He downloaded the contents of her phone to his, verified the transfer completed, and then used the butt of his revolver to demolish her phone. He stored the remains in a plastic bag partially filled with rocks.
“Damn, Thomas,” Haddad shouted from the driver’s seat. “The hell you doing? We need to get the fuck outta here.”
Thomas ignored Haddad. He climbed outside the van with the plastic bag in hand and looked around again to make sure no one was watching. He hurried back to where he’d knocked the girl to the ground. He scooped up the scattered remains of her sunglasses, added them to the plastic bag, and returned to the van.
Satisfied that he had removed all evidence and that there were no onlookers he needed to eliminate, he scrambled into the passenger seat and stored his gun and leg holster in the glove compartment.
“Take the route I gave you,” Thomas said to Haddad. “Make sure you stay under the speed limit.”
Five minutes later, they crossed the Potomac. Thomas directed Haddad to pull over and stop. He rolled down his window, tossed the weighted plastic bag into the river, and watched it sink below the surface. Let’s see what anyone does with her damn Find Phone app now.
He looked over his shoulder and observed the girl. Nothing.
“Okay, let’s head to the cabin. Mind the speed limit.”
“When this is all over, you oughta think about renting yourself out as an echo.”
Thomas scowled at Haddad, but said nothing further.
* * *
Thomas removed the hood, tape, and handcuffs, and the girl’s backpack.
She’d be dead in a week no matter how the Court ruled, but she’d be less of a nuisance in the interim if she didn’t know the fate that awaited her. Nicer digs would give her false hope. Besides, he’d had some time to kill—so to speak—before he grabbed her. And putting his design and construction skills to work while he waited beat working on crossword puzzles and was … oddly therapeutic: a stocked mini-refrigerator beneath a small open cabinet with two shelves and a microwave sitting on top of the cabinet. The air-conditioning system he’d installed was working fine. He’d also rigged a portable bathroom in the corner, fully equipped with toilet, sink, shower, and even a second, larger cabinet with a few changes of clothes and toiletries. Always like my ladies to smell nice.
Written instructions for her if she woke up were on the table next to the bed. He really did hope she was just sleeping it off. The grandfather might insist on some form of evidence that she was alive. And well. He took out his phone, snapped a few pictures of her. Live video would, of course, be a lot more convincing. But she wasn’t moving. The pictures would have to do if necessary.
As Thomas shot the still pictures of the girl, he noticed a small device protruding from her pant pocket. He froze, scared he might have missed a second GPS monitor in addition to the one destroyed with her phone. He had an involuntary urge to turn and look behind him. At what?
Cautiously, he pulled whatever the object was away from her body, spotting an almost invisible, clear, miniature plastic line coming off one end of the gadget and disappearing under her T-shirt. Now more curious than cautious, he peeled back the girl’s top and saw the other end of the thin line—disappearing into her belly, no less.
His mind was racing. One question after another. What the hell is that? Steroids? Is this why she plays golf so well? Does she have health issues? Does she play golf like she does despite a medical problem? Is this thing sending messages somewhere? He wondered what would happen if he removed it.
He had to decide. If he left it in place, the girl was in control. If he removed it, he was in control. He grabbed the line where it entered her stomach, and pulled. It popped right out. Nothing. Just a couple drops of blood. Quiet. No alarm bells. At least none that he could hear.
Not happy. He hated loose ends. Literally.
He’d had no time to examine the contents of the girl’s backpack when it opened and spilled out on the street. He emptied it out on the bed next to her and sifted through the contents. He found a bunch of school items, including those he had previously spilled and retrieved when he’d seized her. And a zippered canvas bag. He unzipped the bag and peered inside.
* * *
“WE’VE ACTUALLY HAD two prior constitutional conventions, Anne. The first in 1781, when the thirteen states adopted and ratified our first Constitution, the Articles of Confederation. The second in 1787, when the Articles of Confederation were repealed and replaced by our second Constitution. The one we still have today. The NoPoli convention last July 4th was actually the country’s third constitutional convention.”
“And the details of the convention?”
“A great deal of planning and work went into structuring our convention, but its conduct was fairly straightforward—and democratic. You reported it. Delegates participated from all fifty states—50,000 in number, plus another 20,000 alternates. Selected by the respective NoPoli chapters in every state, they assembled in the New Orleans Superdome and enacted the amendment by a two-thirds super-majority vote of each state delegation.”
Elliott made a living as a wordsmith, but Nishimura observed that Kessler was the stronger speaker. “Gentlemen, this would probably be a good time to take a moment to show our viewers exactly what this amendment looks like. Chris, would you please walk us through its provisions displayed on the giant electronic screen on the wall behind us?”
