The Third Coincidence

by David Bishop

  “Our boldest guess is that LW operates alone, or at least is the only killer. That is, unless he’s limited his militia to average-sized men in their thirties with clean-shaven faces who wear red baseball caps. And I don’t believe he would have enough recruits to pick from that he could be that particular. Also, the red cap could be the militia’s subtle uniform, or simply something intended to draw people’s eyes so they don’t focus on his face.”

  After Rachel finished, Jack thanked her and told Frank and Nora to go home and get some rest. “I don’t want to see you two again before tomorrow morning.”

  “We’re okay, Jack,” Frank protested.

  “You’ve just been to Oregon and Cleveland and since you got back you haven’t stopped. When we get closer, it’ll be twenty-four-seven. You won’t be any help then if you’re dead on your feet. It’s not just physical. I need your minds. Now get out of here. That’s an order.”

  On the way out Nora stopped at the coffee corner where Colin had just finished pouring a fresh cup. “Is your invitation still open for breakfast with a coworker?” she asked.

  “You’ve been thinking about me!” He grinned. “This is good.”

  “Jetting across the country gives one plenty of time to think,” she said. “You may have come to mind a time or two. It helped cut the boredom.”

  “You want me to call you in the morning to remind you?”

  “Why don’t you just nudge me?”

  “You changed your mind!”

  She smiled. “Come over after you get out of here.”

  “I don’t know what time that’ll be,” Colin said. “I’ll call first and pick up some Chinese.”

  Nora was walking out when Rachel said, “Jack. I need you to call the White House and get the identities of any nominees not yet reported by the media. We can’t assume that LW doesn’t know about them.”

  LW shouted in jubilation when he heard it announced on MSNBC that beginning tomorrow the station would begin round-the-clock special coverage of the hunt for LW and his militia.

  To fill those hours they’ll have to cut into the meat of all this, he thought. They’ll discover these aristocrats are running amok, and alert the country. It’s working, Father. My plan is working.

  The hit program D.C. Talk, hosted by Mel Carsten, would be the hub for the special coverage, including interviews with political leaders and guest experts on matters relevant to the hunt. Their first announced guest would be Charles Nesbit, the counterterrorism expert, who had appeared yesterday on the regular version of D.C. Talk.

  Mr. Carsten, you’ll be needing a replacement.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ten are dead. McCall reports no progress.

  —The D.C. Tattler, June 13

  The sidewalks were crowded with men with fat stomachs, women in shoes with fat heels, young workers rushing to catch the subway, nannies pushing baby carriages, and old people walking their dogs, all of them mere plankton floating through the sea of life.

  LW mouthed another antacid tablet.

  It would be too dangerous to be seen wearing his red baseball cap across from Charles Nesbit’s apartment building. He had worn the cap the night before while attaching the explosive to Nesbit’s car after he parked on a side street near Blues Alley, a D.C. jazz club on Wisconsin Avenue, NW. Nesbit had entered the club with a statuesque woman in a tight white sweater and a dark skirt who had arrived in a separate car. After dinner she had followed Nesbit back to his apartment and not left until an hour ago.

  The startling clanks from the metal lattice gate rising over the exit from the parking level under Nesbit’s building, drew the attention of everyone nearby. A moment later a car began its climb from the concrete tomb. The early morning sun reflecting off its windshield prevented LW from seeing the driver. The car topped out at the street. The glare died. The driver was Nesbit.

  LW casually reached inside the pocket of his lightweight jacket, his fingers curling around the remote. Then he pressed its only button. The explosion incinerated the car, transforming Nesbit from a lying sack of shit into a squirming stalk of fire.

  When he got home, LW shut the door to the room he thought of as his hideout, plopped onto the couch, and turned on the TV to see that MSNBC had already reported what they were calling the tragic death of Charles Nesbit.

  “We have another message from Commander LW,” Carsten was saying as the camera panned in on his expressionless face. “The authorities have approved our reading it.”

  LW’s lip synced as Mel Carsten read his words on national TV:

  A Communiqué from the American Militia to Restore Representative Government:

  President Schroeder was a fool to ignore my order. Since our demands were not met, the eliminations will continue without further delay. The greatness of our fathers can no longer be ignored.

  Mr. Nesbit spoke of our cause as one led by a madman, and he has been punished for his arrogance.

  It’s time to revolt against the tyranny of a government ruled by unelected aristocrats.

  I advise Mr. Carsten to use his program to showcase something more than the ignorance of seeing this issue in the context of a few deaths. All meaningful change in the history of the world has required killing. Use your program to explore and discuss the deterioration of America’s representative government.

  Commander LW

  Hearing his own words read on television excited him. His father’s ideals carried forward with his words and tactics.

  Stay tuned America. There will be more.

  • • •

  “That fuckhead,” Millet bellowed. “When we get him, let’s cut off his balls and hang him up in the town square.”

  “Easy, Millet,” Jack said, “let’s not lose sight of what he is and who we are.”

  Nora, who was standing behind Millet, put her hands on his shoulders. “Our revenge comes when we stop him.”

