I couldn’t hear anyone inside, but I knocked anyway. I heard a drawer bang shut, then footsteps. The door opened. It wasn’t locked.
Christine Johnson had on a cashmere jacket and long wool skirt. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a yellow bow. She was wearing her glasses. Working barefoot. I thought of a line—from Dorothy Parker, I think—Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses.
Seeing her lifted my spirits, brought me up immediately. I didn’t know exactly why, but it did.
It occurred to me that she worked late at the school a lot. That was her business, but I wondered why she spent so much time here.
“Yes, I’m working late again. You caught me in the act Red-handed; guilty as charged. A friend of yours dropped by the school this morning,” she said. “A detective John Sampson.”
“He’s in charge of the case,” I said.
“He seems very dedicated and concerned. Surprising in a lot of ways. He’s reading Camus,” she said.
I wondered how he had worked that into their conversation. Among other noble pursuits, Sampson is dedicated to meeting interesting and attractive women, like Christine Johnson. It wouldn’t bother him that she was married, unless it bothered her. Sampson can be chivalrous to a fault, but only if it’s appreciated.
“Sampson reads a lot always has since I’ve known him. My grandmother taught him in school, before I met him, actually. He’s the original Pagemaster.”
Christine Johnson smiled, showed me all those beautiful teeth of hers. “You’re familiar with the movie Pagemaster? I guess you must see them all.”
“I do see them all. Anything the kids ‘have to, have to see, Daddy!’ We gave Pagemaster a six. But we’re not as down on Master Macauley Culkin as some people seem to be.”
She continued to smile and seemed to be an extremely nice person. Smart enough to do many things—patient and concerned enough to do this difficult job in the city. I envied her students.
I got right down to the business I had at the school. “The reason I stopped by is that there’s a possible ID on the killer— a start, anyway. I heard about it this afternoon, not too long ago.”
Christine Johnson listened closely to what I had to say. Her brow furrowed deeply. Her brown eyes were intense. She was a good listener, which, if I remembered correctly, was unusual for a school principal.
“An older man, a white man, was seen in the vicinity of where Shanelle Green was originally abducted in Garfield Park. He was described as a street person. Possibly a home less man. Not very big, with a full white beard, wearing a brown or black poncho.”
“Should I tell that to the teachers? What about the children?” she asked as I finished the description.
“I’d like to have someone stop by here tomorrow morning to talk to the teachers again,” I said. “We don’t know if this lead is anything, but it could be important. It’s the best thing we have so far.” ‘
“An ounce of prevention,” she said, then smiled. Actually, she laughed at herself. “That’s what is known, derogatively, as ‘teacher talk.’ You can catch a dose of it if you hang around here too much. Too many cliches. You sometimes find yourself talking to other adults as if they were five or six years old. It drives my husband crazy.”
“Is your husband a teacher, too?” I asked. It just came out. Shit.
She shook her head and seemed amused for some reason. “No, no. George is a lawyer. He’s a lobbyist on Capitol Hill, actually. Fortunately, he’s only trying to push the interests of energy businesses. Occidental Petroleum, Pepco Energy Company, the Edison Electric Institute. I can live with that” She laughed. “Well, most of the time I can.” Her look was innocent, but not naive. Maybe just a little conspiratorial.
“Well, I wanted to pass on the news about our suspect. Maybe we have a real suspect this time,” I said. “I’ve got to run.”
“Don’t,” Christine Johnson said, and I stopped short, startled a little.
Then she smiled that knowing smile of hers. Quietly dazzling and appealing as could be.
“Absolutely no running in the halls,” she winked at me. “Gotcha!” Cute.
I laughed and was on my merry Way, back to work after a brief moment of sweetness and light. I did like her quite a lot. Who wouldn’t? Maybe we could be friends somehow, someway, but probably not.
Nothing was coming out right; nothing was working very well. An old homeless white man was the best we could do. It wasn’t bad police work, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Two impossible cases. Jesus!
I pulled my car way down the street and watched the Truth School for a couple of hours that night. My son’s school. Maybe a homeless white man would come by—but one didn’t.
I left the stakeout about half an hour after Christine Johnson left hers.
CHAPTER
40
“WHAT DO YOU THINK of our magic carpet ride so far? On a scale of one to eleven?” Jack asked Jill, Sam asked Sara. They were floating high over the Maryland countryside.
“It’s absolutely beautiful. It’s as thrilling as can be. Unbelievable. The simple joy of flying like a bird.”
“Hard to imagine that this is work. But it is, Monkey Face. This could be important for us, for everything we’re doing, for the game.”
“I know that, Sam. I’m paying attention.”
“I know you are. Always so diligent.”
The two of them were sitting close together inside the tiny cockpit of a Blanik L-23 sailplane. They had flown the sailplane out of Frederick Municipal Airport in Maryland, about an hour from downtown Washington. It was the perfect treat for her, Sara couldn’t help thinking. The perfect metaphor. The gimp was flying. Unbelievable. Her entire life was that way now.
