans were lined up in front of it on Sproule Lane. Cameras on platforms pointed over the tops of bonsai-styled trees and playground equipment, toward the steps of the cathedral.

  The skies overhead were empty. The airspace above San Francisco was closed.

  She couldn’t see snipers on the rooftops, but knew they were there. She was sure explosive sniffer dogs had combed the park and church earlier. But the security presence was meant to be discreet. This was not a state occasion. The president and First Lady were mourners at a private funeral.

  She glanced around. Thousands of people. “How are we going to find Chennault?”

  The phone rang. It was Tang. “I sent a warning up the chain of command but it’ll take a couple of minutes to reach the Secret Service. I’m a block from—”

  The call cut out. Jo tried to redial but could get no reception.

  Her skin prickled. “Does the Secret Service screw with cell phone reception when the president’s near?”

  “They monitor all calls within a sixty-mile radius,” Gabe said.

  “But they don’t shut down cell towers?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  Her skin goose-bumped. “Right before the attack at the law firm, cell phones went out. And yours just did.”

  They looked at each other. Jo said, “He’s here.”

  “Come on.” Gabe grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd toward the barricades.

  The cop appeared in front of them with the suddenness of a falling hammer. His weapon was gripped in both hands, aimed at Jo’s chest.

  “Freeze, right there,” he said.

  THE CHECKPOINT WHERE invited guests were vetted by the cops, and let through the barricades, was set up near the cathedral steps. Chennault worked his way toward it. Getting inside the church before the service started was vital. The heavy crowd jostled his broken arm as he struggled past. He pressed the cast against his chest, protecting the sling.

  THE COP’S HANDS were steady, the gun aimed solidly at Jo’s center of mass. Behind his freckles, his eyes looked dead certain. Jo and Gabe raised their hands.

  “On the ground, facedown. Now. Do it.”

  Jo and Gabe dropped immediately to the asphalt. The crowd shied back and a bubble of silence enveloped them.

  “Lace your hands behind your head.”

  Jo did it, keeping the cop in the corner of her eye. He leaned into the radio clipped to his navy blue shirt and called for backup. His weapon never deviated from Jo’s body. He was a gap-toothed redhead, a virtual Cub Scout with his finger on the trigger.

  “Officer, listen to me,” Jo said.

  “Shut up.”

  Another cop jogged through the crowd. “McNamara?”

  The Cub Scout looked up. “Report over the radio—gun attack on a law firm in the Financial District. These two match the description of suspects seen fleeing the scene.”

  The second cop, a trim Filipino, reached for hi
s handcuffs. Then he stopped, and stared hard at Jo. “I saw you on the news this morning.”

  “With Edie Wilson,” Jo said.

  He pointed, and smiled. “You guys got her to climb in a trash can.”

  “That was me.”

  His smile expanded in Gabe’s direction. “You’re the Air National Guard guy.”

  “Yeah,” Gabe said.

  Full-fledged grin. “She got a monkey to ride Edie Wilson’s head like a rodeo cowboy. She’s a department consultant—friend of the lieutenant’s. They’re on our side.”

  McNamara waited a long second, then lowered and holstered his weapon. Jo and Gabe stood up, nerves chiming.

  The Filipino cop, Dandoy, said, “What’s going on?”

  Jo pointed at the cathedral. “A man named Ace Chennault is planning to attack the president. He has an invitation to the memorial. Lieutenant Tang’s on her way. She and I can identify him.”

  A buzz went through the crowd. Television cameras swiveled in unison. Through the throng Jo saw a motorcade draw up in front of the cathedral.

  The bishop, attired in embroidered vestments, wearing a miter and carrying his shepherd’s staff, came out the cathedral doors. From an armored vehicle, a man and woman dressed in black emerged and climbed the steps. Secret Service agents followed a step behind, looking exceptionally alert.

  “Get the president out of here,” Jo said.

  “You got it,” said the Cub Scout cop.

  Jo heard her voice being called. She turned and saw Tang burrow through the crowd toward them.

  “Chennault’s here,” Jo said. “Gabe’s phone won’t work. I think Chennault’s got a jamming device.”

  Tang stretched on tiptoe, attempting to see the church over the heads of the crowd.

  Gabe said, “President and First Lady are walking up the steps. They’re surrounded by Secret Service. Bishop just came out the doors to greet them.”