  Millet hurled a wadded piece of paper at his wastebasket. He missed, swore, took a deep breath, and challenged the others. “Did you notice that bastard used ‘fathers’ not forefathers. Wouldn’t you say that means that his father was a force in his life?”

  Rachel exhaled slowly. “Could be? We just don’t know enough yet.”

  “I can think of no reason why Charlie Nesbit would have been among LW’s targets,” Jack said, looking at the pictures of Charlie Nesbit that came on each of the three televisions in the Bullpen.

  “Godspeed, Nessy,” Jack said before turning to the others. “The president wants to introduce me at a press conference. He’s hoping it will help calm the public and the financial markets. ‘Let America meet the man on the job,’ is how he put it. I had hoped to avoid it, but I promised I would if he thought it necessary.”

  “Let’s hope the attention doesn’t make you a target like it did Charles Nesbit,” Rachel said, avoiding Jack’s eyes.

  Nora asked Jack why he was in favor of Carsten reading LW’s communiqué. “Why give this jerkoff another audience?” she asked.

  “LW is itching to talk about what compels him to do what he’s doing,” Jack said. “Every time he shows himself, we get another piece for the puzzle.”

  Jack moved through a strand of Princeton elms across from his house.

  He had been coming home on foot from different directions each night since LW had left Rachel’s bra in the envelope on his porch. He hadn’t liked lying to the others, but he had not ordered protection for himself. This cat-and-mouse game could go on until all the targets had been killed. Jack needed to try everything, including setting himself up as a target.

  He held his position near a tree until another cloud again dimmed the moon, then crossed to the front yard of his neighbor, Janet Parker. He loitered in the bushes between their two properties, and used a remote to turn on two of his lamps. He had positioned the lamps to make it impossible for a person to be in his living room without casting a shadow on one of the front window shades. There were no shadows, but the light spilling from the moon refl
ecting off the wings of moths circulating outside the illuminated window shades, gave the appearance of swirling snowflakes. He drew his SIG, held it along the side of his thigh, and moved toward the make-believe snow.

  Once inside he checked the other rooms, then the phone rang. It was Rachel.

  “You were really sharp today,” she said, “with that observation about LW flying to San Francisco and driving to Oregon.”

  “Not bad for a spook, eh?” he asked, keeping it light.

  She laughed. “No. Not bad for a spook. You want to talk about what we’ve learned? Maybe I should say, what we’re guessing we’ve learned. Also, what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

  After they had reviewed the last two days in detail, she asked, “Did you really remember me from that time years ago?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he told her. “I never forgot your blue eyes.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls with blue eyes and cleavage.”

  “We were on the carrier John Stennis in the Persian Gulf. I remember your eyes kept changing. Inside they were a deep blue. Outside they matched the blue-green of the Persian Sea.”

  “Have a bowl of your ice cream and no insomnia tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.” She hung up.

  Atypical for Jack, he fell asleep rather quickly. His clock said he had been asleep an hour when the ringing phone woke him.

  “Hello, friend. I’m the guy who brought you Rachel’s bra.”

  “If you’re calling to get more underwear, I can leave a pair of my shorts on the porch.” Jack looked at caller ID. It hadn’t been blocked so LW was probably calling from a pay phone.

  “Cute, Jack. You can’t make me angry. We’re a lot alike, you know.”

  Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet. “Just how do you figure that?” He picked up the drink on his nightstand. The ice cubes were mostly melted, the outside of the glass wet. Then he heard a faint scrape, perhaps his caller’s unshaven cheek dragging across the mouthpiece.

  “You hunt me, Jack. I hunt the aristocrats. You’ve done covert operations. I’m doing a covert operation.”

  “It’s not the same,” Jack said. “When I kill you, the murders will stop.”

  “We are also alike because we’re both protecting something. You’re trying to protect America’s unelected government. I’m trying to protect the future of our country. Without a cause, there can be no true greatness. I offer you that cause. Join me, Jack. Together we can resurrect America and achieve immortality.”

  “Sounds right to me. You know where I live. Come on over. Ring the doorbell.” Jack sipped his diluted drink.

  “Not so fast, Jack. We can meet later. You know who the targets are. Earn your stripes. Take out a few. Then we’ll meet.”

  “Starting tomorrow, you keep a keen watch over your shoulder. The footsteps you’ll hear will be mine.”

  “I haven’t told you the main reason why we’re so much alike.”

  Jack heard traffic in the background. “Go ahead,” he said, “then I’m hanging up. If you want to talk more, come over.”

  “You want to fuck Rachel Johnstone. So do I. A friendly wager says I’ll be in her panties before you.” He laughed. “In fact, I’ve already won. I’m in her panties right now. I wonder why we call panties plural? Yes, there are two leg holes, but a brassiere has two cups and they are named in the singular. Strange isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve got the flesh-colored sheer ones I took from her apartment pulled over my head. With each breath, I inhale her fragrance. My tongue tastes her. Now I want the whopper, not just the wrapper.”