* * *
Thomas laughed out loud. Mystery solved. Not some kind of GPS.
The unzipped bag contained a partially used vial of insulin, a couple of syringes, and some other paraphernalia. What he’d just yanked out of the girl’s stomach was an insulin pump. He’d read about those somewhere. Geez, she’s a diabetic. Maybe she can reinsert the pump, he thought. If not, she’ll have to use those backup syringes. That’s obviously what they’re for. He wondered how long this insulin supply would last.
He returned everything to the backpack, including the pump he’d removed from the girl’s body—and perhaps irretrievably damaged. He dropped the backpack on the floor near the table with his note. He was on a tight schedule. No more time to admire his handiwork.
He locked the basement door, double-checked that it was secure, and ascended the stairs. He expected to find Haddad in the front room where he’d told him to wait and keep a lookout.
But Haddad was gone.
* * *
Thomas looked outside and saw Haddad leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette, in full view of any hikers who might happen by.
Thomas was livid. He went out the front door and locked it behind him, again double-checking that it was secure.
“Thought I told you to stay put. Indoors. Out of sight.”
No response.
“Did you not hear me?”
Haddad glowered. “Needed some fresh air. And a smoke. What’s the fucking big deal? No one around here anyways. Just like we planned it.”
Thomas shook his head. “Like I planned it. Let’s go.”
Haddad turned and stepped toward the van. With lightning speed, Thomas reached across Haddad’s left side with his own left arm and latched onto Haddad’s right shoulder. He pulled hard on the right shoulder as he simultaneously grabbed and jerked down on a fistful of Haddad’s long hair just above the right ear. The loud snap of the man’s neck told Thomas his accomplice was now his former accomplice—even before the released body slumped to the ground.
* * *
THOMAS LOOKED DOWN at Haddad’s body lying motionless on the ground. “Cigarettes are hazardous to your health, fool. So was your long, ugly mop of hair. You woulda done better with a buzz cut.”
Thomas knew that discarding Haddad had only been a matter of time, but it frustrated him that the timing turned out not to be of his own choosing. Especially when some of the work in the days ahead would have been easier spread over two backs.
The last time Thomas had dropped his guard—just a little—it had almost cost him his life. It wa
s during the Norman case, in Brooks’s court. When Brooks was still on the bench. Brooks was the impetus behind Lotello going after Thomas. Even though neither one of them then realized it was Thomas. If they do even today. There was a shootout. Thomas escaped, just barely. He was lucky. Lotello wasn’t. He caught a bullet.
Although Thomas managed to get away, it cost him everything he’d been working for. This was now Thomas’s last chance. He could not fail this time. No more mistakes. No more misjudgments. Haddad was unreliable. Insubordinate. A fool. Should have known better than to select him. Had to reassert myself. Had to get rid of him. No choice.
Thomas threw Haddad’s corpse in the back of the van, and drove off. He stopped along a quiet stretch of the Potomac, miles away from where he had dumped the bag with the remains of the girl’s phone and sunglasses. He stuffed each of Haddad’s pant and jacket pockets with rocks collected from the riverbed, dumped the body into the water, and watched it sink.
He chemically wiped down the inside of the van, and then burned the cleaning materials along with the latex gloves he’d been wearing all day. He sprinkled the ashes into the water and watched them float away. He would also soon dismantle and destroy the van. And everything else. In the meanwhile, he was confident no one could connect the van with him, the girl, or his ex-associate.
He hurried off to Court, again sticking to the speed limits. It was going to be close. He really wanted to monitor the girl’s grandfather—and the results of all his planning and efforts—in person. If necessary, he had another cell phone ready to go and would watch the proceedings by television from a nearby bar he had already selected. Just in case. Control was everything.
* * *
Groggy, head pounding, eyelids so heavy, Cassie fought to break free of the cobwebs that were not yet ready to let go. No sense of time or place, muddled, she sought to gain some solid footing.
The day—if it were still the same day—had started like any other. Up at five every morning, the cost of wanting to be the best woman golfer in the world—not the best diabetic golfer, but the best golfer, period. And not one of the best, but the best. Her steady run of victories on the juniors’ circuit demonstrated this was no fantasy.
She tested her blood sugar that morning, programmed a supplemental bolus through her insulin pump to cover her slightly elevated glucose level, threaded her orthodontic braces, organized her curls just so, put on her favorite earrings, and finished getting dressed. She fed Whitney, the family pup, next.