Down below, she could see Frederick, with its many examples of German Colonial architecture. She could actually make out several of the cutesy-pie shops on Antique Walk in town. The sky was filled with cumulus, like cotton balls moving lightly over a calm sea. Sara had told Sam that she’d gone up in a sailplane once, and it was “just about the best thing I’ve ever done.” He’d said, “We’ll go tomorrow afternoon. I know just the place, Monkey Face. Perfect! I want to fly over Camp David, where the President goes to stay. I want to look down on President Byrnes’s retreat. I want to drop an imaginary bomb on his ass.”
Sam Harrison already knew a great deal about Camp David, but the view from the air could be useful anyhow. An attack on the presidential retreat was a very real possibility in the future—especially if the Secret Service continued to keep President Byrnes tightly under wraps, as they had for the past few days.
Everything about Jack and Jill was so much harder now, but he had expected that. It was why they had several plans, not just one. The President of the United States was going to die—it was just a matter of when and where. The how had already been decided. Soon the when and where would be taken care of as well.
“Isn’t this risky, flying so close to Camp David?” Sara asked. He smiled at the question. He knew that she had been biting her tongue as they floated north from Frederick, inching closer and closer to the presidential outpost, closer and closer to danger, maybe even disaster.
“So far, it’s not too risky. Sailplanes and hot-air balloons do it all the time. Catch a distant peek at where the President stays. He’s not here right now, so they’re not as paranoid on the ground. We can’t get too close, though. Ever since that plane landed at the White House, this airspace is protected with missiles. I doubt they’d shoot down a sailplane, but who knows?”
They could see the buildings at Fort David below, just a little to the northeast in Catoctin Mountain Park. There were three Army Jeeps left in the open. No one seemed to be out on the well-wooded grounds today, though. Camp David itself looked rather odd: a strange cross between Army barracks and a rustic vacation place. Not too formidable. Nothing they couldn’t work with, if need be, if the final plan demanded it.
“Camp David. Named after Eisenhower’s grandson,” Jac
k said. “Pretty good president, Dee. Generals usually are.”
Jack touched the holstered Beretta on his ankle. The gun was reassuring. But nothing was going to happen to the President right now, or to Jack and Jill. No, the game was about to go off in another direction. That was the beauty of it—no one could predict where it would go. It was a game, designed as one, played as one.
He felt Sara’s hand lightly touch his cheek. “How much longer do we have?’ she asked. He suspected that she didn’t want the sailplane ride to end.
“They’ll never catch us,” he said and smiled.
“No, the ride, silly,” she laughed and patted his arm. “How much longer do we have up here?”
“You’re not bored already? We’re nowhere near the world’s altitude record—about forty-nine thousand feet, if I recall. Need a hell of a wave lift for that.” Suddenly, he seemed concerned that she might not be having a good time. That was just like Sam.
“No, no,” she laughed and put her arm around his neck. Sara held him tightly. “I love it up here, love flying, love being with you. Thank you—for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Monkey Face,” he whispered against her cheek.
Two incredible killers.
Jack and Jill.
Flying over the President’s famous retreat at Camp David.
See you soon, Mr. President. There’s nothing you can do to stop this from happening. Nowhere you can hide from us. Trust us on that. Haven’t we kept all of our promises so far?
CHAPTER
41
ON THE HOUR-LONG DRIVE back to Washington, Sam seemed distracted and distant. Sara cautiously watched him out of the corner of her eye. It was as if he were still up in the sailplane. His brow was furrowed, his deep-blue eyes set on the road ahead.
He could get like this sometimes; but then again, so could she. Sara the worrier. Sara the drudge.
They both understood and mostly accepted the good and the bad points about each other. The game of Jack and Jill was getting much tougher now for both of them. Every move was chancy and fraught with danger. They could be caught before the mission was completed. The hunters were literally all over the place. One of the largest manhunts in history was under way. Not only in Washington D.C., but everywhere around the world.
“I was just thinking about the game and how it’s going, an honest evaluation. I was considering—a game inside our game,” Sam finally said. “Something more sophisticated. Completely unexpected by our trackers.”
Sara watched him detaching from his reverie, coming away from it, coming back to her.
“Yes, I could see that you were somewhere other than here on the beltway with me and all of these commuters. That much was pretty obvious.”
Sam grinned. “Sorry. You probably smelted the wood burning, too.” He was incredibly self-effacing—something else she enjoyed about him. He didn’t seem to realize that he was something special; or if he did, he kept it to himself. God, it was so easy when they were together, so hard when they were apart Sara wondered how she had survived before she met Sam. The answer was, basically, she hadn’t. She had been alive, but she didn’t have a life. Now, she did.
“You’re concerned about the progress of the game from here on, the exact sequence,” she said. ‘It’s furrowed your brow. Poor dear Sam. What’s your idea?”
He smiled and shook his head. He often told her how perceptive and intelligent she was. Not many men had ever said that to Sara Rosen—practically none, in fact. Her intelligence scared most men. Even worse, she was verbal. So men usually needed to keep her down, to put her down constantly, to belittle anything she said that they weren’t entirely one hundred percent comfortable with.
Sam wasn’t that way. He seemed to understand exactly what she needed. Is that part of the game, too? she wondered. Part of his game?
