A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1)

by Ben Miller

  “What?” Camilla blurted through the video screen. She could see Reilly and Harringer and their puzzled expressions, but she could no longer see Jack nor hear him well. “What did you say, Jack?”

  Harringer turned toward the computer. “He said they’re song lyrics.” He turned to face Jack and took a few steps towards him, centering himself in front of the dry-erase board. “What song, Jack?”

  Jack’s focus stayed on the dry-erase board, his head cocked to the side. He read over the lines one-by-one, trying to find the melody from the recesses of his mind. He knew he had heard this song before. He thought he had known it well, at one point in his life. At the moment, though, he couldn’t find it.

  Reilly pulled out his laptop from the bag beside his chair. “I’ll Google it,” he announced. He opened his laptop and began booting it up.

  Saxophone. Jack could hear the saxophone around the phrase, I don’t really hate you. He found the melody. The next line came to him, flowing freely now. All of a sudden the entire song popped into his brain. He knew the title and the artist. He had the original vinyl at home, somewhere in his attic. His facial expression changed, signaling his enlightenment. Harringer caught this and became excited himself. Before Jack could give voice to his epiphany, his mind played the next full line of the song. It had continued to play in his head, even though his conscious thought had nearly moved on.

  We were made for each other, me and you.

  “Oh, fuck,” Jack whispered.

  “What?” Harringer pleaded. Reilly had stopped his internet search and joined Harringer in staring at Jack, waiting for the answer.

  Melissa. The Playground Predator had killed Melissa. His message for that slaying had been the voicemail to Jack.

  Jack took a short breath to collect himself, blew it out in a spurt. He focused on Harringer’s face. He would serve Harringer’s needs first, before delving into the Melissa Hollows connection.

  “It’s Peter Gabriel. It’s called ‘Family Snapshot.’”

  Reilly typed furiously on his laptop, plugging the title into Google’s search field.

  Harringer honed his focus on Jack. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “OK, well, what does it mean?” Harringer demanded.

  Jack shook his head and lifted his shoulders in a muted shrug. He turned his gaze back to the dry-erase board. He needed to work out a few things in his head before he could offer any further speculation out loud.

  Harringer spun towards the back of the room. “Reilly?”

  “I’m on it,” Reilly replied, not lifting his eyes from the computer screen. “Here,” he looked up. “I found the song lyrics.”

  “Project them,” Harringer ordered.

  Reilly lifted the computer from his lap and carried it down the row of chairs and to the front of the room. At the podium he unplugged the projector connection from the embedded computer and plugged it into his laptop. Within seconds a web page with the lyrics from the song shone on the screen in the front of the room.

  “Turn the camera around,” a now disembodied Camilla requested, still linked to the room via the connection between her laptop in Front Royal and the podium computer. Reilly grabbed the mounted camera and turned it toward the front screen. Reilly and Harringer read the lyrics silently to themselves. Jack did not need to read them; he sat down in the front row, running the lyrics over in his head.

  “Shit, I can’t read them,” Camilla complained. If anyone in the conference room happened to look at the podium computer, he would have seen Camilla using her Blackberry to search the internet to find the lyrics for herself.

  “What does it mean?” Harringer asked, clearly not having completely finished reading all of the lyrics.

  “This involves me,” Jack said quietly.

  Harringer’s face twisted in incomprehension. “What?!”

  Jack did not make eye contact and spoke very deliberately. “Melissa Hollows called me the day she was killed. I didn’t pick up, but she left me a voice mail. She said, ‘We were made for each other, you and me,’ but then corrected herself. ‘Me and you,’ she said.” He pointed to the screen. “She was quoting this song. There—just two lines below the line quoted in that first message from the killer.”

  Reilly had turned to face Jack, also with a puzzled expression. “I don’t get it. You think Melissa Hollows was wrapped up in this shit?” he asked, pointing to the photos on the bulletin board.

