by Lisa Shearin
“You said you didn’t get anything like that from him.”
“Because I wasn’t looking for it. My four minutes versus his two hours tells me that I only saw a small slice. I got the deaths and the attack on Grandad because that was what I knew about, so it stands to reason that was what I picked up.”
“Does it work that way?”
“It never has before, but I’ve never linked with a microchip-enhanced psycho who’s sat in one spot for two hours. I’m breaking new ground here. That’s why I wanted to come back, to see how much is really here. It’d be like walking out of an interrogation room only five minutes into a confession.”
Berta thought for a moment. “You wouldn’t think he’d look up or do anything sensitive here. The Wi-Fi in places like this isn’t what you’d call secure. But then again, this is a man who murdered two US senators—one in his office, the other on the toilet in his office building. I imagine he wouldn’t be too concerned with some kid scooping up a password off his laptop. Though if anyone hacked Halverson, it’d probably be the last hack they’d ever do.”
“Precisely,” I said. “My questions are: What was he doing when he wasn’t watching for us to come home? Checking email? Confirming his flight reservation to New York? Or was he just typing ‘All work and no play makes Elias a dull boy’ for two hours? And when he left here, which way did he go? Did he have a car parked nearby? Or had he taken the Metro? There’s a station on the next block. Where had he been that day, besides the Hart Building?” I glanced at the corner stool next to me. “I won’t find answers to any of those until I try. I don’t want to watch what he did to Grandad again, but if I can pick up anything worthwhile, it’ll be worth it.” I gave Berta a small smile. “And if I get sick, your car’s right outside.”
“Don’t you throw up on my upholstery.”
I raised my right hand. “I swear.”
“Scoot on over then,” she said. “I’m here if you need me. If I get a call, I’ll step outside. Rees said he’d call before six.”
I nodded. I’d already begun my preparation for what I was about to do. I opened my laptop in front of the last stool and tilted the screen in the same direction Halverson had. Then I scooted over, putting my messenger bag on the stool I’d just vacated.
The impulses were still strong, but I blocked them until I was ready. I hadn’t done that this morning, and that’d been stupid. Holding off images this powerful wasn’t easy, like pushing a door closed against gale-force winds, but I wouldn’t let Halverson’s thoughts overwhelm me again.
Everything he had thought was still here. This time, I would control what I saw, and it wasn’t going to be a replay of Halverson’s twisted murder highlights reel.
I kept my breathing deep and even as I pretended to push my laptop’s power button. I didn’t want it on. I wanted to let the darkened screen be a mental canvas for what I hoped to see.
My eyes were drawn toward the town house.
It was the same time of day as when Grandad had been attacked exactly two days ago.
I slowly allowed Elias Halverson’s mind inside.
I concentrated on his screen, not his surveillance. I didn’t want his thoughts this time as much as what he was looking at while he waited.
He did have a Word document open and was typing gibberish, but he minimized it occasionally to do other things. He Googled the names of his three kills, reading the coverage of his crimes, amused to see how little the media knew and even more amused at some of the theories the fringe was spreading on social media.
I sensed Berta get up and go outside.
I let my focus soften until the screen and laptop in front of me blurred into a haze.
I thought back to what I’d learned and knew, reasoning my way through it, piecing it together.
Barton Renwick had told Halverson that killing Grandad and me was his dress rehearsal. He needed to practice distance kills…He killed two and three homeless at a time…A dress rehearsal was a practice for opening night or for a gala performance. What did an actor do to prepare? He would study his lines, immerse himself in his character, memorize his marks, his position, on the stage.
His stage.
Where was Elias Halverson’s gala performance?
His desktop screen was crowded with icons. I couldn’t get a sharp focus on any of the icons or make out any of the names underneath. He touched his mousepad, taking the cursor to a shortcut in the lower left corner and clicked on it.
A list of three files. The names were abbreviations and numbers that didn’t mean anything to me.
He clicked on the third one.
A floor plan.
These weren’t the floor plans you could get online showing meeting rooms and offices, or where the bathroom and elevators were. These were detailed, blueprint-level plans, showing every nook and cranny, including maintenance access points in ceilings and behind walls for lighting and sound, fire and structural inspections.
Where a PK assassin could see out, but no one could see in.
As Halverson scrolled across it, I recognized it as the US Capitol building. He made his way across, then zoomed in on one room.
I recognized it instantly, even in all its confusing detail. Nearly any American would.
The Hall of the House of Representatives, or more commonly known as the House Chamber.
The location of the president’s annual State of the Union address.
This year there wouldn’t be a State of the Union address; President Catherine Archer had just been sworn in ten days ago. But she would still speak to a joint session of Congress. Seated behind her would be the vice president and the Speaker of the House.
Two or three clustered together.
It was tomorrow night.
No wonder the FBI and Gabriel Marshall couldn’t find him. The UN attack was probably a decoy.
I suddenly shivered. No one had opened the door. It wasn’t cold in here.
I froze. I was being watched.
