by John Lutz
He’d had the Salisbury steak last night. But if he didn’t remember, there was no point in reminding him. Harper sighed deeply. It seemed that the two of them were going to remain locked up in this apartment until they figured out the bomber’s pattern—or until the bomber struck again. That seemed to be how Addleman saw it, and Harper didn’t have a better idea.
Harper lifted the pile of case folders out of his lap so that he could rise. Underneath them was something he’d been working on earlier. It was a map of North America, on which he’d X’d in the sites of the bomber’s three known attacks. Looking at the map now, he was struck by something he hadn’t noticed before.
He said, “Pensacola is due north of Cozumel.”
“What?”
Harper held up the map. “You can draw a straight vertical line from the place where Wylie was killed to the place where Buckner was killed.”
Addleman looked from the map to Harper’s face and back again, not understanding. “I guess you can. So what?”
Harper wasn’t sure himself what he was getting at. He was working this out as he went along. “So, suppose the bomber is drawing a vertical line on purpose?”
“No. Minnesota, where Sothern bought it, is way off to the west—I mean, to the left.”
Harper shook his head. “You don’t understand. What I’m saying is, maybe we’ve been asking ourselves the wrong questions.”
“How do you mean?”
“We want to know who the next victim’s going to be. We want to know when the attack’s going to take place. But maybe who and when are the wrong questions. Maybe we should be asking where.”
Addleman gave him a noncommittal stare. “Go on.”
“We’ve been saying all along that this guy’s trying to complete a pattern. Well, suppose he’s literally drawing the pattern on the map? With each killing he puts a dot on the map, and when he makes this final attack he’s building up to, the drawing will be finished.”
“Yes, but a drawing of what?” said Addleman impatiently. “This is all very ingenious, Harper, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. We’ve still got the problem that we don’t know anything about what’s important to our guy. What obsesses him—apart from bombs and celebrities, of course.”
Harper was looking down at the map—the vertical line from Cozumel to Pensacola, the slanting line from Pensacola to the Twin Cities area. “It could be part of the letter Y,” he said.
“Great. So we’re looking for someone named Yakov. Or Yogi. Or Yoda.” Addleman laughed hopelessly and shook his head. “It could be his initial, or his girlfriend’s initial. Or the first digit of his phone number. But you don’t know any of these things, so how are you going to figure out the pattern? We haven’t got that kind of information on the guy, not even his favorite color or his astrological sign.”
“Astrological sign,” Harper repeated. He didn’t know why the words struck him. They reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what.
“No. Forget about that.” Addleman stood up straight and held up one finger, like a stern reproving teacher. “I was kidding. An interest in astrology would be totally inconsistent with his profile.”
“It would?”
“One thing I do know about him is he’s not a New Age type. This guy is not warm, he’s not open, he’s not touchy-feely. Technology is his thing. He identifies himself with inventors and engineers. He’d look on astrology as superstition. Wouldn’t get near it. What are you getting at, anyway?”
Harper had remembered by now. “You were saying last night he might be interested in the stars.”
“Oh, sure. Astronomy, Harper, not astrology. That would be consistent with his profile. Our guy is very systematic, and this is the biggest system of all. Astronomers make calculations involving millions of years, billions of miles, and yet they can tell us—well, exactly when a particular comet is going to pass by Earth, for instance. I was speculating that the killer’s attacks might be timed to some comet—something like that.”
Harper slowly shook his head. He tapped the paper in his lap. “I don’t think so. I think he’s drawing a constellation on the map.”
“A constellation?”
“Each star is a spot where he’s blown up a celebrity. When he’s through killing, he’ll have the whole constellation.”
Addleman laughed again. “You’re keen on this, aren’t you? You know how crazy it is?”
“Crazy enough for our bomber,” Harper replied.
Addleman took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Digging his cigarettes out of a pants pocket, he lit one. As he shook out the match he said, “You know how many constellations there are?”