  Jack looked up at him, still pacing his words, choosing them carefully. “No. Not like that. I think your Playground Predator killed Melissa Hollows. And instead of leaving a message behind with the body, he made her call me, give it to me directly.”

  Harringer narrowed his eyes, studying Jack as he would an interrogated suspect on the other side of a one-way mirror. A thousand questions circled in his head, but he couldn’t decide on which one to ask first. So he just stared.

  “I don’t get it. What does Melissa Hollows have to do with this? Why would the Predator want to get you involved?” Reilly queried.

  “I don’t… know,” Jack said. He rubbed his temples with his first two fingers. Perhaps if he squeezed them hard enough, the answer might pop out. Or he might magically turn back time, go back forty-eight hours, before all of this holy shitstorm.

  “I might,” Camilla said from the ether.

  Harringer and Reilly turned toward the computer in the podium. “Go, Camilla,” Harringer commanded. Reilly quickly moved over to the podium so he could see Camilla; Harringer kept his attention on the screen in front of him, reading over the lyrics again.

  “This song seems to be about someone seeking fame. He’s so desperate for it, in fact, that he shoots someone. I—“

  Jack interrupted. “It’s actually—“

  “Uh,” Harringer stopped Jack, sticking his open palm a foot from Jack’s face without turning to face him. “Let her finish.”

  Jack could sense the irritation and suspicion in Harringer’s voice. With good reason, Jack thought. Maybe he should suspect me. Maybe I am going to pay for my sins. Suddenly Jack felt as if he stood on top of a mortar-less brick wall, swaying back and forth, waiting for the inevitable crumble of his foothold and the horrific crash that would follow. Out of nowhere he thought of Vicki, and of Jonah, and he wanted more than anything else to see them, to try to protect them from this impending downfall.

  Camilla continued. “If the Predator wants to be famous, he would want the most famous lawman in the country to be on his tail, right? That’s Jack. He wants Jack.”

  Harringer completed reading the lyrics as Camilla finished speaking. “Ok, I’m buying so far.” He turned to face Jack. “But how does this involve Melissa Hollows?”

  Jack shrugged, not yet sure what to say.

  “She symbolized his most important accomplishment, what made him famous—solving the Lamaya Hollows case,” Reilly exalted, proud of making the link.

  “Maybe… maybe,” Harringer conceded. “Jack?” His tone relaxed, became less interrogatory and more collegial.

  Jack sighed, shrugged again. Sounds pretty good to me. And maybe it’s right. Maybe this has nothing to do with sleeping with her, he hoped. “I suppose it makes sense.”

  Harringer nodded. He looked back to the screen, to the lyrics. “What were you going to say earlier?”

  Things had been moving so fast, Jack had to stop to think for a moment. He remembered what he had intended to say a few moments ago, but it didn’t seem that significant. In reality, he mostly had been trying to change the subject. “Oh. I was going to say that specifically the song is about the Kennedy assassination from the perspective of Lee Harvey Oswald. That is his motivation—his destiny, even. To be famous, like JFK.”

  Harringer and Reilly turned back to the screen; in her hotel room in Front Royal, Camilla went back to studying the web browser on her phone. “Huh,” Reilly uttered, agreeing with Jack’s interpretation of the lyrics.

  Jack stood up abruptly, his hand p
ointing to the screen. “That’s it.” Only those who knew him as well as Harringer, Reilly, and Camilla could sense the trembling in his voice.

  “What?” Harringer asked.

  “He doesn’t want to be famous like Lee Harvey Oswald. He wants to be as famous as Oswald.”

  “How do you get as famous as Oswald?” Reilly asked without taking any time to think about it.

  Camilla nearly shouted through the computer. “You assassinate the President.”

  Jack glared at his compatriots in the conference room. “Or the President’s daughters.”

  61

  The young girl looked out the car window from the back seat. She watched the buildings pass by, but she didn’t recognize most of them. Even the small sapling trees lining the road didn’t look familiar. This isn’t the way home, she thought. She sat up a little higher, trying to get a better view of the landscape whirring by. Nothing rang a bell.