The sensation wasn’t coming from behind me. It was outside, through the window.
He was outside, watching my every move. It was his eyes I felt on me.
He was cleaning up loose ends. Me.
Berta was on the phone, walking up and down the sidewalk.
He was watching her, seeing me watch her. The bastard was enjoying this.
If I called Berta, and she switched over to answer, he could kill her before she could take cover.
If he killed her or me, someone had to know what I’d seen.
I looked back at my screen. He wouldn’t kill Berta unless I was watching. I had to take that chance. Without looking down or moving my torso, I reached over and pulled my phone out of my bag. I’d have to take the chance that Halverson couldn’t see my hands. I shifted my eyes down just enough to see my phone screen. My texting app opened to the last text I’d sent.
Gabriel Marshall.
I typed.
Elias here. Now. Coffee shop. Saw house chamber floor plan. Sotu tomorrow night. Stop him.
I silently thanked the programmers of Messenger for word shortcuts, so I didn’t have to fully type everything. It was an address to Congress and not the official State of the Union, but Marshall would know what I meant.
I added Rees as a recipient and sent it.
I’d done all I could do.
Time to get Berta.
CHAPTER 38
If he could see me, it meant I could see him.
Across the intersecting street was a small park, little more than a few trees and benches. There he was, near the back, in the shadows, on a Kawasaki Ninja. The bike’s silhouette was unmistakable. The visor was down on his helmet, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I didn’t need to see them to know that Elias Halverson was staring straight at me. If his PK was a laser-sighted sniper rifle, I’d be sporting a red dot between my eyes or over my heart.
I stared back, and the connection was immediate.
He wondered if I heard his thoughts. He hoped that I did. He wanted me to know that he could kill me in seconds, but he didn’t want to do it while I was in the coffee shop. I’d just drop to the floor, and then he wouldn’t be able to watch me die.
Perhaps he would kill Berta. That would flush me out of hiding.
He wanted me to come outside. Then he’d strike, watching me collapse on the sidewalk in front of Berta, passersby either helping or ignoring me, or standing frozen and staring in shock or indecision. Self-preservation would win. It always did. They always ran. When he’d worked with a sniper’s rifle, his work had always been made easier by the inaction or shock of the herd. The horror as the head of someone close to them exploded. He wished he had his rifle now, that way he could take me where I sat. The window would explode along with my skull. It would be more satisfying.
He slowly raised his visor, and we locked eyes.
He wanted me, not Berta.
This was a game for him, and he was enjoying it. He liked that I saw him, that I knew what he was, what he could do to me. Yet I still stared at him, not in terror, but in challenge. If he killed me now, his fun would end along with me.
I took the chance that he wanted the game to continue a little longer.
I closed my laptop and slid it into my messenger bag, putting the strap over my head and across my chest. Then I slowly walked to the door, my eyes never leaving his.
Halverson shifted on his bike, sitting a little straighter. He hadn’t decided what he wanted to do, but he liked that I was coming outside to him. He liked it a lot. If he had any idea what I’d just seen on my blank screen, I’d be a dead woman walking.
Berta still had her back to me, but had nearly reached the end of the section of sidewalk she’d taken as her pacing path. The car was close, but was it close enough?
The timing would be critical.
He raised his gloved hand and pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then at mine.
I wasn’t feeling smart. It was probably suicidal, but I did it right back. Then I extended my arm, those two fingers still raised. Smiling, I slowly lowered my index finger—thus flipping off quite possibly the most powerful psychic in the world.
It felt good.
Berta saw, comprehended, and reacted.
Next thing I knew, we were on the sidewalk with Berta’s car between us and the Grim Reaper on a crotch rocket.
I heard the Ninja screaming away.
Berta swore and reached for the door handle.
“Zero to sixty, three seconds,” I told her.
She pounded her fist on the car door. “Piece of shit!”
“Agreed.” I slouched against the rear tire. The adrenaline spike had come and gone, leaving me exhausted and shaky. “We can call it in…I know the make and model…He and that bike are long gone, but he’ll be back. I know where he’ll be tomorrow night.”
They wouldn’t find him, but he’d already made his biggest mistake by coming back.
If he had ever gone to New York in the first place.
Next time, I promised myself. Next time he wasn’t going to get away.
He was probably thinking the same about me.
One of us would be right. The other would be dead.
“He was watching us,” I told Rees and Roger Hudson. “He wanted me to know how easy it would be for him to kill us both, but he was enjoying himself too much to actually do it.”
Within minutes after texting Rees and Marshall about Halverson, black sedans with sirens wailing had descended on the little coffee shop. A few minutes after that, I got not a text, but an actual phone call from Gabriel Marshall. Judging from the amount of profanity directed at Halverson, I think he might have been worried about me.
I was back at the Washington Field Office. I really didn’t want this to become a habit. Only this time, we were in SAC Hudson’s office and not a conference room.