Harper shook his head.
“Eighty-eight, recognized by the International Astronomical Union.” Addleman took a puff and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “Too bad for you this guy isn’t into astrology. Then you’d only have twelve to worry about.”
“I’ll look at all eighty-eight,” said Harper.
“Okay. I don’t buy this theory, but as long as you’re not asking me to invest any computer time in it, you can go ahead.” He turned and leaned down, to rummage through a stack of large reference books. “Here we go. Astronomical atlas. Have fun.”
He handed the atlas to Harper and went into the kitchen to microwave his Salisbury steak.
Harper bent over the book and went to work.
13
It was long past midnight when Harper rapped on Addleman’s office door and went in.
The room was warm and stuffy. Addleman could have let in cool, fresh night air, but he didn’t seem to notice. None of the city sounds could be heard in here, only the humming and whirring of computers. All three monitor screens glowed brightly in the dim light. Addleman was sitting at the keyboard of the old computer, tapping keys with his right hand. His left elbow was on the desk and his other hand supported his head. He looked exhausted. He turned to gaze blearily at Harper. “What is it? Think you found something?”
“Yes.” Harper’s voice was even, but his heart was pounding. He was so full of energy and confidence that he felt as if it were a bright morning and he’d had a full night’s sleep. But he kept a lid on his excitement. All that he’d found out in the last few hours seemed to hold together, but Addleman might find a flaw in his reasoning and blow it apart.
Tapping a final key, Addleman swiveled his chair away from the screen. “So what have you got?”
Harper wheeled the spare chair over to the desk. He sat down next to Addleman and put the books and folders he’d brought with him next to the computer. Addleman looked at the one on top and said, “Oh, astronomy,” in a bored voice. Their dinnertime conversation had slipped his mind. He was going to be a hard sell.
Harper began. “The constellation is Aquila.”
“Really?” Addleman replied. “The eagle. Maybe our guy is a superpatriot, you think?”
“I have no idea what significance Aquila has for him,” said Harper. “But it is Aquila. It works out.”
“Show me.”
Harper opened the astronomy book to the illustration of Aquila. There were eight white dots on the black page, and drawn over them was the outline of an eagle seen from above, its wings spread in flight.
“You have to hand it to those ancient Greeks, don’t you,” said Addleman. “Eight stars and they get an entire bird out of it.”
Ignoring the comment, Harper took a piece of onionskin typing paper from the book. “I’ve redrawn the eight stars to the same scale as the map of North America. Now watch what happens.”
He laid the thin page over the atlas. The dots that represented the eagle’s lower wing fell on Cozumel and Pensacola. The upper dot just missed Bloomington, Minnesota—the location of the Mall of America, where Tim Sothern had been killed.
Folding his arms, Addleman hunched over the desk. After studying paper and atlas for a moment, he chuckled softly. “So you made it work. But with only three stars. You try this with any other constellations?�
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“With the other eighty-seven.”
“And?”
Harper shrugged. “You can work the same trick with five other constellations. You can approximately make it work with another dozen or so.”
“So what are you doing in here, Harper? Why are you bothering me with this?”
Harper said, “Tailfeathers, Addleman.”
“What?”
“Look at the three close-set stars representing the eagle’s tall.”
“Oh, I get it. You figure if you’re right, he’s going to strike next at—” Addleman flattened the page against the map with his fingers so that be could read through it “—Dodge City, Kansas? What celebrity is he going to kill in Dodge City? Wyatt Earp’s already dead.”
Harper shook his head. “Earl Walker, Jr. A car dealer. He did his own TV ads and was known throughout the state.”
Addleman raised his head and looked at Harper. “Was?”
“He was blown up in 1991.” Harper picked a case folder out of his stack and dropped it in front of Addleman.
Addleman seemed to have a hard time taking his eyes off Harper’s. A nerve had been touched. He was wide awake now. Eventually he opened the folder and looked down at it. “Oh yeah. I remember this case. I eliminated it from consideration because the killer used a letter bomb.”