  She hesitated to say anything to the man driving the car. Surely he knew where he was going. She looked to her left, to the other side of the backseat. Her older sister sat there silently, her thumbs working wildly on the cell phone in her lap. Apparently she hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Even leaving school early hadn’t fazed her. And not just early—super early. The day had just begun, really. But her sister didn’t seem to care in the least.

  She looked into the front seat. Neither the driver nor the man in the passenger seat acted as if anything were awry. But she didn’t think she could trust their reaction, or lack thereof. They had been trained to remain calm.

  Her parents had always taught her to speak her mind, that her opinion mattered just as much as anyone else’s. She reminded herself of this, and decided to ask aloud, “Where are we going?”

  The man in the passenger seat, Dan, turned his head over his left shoulder. “We’re going home early today, like we said.”

  The girl looked out the window again, just to confirm her original thought. Nope, still not familiar. “But this isn’t the way home.”

  Dan turned more fully this time, so he could make eye contact with her. At the same time, the conversation had broken her older sister out of her texting trance. She looked up from her phone and tried to get a sense of her surroundings. She felt a bolt of adrenaline surge through her, as if suddenly realizing something scary. Dan said, now to both of them, “We’re taking a slightly different way home today. But it’s the way home, trust me.”

  “It’s the way home,” Paul, the driver, echoed, without taking his eyes off the road.

  The older sister looked back out the window. Though she had known both of these men for a few years, and had no reason to doubt them, she couldn’t shake the tingle of that fresh epinephrine coursing through her veins. “Is something wrong? Is it Dad?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Your dad’s fine, and your mom is too. We are just going to get you home for the day. OK?”

  “OK,” they each said in turn, neither sounding thoroughly convinced. The little sister went back to looking out the window, as did the older one. Without looking down, she folded her phone up and put it in her jacket pocket.

  62

  Jack sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, staring at the intricate pattern on the rug beneath him. His eyes followed the swooping patterns of dark and light. The design somehow projected both a classical and contemporary feel at the same time. It added warmth to the otherwise light—and, quite frankly, drab—color scheme of the rest of the room.

  Though partially enamored by the rug, Jack’s mind focused mostly on the boggling mystery at hand. He tried to connect the playground murders, Melissa Hollows, himself, and “Family Snapshot” in some fashion that made sense, but the logic continued to elude him. Occasionally his thoughts oscillated back to his original stressor of the day: his meeting with Philip Prince to discuss his campaign paradigm and to plan a schedule of upcoming events. He had called Philip as he left the office to tell him that he would need to reschedule the meeting. Philip tried to interrupt, asking Jack to explain in better detail, but Jack deferred. He didn’t offer a reason. Prince would hear soon enough through the media—or, more likely, his far-reaching web of insiders—about the recent happenings in the Playground Predator case and its probable link to the Melissa Hollows murder. And to Jackson Byrne.

  “I can’t believe we’re in the Oval Office,” Reilly whispered, sitting beside Jack on the cream-colored couch.

  Jack looked up from the carpet toward Reilly, whose neck craned upward to appreciate the elaborate molding and painted icons on the ceiling. Jack nodded, which Reilly sensed through his peripheral vision, but he did not say anything.

  Reilly looked over at Jack, who turned his focus back to the carpet between his knees. Despite the fact that they sat alone in the room, Reilly kept his voice low. “Do you really think our un-sub is targeting the President’s kids?”

  Jack shrugged. “I think we have to assume that it’s a very real possibility.”

  Opposite them a door swung inward, opened with authority by the man walking through it. He left the door open behind him as he walked straight across the room toward Jack and Reilly. When he got within two steps his right hand shot out at waist height, open-palmed for a handshake.

  “Devin Nicholas,” he announced. Jack and Reilly each stood up, introduced themselves, and shook his hand. “I’m the Director of the Secret Service.”

  He needed no introduction for Jack. He knew of Devin Nicholas and had never heard anything less than glowing remarks about him. Jack also knew that he and Reilly need not introduce themselves; Nicholas surely knew any and all pertinent details about them already.