  “You aren’t kidding me for a moment. You’re not interested in America, only in having an excuse to kill. You’re a coward. You kill women and unsuspecting men who have no chance to defend themselves.”

  “Fuck you, Jack McCall. At least I wasn’t inept enough to get my own brother killed.”

  Jack fought to hang onto his composure. He rolled his cold drink glass across his forehead. “Charles Nesbit had you pegged,” Jack said. “You’re one wacky psycho and I’m guessing your father was nuttier than you are.”

  “Gotta go. Time is nearly up. One more thing. We are not friends anymore, Mr. McCall.”

  Jack heard a loud slam and the phone went dead. He immediately called the tracing center at the FBI. LW had known how long the trace would take. The bureau had only been able to narrow it down to a D.C. pay phone within a few downtown square blocks.

  At least, the call had likely confirmed their theory that LW was locally based.

  Jack called the protective squad covering Rachel, then called Rachel.

  CHAPTER 28

  President Schroeder’s popularity drops to below 60 percent for the first time in his first term.

  —A.P. Wire Service, June 14

  President Schroeder entered the room in the White House that had been set up for today’s press conference. He began by stating that after his opening remarks he would introduce Jack McCall. He also confirmed the rumor that Associate Justice James Dunlin had resigned from the U.S. Supreme Court. The president sipped from the glass of water that had been left for him.

  “To assuage any rumors before they start, I’m going to read Justice Dunlin’s letter of resignation. Justice Dunlin has approved my doing so. As you’ve already been informed, there will be no follow-up questions.”

  Dear Mr. President:

  As you know, my son, James Dunlin, Jr., died in the military engagement known as Desert Storm. My wife, Rebecca, and I are raising our grandchildren. The recent murders of Supreme Court justices and a nominee for that great office, together with the continuing threats of more, no longer permit me to enjoy the honor of serving as a U.S. Supreme Court associate justice. We cannot put our grandchildren at further risk through the loss of their grandparents. Therefore, I tender my resignation, effective this date, with deepest thanks to our nation and you, Mr. President. I also wish to thank Chief Justice Thomas Evans for his excellent leadership, and my fellow associate justices for their understanding and support. I offer my apology for exacerbating the problem of a Court short of justices. Under different personal circumstances, I would stand my office.

  Respectfully, James Dunlin

  President Schroeder then announced that Sophia Washington had withdrawn her name as a nominee for the bench, and that Dr. Manuel Acosta had declined his nomination to the Federal Reserve Board.

  “I understand and respect the decisions of each of these loyal Americans and thank them for their lifetimes of service to our country,” he continued. “I assure everyone within the sound of my voice that we have many fine Americans on the lists of nominees. Men and women who stand ready to accept and are qualified to serve.”

  The president rested his hands on each side of the lectern. “And now, inadequate as I may be at it, I’m going to introduce Jack McCall. Until only a short time ago, few Americans had ever heard his name so let me share a brief and, I assure you, understated résumé.

  “For more than twenty years, Jack McCall has headed up numerous special operations. The life of every American has been made safer by Jack McCall. He has stopped terrorists, saved the lives of Americans held hostage, and rescued embassy personnel under threat.

  “On a personal note, I worked with Jack McCall during my foreign service for the State Department. At all times he carried out his duties as a capable and resourceful patriot. Your government continues to support Jack McCall as the right man for this job. And let me describe the job we have given Mr. McCall. We asked him to find a person who calls himself Commander LW and who claims to head an organization called the American Militia to Restore Representative Government. Here and now, I confess that none of our law enforcement and intelligence agencies at the federal or state level have ever heard of LW or his militia. The same is true for the world’s friendly governments.

  “As you can see, Mr. McCall has taken on quite a task, a job at which he has been working for only a matter of days. Anyone expres
sing impatience with his results is either playing politics or being wholly unrealistic. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jack McCall.”

  The president shook Jack’s hand and moved to the back of the rostrum.

  While reminding himself not to squint into the television lights, Jack stepped to the microphone. “Thank you, Mr. President, for your kind introduction. I know many of you from your work, but not by sight. Please state your name when I call on you so I may acknowledge you when I answer.”

  He pointed at a rail-thin lady in the center of the front row. “Yes?”

  “My name is Gloria Powell from the San Francisco Chronicle. Mr. McCall, please tell us what you can about your progress.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Powell. We have cleared a few people who at one time or another, on some preliminary level, were considered suspects. Naturally, I can’t comment on those on whom we are currently focused, but the effort continues.”

  In accordance with the stated rule for this meeting with the media, Jack ignored Ms. Powell’s efforts at a follow-up and called instead on a gentleman whose bushy mustache hid his upper lip.

  “I’m Eric Dunn, a freelance national columnist. Mr. McCall, please identify those who have been eliminated from suspicion”

  “It would be inappropriate to identify people who have been cleared. I’m sure you understand.”

  “But America has a right to know, Mr. McCall.”

  “All right. We have eliminated one serious suspect, a man with the freedom of movement to obfuscate his appearances in the locations of the killings. His name is Eric Dunn.”