“You shouldn’t have. It looks like one of his, and maybe he never used a letter bomb again. The report said the bomb was made of ordinary materials you could have found in any junkyard, but that it had been assembled with great care.” Harper tapped the file. “This is the Celebrity Bomber’s first attack.”
“But 1991, Harper? You think it’s the same guy? There’s more than a ten-year gap until you get to the Sothern killing.”
“No, there isn’t.”
Addleman gave Harper another long stare. Then he bent over, squinting through the paper at the map. “Tulsa, Oklahoma?”
“June Lamont, weather girl on the local NBC affiliate. Killed by a car bomb in 1995.” Harper dropped the case folder on top of the Walker file.
Addleman opened it. He turned the pages very slowly. He seemed a little dazed. “I don’t remember this one. I guess I thought a local weather girl didn’t really count as a celebrity.”
“She wouldn’t now. But our guy was just getting started.”
Addleman pushed the two files away. He leaned over the map again. “I suppose you found another bombing in . . . Fort Smith, Arkansas?”
Harper nodded. “1997. The Christian rock singer Ann Taylor Graham. She was in town for a concert. Rented a boat and went out on the lake. The boat blew up. Two members of her band and her producer were killed with her.”
“I think I remember that,” Addleman said. “There was a big scandal, wasn’t there? She was having an affair with this record producer and he had Mob connections and it was assumed to be a Mob hit?”
“That’s what the media were saying, but no one was ever arrested.”
Addleman pushed away from the desk. Leaning back in the chair, he rubbed his face. “Three attacks I didn’t know about. Six more deaths. I don’t want to believe it, Harper, but I have to. It can’t be coincidence.”
“No,” Harper replied, “it can’t.”
“Aquila.” Addleman wagged his head wonderingly. “Who’d believe this nut could get so hung up on a constellation? And why that one? This is very interesting. It opens up all sorts of new avenues for speculation on his mental pathology. For instance—”
“The warning,” Harper interrupted.
Addleman blinked at him.
“We have to figure out who the next victim is going to be and warn him. Beat the bomber to him.”
“Oh, right. Well, that should be easy enough. Our guy has been moving from left to right and from top to bottom. Just the behavior you would expect from an obsessive-compulsive. So the next attack will take place in—” He bent over the map.
Harper decided to save him the trouble. “The next star falls on southeastern Indiana. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere. That’s the one part of this I haven’t been able to figure out. How’s the bomber going to find a celebrity there, someone bigger than his last victim? Who’ve they got in southeastern Indiana who’s more famous than Rod Buckner?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some Hollywood stars are shooting a movie on location there. Or one of the Indiana senators has a campaign swing planned. We’ll have to check the media. What’s the nearest town?” Addleman was still squinting through the paper.
“Place called Elmhart. Never heard of it.”
Addleman laughed.
“What is it?”
“Never heard of Elmhart? It’s easy to see you don’t listen to talk radio much.”
Harper looked at him blankly. It was true; he wasn’t a regular listener.
Addleman made him wait a while. The last few minutes had been hard on his pride. He was glad that now he was a step ahead of Harper again.
“Well, come on,” said Harper impatiently.
Addleman inhaled, straightened up, and said loudly, “The voice of the people, the friend of the common man, coming to you live from the heartland of the real America—”
“Of course!” Harper said. “Speed Rogers!” He’d completely forgotten that the bombastic right-wing radio commentator broadcast from Elmhart, Indiana.
“I haven’t listened to the show for a while myself. Rogers may be a bit past his peak.”
“I was never a fan,” said Harper.
Addleman raised his eyebrows. “Hope that won’t stop you from trying to save his life.”
“No. Rogers is just the man we need to get some action out of the Bureau. Rich, powerful in the media, well-connected in the Republican Party. We convince him that he’s in danger from the bomber and he’ll get things moving.”