  “I’m Special Agent Heath Reilly and this is Special Agent Jackson Byrne, FBI, Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resource Center,” Reilly introduced unnecessarily.

  Nicholas nodded. “Pleasure to meet you. Please sit.” He gestured to their couch, and backed himself into the couch opposite them.

  Just as they all entered their individual crouches, President Sullivan walked through the open door opposite them. He closed the door behind him as all three of the other men in the room promptly stood back up straight. “Hello, Jack,” he said and he walked over and shook his hand.

  “Hello, Mr. President,” Jack replied. The memory of using “awesome” in his previous meeting with The Most Powerful Man in the World jolted him, and he had to restrain a shudder from coming over him.

  “Special Agent Heath Reilly,” Reilly said as the two shook. “It’s an honor sir.”

  The President nodded as he turned and sat on the couch beside Nicholas. “I have to be honest, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Jack.”

  “No, sir, I imagine you didn’t. Nor did I.”

  “So please tell me why I had to take my daughters out of school this morning.”

  Reilly, silent, looked at Jack, apparently awaiting the answer just as eagerly as The President. Jack understood the message in this gesture: Reilly came along today to project his assumption of the leadership role of this investigation, but the theory of the President’s family’s involvement belonged primarily to Jack. Smart move, Jack thought. If I’m right, it looks like you supported me. If I’m wrong, you can quickly separate yourself from the idea by laying it all back on me.

  “Have you heard of the so-called Playground Predator?” Jack began.

  “I have, a little, but enlighten me,” The President replied.

  Jack briefly recounted the events of the past several weeks in York, Frederick, and Front Royal. He described the notes planted on the bodies, likely novel information to The President, as it had not yet been released to the press. Finally he discussed his theory of the link to “Family Snapshot,” and the possibility of The President and his family as targets. He left out the link between this case and Melissa Hollows’ murder.

  “I am a fan of Peter Gabriel, but I have to admit I’m not familiar with this song,” said The President.

  Reill
y pulled a manila folder out of his leather satchel and extended it to Jack, all without saying a word. Jack glared at Reilly, trying hard to hide his incredulity. Since when am I your errand boy? he telepathically asked Reilly. Before waiting for Reilly to intuit the question and send a mind message back his way, Jack decided that this wasn’t the time for a swinging dick contest. He grabbed the folder and walked it the few feet across to the two gentlemen opposite them.

  The President took the folder and opened it up, revealing one sheet of paper inside: the complete lyrics to “Family Snapshot” by Peter Gabriel.

  63

  Before leaving the morning meeting about the Playground Predator to attend another meeting regarding a possible child abduction in the Pacific Northwest, Dylan Harringer had put Amanda Lundquist on the assignment of working on the song angle. She had contacted Peter Gabriel’s management team in the UK to see if they had received any unusual requests, contacts, fan mail, etc. The individual with whom she had spoken, Lonny White, expressed genuine concern. He said he had not heard of anything, but he would ask around the office to the rest of the team and let her know if anything came up. Mr. Gabriel had started a music publishing company several years ago, so his “team” had actually grown quite large.

  Amanda then conducted internet searches, trying to find any recent references to that song. She learned that the book An Assassin’s Diary written by Arthur Bremer, the man convicted of the assassination attempt of the Democratic Presidential candidate George Wallace in 1972, had actually served as the initial inspiration for Peter Gabriel to write the lyrics. Whether Gabriel intended to create a parallel to Lee Harvey Oswald’s assassination of JFK seemed to remain open to interpretation.

  A handful of blogs made reference to the decades-old tune. After spending nearly four hours and going through dozens of results, she singled out four blog entries that seemed odd, ominous, or in any way suspicious. The author’s complete information, including address and phone number, had been listed on two of the four blogs. While she made notes on both, she felt confident in eliminating them based on location: one blogger lived in Lake Tahoe, Nevada, and the other in Chelmsford, England.