Conrad Williams nodded.
“Good boy. Now, get up.”
He yanked the skinny man to his feet by the tangle of his long dreads, then seized his arm and pressed the gun into Williams’s ribs. After retrieving his bag and bottle, he steered the guy back down the sidewalk. Doubled over, Williams could barely walk, which was good; his moans and staggering made them look like a pair of drunks. They turned the corner, then stumbled a short block, to the intersection of Florida Avenue and Holbrook. The area was completely deserted.
He hooked right, moving his quarry across the street. A wide dirt patch ran alongside the sidewalk here, serving as a parking spot for the locals. He pushed Williams to the rear of the small moving van that he’d left there hours earlier. He clipped the man again on the back of his skull, letting him collapse to the ground. After unlocking the padlock, he rolled up the rear door, then lifted the limp body inside. Climbing in after him, he quickly stuck a waiting strip of duct tape across the man’s mouth, bound his hands behind his back with a plastic tie, and wrapped his feet with a cord.
Within a minute, he was driving east.
BOWIE, MARYLAND
Monday, September 15, 3:50 a.m.
Forty-five minutes northeast of D.C., he pulled off a highway onto a gravel access road and killed the lights. He eased the van back into a wooded grove at the edge of a golf course. Parking where it wouldn’t be seen from the highway, he got out, then unlocked and opened the van’s rear door.
Conrad Williams was awake again, cringing against the golf cart in the back of the van. In the light of the full moon, his face glistened with tears.
At least the bastard hadn’t puked and choked himself. Not that it mattered.
He grabbed the cord around the man’s thrashing legs and yanked him from the van, dropping him hard onto the ground. Williams lay stunned, moaning behind the duct tape.
“You know what’s about to happen—don’t you, Conrad?” he said, keeping his voice low.
The killer issued a muffled wail. His eyes were filled with pain and terror.
“And you know why—don’t you, Conrad?” He pulled the SWR Trident 9 suppressor from his grimy jacket. Screwed the can onto the threaded barrel of the Beretta.
Williams stared in horror at the gun, breathing rapidly through his nose. He shook his head wildly, his dreadlocks whipping back and forth like panicked snakes.
He crouched beside his captive. “Oh, sure you do. Michael Higgins was a great kid. He worked his ass off, managing that convenience store at nights to support himself and his mom. And during the day, he was putting himself through community college. Do you know what he was studying, Conrad? Drug counseling. Think of the irony: He wanted to help pukes like you.... Hey, are you listening?”
Williams’s eyelids were fluttering; he was about to pass out. So he backhanded him, hard.
“Stay with me, you piece of crap. One more thing: Michael’s mom. She already was a widow when you and your pals took her son from her, too. I’ll deal with them later. But for now, I only have you here, so you’ll have to do. This is for her.” He pressed the end of the suppressor against the man’s chest.
Williams’s eyes were like white golf balls against his dark skin. His feet scrabbled the ground frantically, and from behind the tape, he made sounds like the muffled squeals of a pig.
“Go to hell, Conrad Williams.”
The sharp snap of the suppressed gunshot stopped the squeals and the movements.
*
He paused to think a moment before proceeding. This mission was the trickiest yet. He preferred simple and uncomplicated, but he couldn’t do that here. The golf course was part of a gated community, and the only vehicle entrance was past a guard booth and cameras. No good. It had taken him a full night of recon to find an access point this close to a highway. And then a lot of thought and planning to figure out how to pull this off.
He hid the guns and knife in the cab of the truck and locked it. He would not use a weapon against anyone here. If found and challenged, he’d have to rely on his wits.
After donning a pair of work gloves, he pulled out the van’s cargo ramp. It didn’t make much noise as it slid to the ground; he’d made sure to oil the tracks thoroughly beforehand. Then he eased the golf cart out of the van and down the ramp, using a rope and pulley. Moving to Williams’s body, he removed all the bindings he’d used and tossed them into a bag in the back of the van. Then he wrapped the corpse in a blanket, hoisted it onto the back seat of the cart, and strapped it down.
Inside the rear of the van, he stripped off his filthy clothing, wiped the grime off his face and body, then changed into clothes he’d brought, attire more suitable for a country club: slacks, polo shirt, golf shoes, cap, windbreaker, leather sports gloves. If any patrolling guard spotted him from a distance, maybe he’d think it was some crazy resident out on the course in the dark, for reasons known only to rich golfers.
During his earlier recon, he had already scoped out the home of his next target. As far as he could tell, there was no dog, and he spotted no motion detectors or cameras on the property—a testament to how secure a homeowner in this exclusive enclave must feel. He also timed the rounds of the security patrols. Like most guards, they had foolishly settled into an hourly routine, never varying their schedule during the five hours he’d observed.
He checked his watch, waiting until he knew that the latest patrol had returned to the security office. Then he climbed into the electric cart, got it going, and headed out onto the fairway.
He’d purchased this model because it had been rated as particularly quiet, and it didn’t disappoint. At a distance, its soft electric hum should blend in with far-off traffic sounds. He rolled slowly and cautiously over the manicured grass expanse, staying near the trees on the perimeter of the golf course, relieved that the full moon allowed him to pick his way easily and safely.
Soon he reached a paved path. It led to a stone bridge that crossed a narrow lake and continued into the residential area. Once on the other side, he wheeled left along the water’s edge, crossing the sprawling lawns of imposing mansions. Within a minute, he arrived at his destination.
Surrounded by old maples and beech trees, an immense, contemporary, gray stone edifice loomed against the night sky, its soaring lines broken into multiple gables and broad chimneys, its covered entrance flanked by tall white columns. A charming gazebo with white wicker tables and chairs graced the lawn next to the lake. All in all, a public monument to dignity and decency.
Camouflage for the moral rot within.
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 t
he 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 that 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 Iris
h 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.
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