Marshall was right. FBI coffee left much to be desired. I set the cup aside. I didn’t see myself sleeping tonight as it was. I didn’t need caffeinated jitters on top of the jitters I already had.
I’d already told them what I’d seen on Halverson’s laptop screen.
That’d kicked the hornet’s nest.
“I’ve spoken with ADC Williams,” Hudson told me. “She’s meeting with Director Montgomery right now. Don’t worry, your name will never come up. Our information came from a trusted source.”
“She knows what kind of killer Halverson is?”
“She does.”
“How’s she going to work that into the conversation?”
“Quite openly, I’d expect.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I never kid or joke, Ms. Donati. Ask Special Agent Rees.”
I glanced at Rees.
“I have not witnessed it.”
“What are you going to tell the president?” I asked. “If she gets a sudden headache, dive behind the podium?”
“We’re hoping it won’t get that far,” Hudson replied. “I’ve called Theodore Chisholm.”
“Warning him that he and the CIA are about to get thrown under the bus?”
“He would do the same for me.”
“Thrown under the bus or warned?” I asked.
“Both,” said a familiar voice from the now open doorway. Gabriel Marshall came in, closing the door behind him. “That was careless,” he told me.
“Stop with the nice. You say ‘careless,’ but you mean ‘stupid.’ You would’ve done the same, and probably more, if you’d been there.”
“I’m qualified. You’re—”
“I was in his head. Barrington was wrong. The chip didn’t change him. Elias Halverson has always been a sadistic psycho. He was enjoying himself too much to kill me or Berta. He killed two people I cared about and one I loved. Thank God, he was brought back. So yes, when I had a chance to look him in the eye and flip him off, I did it. I do not cower, and don’t you dare tell me I should.” Normally, this was when I’d be up and in someone’s face, but right now, it was just too much work.
I think Marshall sensed as much and moved on.
“He was relaxed,” I told them as I tried to do the same. “As if he was exactly where he needed to be. Maybe he’s killing time until tomorrow night—no pun intended.”
“We’re canvassing hotels and short-term rental apartments in the area,” Rees told Hudson. “To see if he’s been staying anywhere close by, though I can’t see him remaining in the area now.”
“Unless he’s confident he’s well hidden,” Marshall said.
“That Ninja’s certainly memorable,” I noted. “Though easy enough to tuck away.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow.
“An H2,” I elaborated. “Not sure of the year, probably no more than two years old.”
“We’re checking registrations down the East Coast,’ Hudson said. “Chisholm shared that Elias Halverson had briefly been based in Miami and New York.”
I glanced at Marshall. “But we’re not holding our breath on that paying off, Mr. Granger.”
Marshall shrugged and took a seat. “I value my privacy.”
“Any sign of Barton Renwick?” Rees asked him.
“Chisholm has reason to believe he’s left the country under an alias, Malcolm Preswick.”
“With the chips.”
Marshall scowled. “Yes, with the chips. Halverson works alone. Having Renwick underfoot would just slow him down and increase his risk of capture. How’s the president going to be told?” he asked Hudson.
“Chisholm is taking this to your director. Director Montgomery is awaiting his call to coordinate a briefing with the Secret Service and President Archer. The recommendation is that the address be either postponed or given from the Oval Office.”
“I don’t see her going for that,” I said. “She’s the first woman president. If she doesn’t show up, she’ll be politically eviscerated. They’ll say,
‘See? We told you. Women aren’t brave enough, or strong enough, or tough enough to be president.’ Or what would probably become a trending hashtag—NotManEnough.”
“Officially, Elias Halverson is a rogue CIA officer,” Marshall reminded us. “Dementiev, or whomever he’s trying to impress, wants to make it look like the CIA assassinated the top three people in the US government. With Elias Halverson in his arsenal, he can deliver death around any corner, in front of a few or millions, with no danger of detection, no concern of capture. Halverson can get through any security checkpoint because he doesn’t need weapons. He is a weapon. Dementiev—or whoever pays him enough for Halverson’s services—can bring chaos to any country, any government, any administration—at a glance.”
“And if Halverson got ambitious tomorrow night, he’d have his pick of more than the three on the podium,” I told them. “All broadcast live. No one knows what he looks like.” I paused. “I don’t need a description to find him.” I met the eyes of each man in turn. “I can find him in a crowd. He’ll have his PK going at full power to kill three people in as many seconds. His psychic spoor should be like a strobe light in a dark room. I’m the best chance you’ve got to stop this.” I had an unwanted flashback to Grandad’s attack. “All he needs to do is get in the House Chamber. Line of sight. That’s all he needs.”
Hudson blew out his breath. “What do you want me to do?”
Marshall stepped forward. “Get us in the room. We’ll take it from there.”
CHAPTER 39
President Catherine Archer refused to cancel her Tuesday night address to the joint session of Congress.
She said that her time in office would be filled with danger, both political and physical. There would always be the possibility of a sniper on a roof, a killer in a crowd, or an assassin waiting on the proverbial grassy knoll. She refused to hide in the Oval Office.