Addleman nodded. “Let’s hope he can live up to his name. Things are going to have to move fast.”
Harper nodded. “The bomber’s further along in his career than we thought. After Elmhart, there’s only one star left in the Aquila constellation.”
“The big one,” Addleman said. “The one he’s been building up to from the beginning. So where do you figure it’s going to happen?”
Harper didn’t tell him this time. Didn’t have to.
Addleman’s finger traced a straight line east from Elmhart to the star that represented the eagle’s head. He didn’t have to read the name of the city to know. They should have guessed it long ago.
“So,” he said. “Washington, D.C. The bomber saved the juiciest target for last. He’s been looking forward to it for a long time.”
Harper folded his hands and looked at them. “He’ll never get there. He’ll never even get to Elmhart, Indiana.”
“Not if we can stop him, Will.”
“We can stop him,” Harper said. “We will stop him.”
14
The following afternoon, Harper was sitting in Speed Rogers’s waiting room. He’d been there long enough to wonder if he’d be able to get up out of the sofa.
The first calls he and Addleman had made were to find out where the radio host was. They learned he was on the East Coast, doing television shows from New York and Washington. His regular radio program from Elmhart was scheduled to resume on April 22—the day after tomorrow.
So they had a little time. The bomber’s weakness was his rigidity, Addleman said. The pattern required him to kill Rogers in Elmhart. As long as Rogers stayed away from Elmhart, he was safe. Harper caught the first morning train from Philadelphia to New York, and was now waiting to deliver this message to Rogers in person.
Though Rogers excoriated the liberal media establishment tirelessly on the air, his own office was located in the very heart of it, on Sixth Avenue, in midtown Manhattan.
The decor was a surprise, too. The way the talk show host rambled on about Middle American values, Harper would’ve expected to find rocking chairs, gingham curtains, Norman Rockwell prints. But this reception room was all
dark wood, stainless steel, and smoked glass. The magnificent Persian carpets looked like the real thing, and brand new, too, indicating that Rogers, like his hero Ronald Reagan, had traded with the Ayatollahs. All the furniture was low and sleek. If the brown leather and stainless steel couch Harper was sitting in had been raked back any more sharply, he’d have been looking up at his knees.
The young black woman sitting at the reception console had been another surprise; Harper could only assume that she’d been the most qualified applicant, since Rogers bitterly opposed affirmative action.
Entering the office two hours before, Harper had approached her carefully. He didn’t want to be misunderstood, and treated as a nutcase. So he showed the card that identified him as a retired sergeant in the NYPD, and quietly explained that he had uncovered information that led him to fear that Rogers’s life was in danger.
The receptionist wasn’t alarmed. She didn’t even seem surprised. Over the intercom she paged someone named Courtney, then explained to Harper that Courtney was in charge of death threats this month.
Courtney turned out to be a young woman with a thick mane of blond hair. She was wearing a man’s oversize shirt and tight jeans. Again, she wasn’t what Harper expected. The callers who spoke to Rogers on the air were mostly groveling sycophants who agreed with everything he said, even when he was insulting them. Harper would’ve thought that anyone who worked for Rogers would have to be a pale and trembling yes-man. But Courtney had a breezy, casual manner and spoke of Speed with tolerant affection, as if he were an eccentric uncle. Her mind was needle-sharp, though. In her small cubicle, she heard Harper out at length, taking notes and asking acute questions. But it was impossible to tell what she made of the story. At the end she merely asked him to wait.
So Harper returned to the reception room, where he and a number of other people who were waiting for their appointments had no choice but to watch Speed Rogers on a huge television set placed directly across from the couch. He was accusing a Democratic senator of the grossest financial and sexual improprieties and damning hypocritical liberal establishment reporters for failing to investigate him. The program was being broadcast live, from a studio somewhere in Manhattan, so Harper resigned himself to waiting a long time before he got to see Rogers.