“There’s going to be tremendous heat from the police and FBI coming our way soon,” he said, staring straight ahead at the gray ribbons of roadway. “What’s gone before was nothing, Sara, absolutely nothing. The manhunt will increase exponentially from here on. They want to capture us badly. The FBI is assembling the best team possible, and make no mistake, it will be an impressive group. Sooner or later, they’ll find something on us. It’s inevitable that they will.”
Sara nodded in agreement. Still, he had frightened her. “I know that. I’m ready for it; at least, I think I am. You have an idea how to deal with this blistering heat that’s coming our way?”
“Yes, I think I do. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, but I believe I’ve solved it. Let me try this one out on you. Tell me what you think.”
See? He did want her opinions. Always. He was so different from the others.
He looked over at her, made eye contact. “It’s so simple, really. We need perfect alibis. I have an idea how to accomplish that. It involves a slight change in our game plan, but I think it’s worth it.”
She tried to keep the concern out of her voice. “What kind of change? You don’t want to go after the target we already agreed on?”
“I want to change the next target, yes, but I want to change something else as well. I want to get someone else to do the next kill. That way, we’ll both have airtight alibis. I think it’s a powerful twist. I think it could be the clincher for us. If anyone is onto either of us, this will throw them off completely.”
They were coming down Wisconsin Avenue and into Washington. The city looked like a J. M. W. Turner painting, Sara decided. Hazy light, caught just right “I like your thinking a lot. It’s a good plan. Who would you get?” she asked.
“I’ve already made a contact,” Sam said. “I think I have the perfect person for this little twist. He thinks the way we do, believes in the cause. He happens to be right here in Washington.”
CHAPTER
42
A SECRET SERVICE AGENT named James McLean, one of Jay Graver’s lieutenants, walked me around the White House. More than a million visitors come here every year, but this was the show none of them got. This was the real deal.
Instead of the usual tour of Library, East, Blue, Green, and Red Rooms, I got to see the private family quarters on the second and third floors. I requested a viewing of the President’s offices in the West Wing, as well as Vice President Mahoney’s in the Executive Office Building.
As the two of us wandered through the impressive Center Hall, with its bright yellow color scheme, I half expected either “Ruffles and Flourishes” or “Hail to the Chief” to suddenly ring out.
Agent McLean was filling me in on details about security at the White House. The grounds were covered by audio and pressure sensors, electronic eyes, and infrared. A SWAT team was on the roof at all times now. Helicopters were less than two and a half minutes away. Somehow, I wasn’t comforted by the tight security.
“What do you think of all this?” McLean asked as he led me into the Cabinet Room. It was dominated by serious-looking leather chairs, each bearing a brass plaque with the cabinet member’s title. A very impressive place to visit.
“What I’m thinking is that every person working here has to be checked out,” I said.
“They’ve all been checked, Alex.”
“I know that. They haven’t been checked by me, though. We need to check them all over again. I’d like each of them run against an interest in poetry or literature, even college degrees in literature; any kind of filmmaking experience; painting, sculpting, any endeavor requiring creativity. I’d like to know what magazines they subscribe to. Also their charitable contributions.”
If McLean had an opinion on all that, he kept it to himself. “Anything else?” he asked.
We were looking out over the Rose Garden. I could see office buildings off in the distance, so I assumed they could see us. I didn’t like that too much.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” I went on. “While we’re doing those background checks, we need to look at everyone in the crisis group. You can start with me.”
&
nbsp; Agent James McLean stared at me for a long moment.
“You’re shitting me, aren’t you?” he finally spoke his mind.
I spoke my mind, too. “I shit you not. This is a murder investigation. This is how it’s done.”
The dragonslayer had come to the White House.
CHAPTER
43
THE PHOTOJOURNALIST had chosen a conservative dark gray suit and a striped rep’s tie for the sold-out performance of Miss Saigon at the Kennedy Center.
He had cut his grayish blond hair short; the ponytail was long gone. He no longer wore a diamond stud earring. It was doubtful whether anyone he knew would have recognized him. Just as it should be, as it had to be from now until the end of the game.
“Seems like old times,” Kevin Hawkins sang softly as he crossed a parking lot facing USA Today headquarters across the river in Rosslyn.
“Keep those big presses running,” he muttered under his breath. “Might have something for you later. Might just have a big, late-breaking story tonight at the Kennedy Center. Quien sabe?”
He was so glad to be back in Washington, where he’d lived at various times in the past. He was happy to be back in the game as well. The game of games, he couldn’t help thinking, and believing it in his heart. Code name: Jack and Jill. Intrique just didn’t get any better than this. It couldn’t.
There were two essential parts to his psychological buildup as he approached the difficult evening ahead. The first part was to make himself as cautious, as suspicious, as paranoid, as he possibly could. The second part, equally important, was to pump himself up with a full megadose of confidence so that he would succeed.
He could not fail. He would not fail, he told himself. His job was to murder someone—often a well-known someone, sometimes in public view—and not get caught.
In public view.
And not get caught.
So far, he had never been caught in the act.
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