When she said, “C’mon, Whit, let’s go potty outside,” he looked at her curiously and hesitated. Hair too frizzy. Face full of freckles. Too skinny, the tallest in her class, even taller than the boys. Now, because of the ginormous lisp caused by her new braces, even her dog didn’t know who she was anymore. In spite of her tough self-assessment, Whitney followed her out the door.
She remembered her dad driving her to morning practice. He answered emails and watched her hit until he left for work. Her parents still wouldn’t let her walk to and from school on her own, but they’d finally caved in and allowed her to walk the few blocks back and forth between practice and school.
Cassie continued to retrace the morning. She’d finished hitting, was on the way to school, listening to music on her latest playlist, thinking about how practice had gone. She had also texted Madison that she would meet her in the cafeteria in a few and was looking forward to their trip to the Supreme Court.
Suddenly, it all came rushing back to her.
* * *
Just as Cassie had sent the text to Madison, that dirty old van had screeched up alongside her. Guy in a hoodie jumped out and ran toward her. She tried to make it back to the golf course. He was too fast. Knocked her to the ground. She had tried to fight. Saw the large syringe in his hand sailing toward her. Something sharp stabbed her in the neck. That was it. Until now.
She began shaking, crying. Her knees were scraped and throbbing. Her neck was sore. She was trembling from head to toe, but she wanted to be brave. He’s a real perv, a big bully. He should pick on someone his own size. See how he’d like it then.
Trying to be brave wasn’t working. And then it dawned on her what was happening.
* * *
Oh my God. I’ve been kidnapped!
Cassie began shuddering uncontrollably.
Not good. Why me? What did I do?
Tears again spilled out of her eyes and swamped her cheeks and T-shirt. Her mind raced in all directions. Mom and Dad. Nanny and Poppy. Whitney. Will I ever see any of them again? What about my golf? Michelle Wie tweeted she wanted to play with me. I so want to. And Madison—Madison—she’s going to be so ticked at me for not showing.
And then—as if things couldn’t get any worse—they did.
* * *
CASSIE COULDN’T BREATHE. My pump! Where’s my pump?
* * *
THE UNIFORMED SUPREME COURT security officer shouted over the clamor of echoing voices and shuffling feet beneath the high-vaulted ceiling of the courthouse lobby: “Empty your pockets and bags, place the contents in one of the free bins, and put the bin on the conveyor belt. Cameras, cell phones, and other electronic devices are not permitted in the courtroom and must be checked before entering. You’ll be given a claim check and can retrieve your items when you leave.”
“Nothing in my pockets, Officer,” Thomas said. “Just my billfold, a notepad, and a couple of pens in my shoulder bag.”
“Step ahead, stand on the marks, raise your hands above your head.”
He did exactly as he was told.
“Come through,” the security officer motioned.
Thomas entered the courtroom gallery, looked around, and limped over to the left aisle seat, one row forward from the rear. He stood there staring at the woman occupying the seat until she finally acknowledged his presence.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Any chance I could trouble you to find another seat? It’s this darn stiff leg of mine. I sure could use an aisle seat near the exit.”
She stared at him. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. If she refused his entreaty, he had another couple seats nearby he’d try. If all three attempts fell flat, he’d have to revert to Plan B: Leave the courtroom, grab one of the other phones he’d hidden outside the courthouse, along with three extra SIM cards, each one barely the size of his thumbnail, and hurry to the bar down the street, where several wall-screen televisions would be carrying the coverage.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the woman occupying his preferred spot nodded silently and moved over to one of the few remaining gallery seats. “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he called after her. Plan A it was, at least for this initial half-day session.
With an exaggerated effort, Thomas slumped down into the seat the woman had vacated, unlatched his shoulder bag, and placed it on the floor between his legs. He surveyed the courtroom in front of him with a mixture of admiration and amusement. The gallery was filling in quickly. Given the seminal importance of the case, Thomas knew the courtroom would soon be packed.
He leaned forward and coughed. He deftly removed one of the two phones and three of the six extra SIM cards he had two-way taped under each of the three-aisle gallery seats over the course of the prior week. He slipped the items into his bag.
So far, so good. It had been surprisingly easy for Thomas to get a night shift custodial position at the courthouse. Of course, it probably hadn’t hurt his chances that two custodians—one was enough, the second was just for good measure—mysteriously went missing without notice only days earlier. Or that Thomas had been able to hack into the Court computer system and move his application to the head of the waiting list for custodial positions. Not likely the incinerated bodies of those two janitors will ever turn up, or be tied to this case before the Court rules.
Creating an employment history and references had required the fabrication of a handful of modest-sized custodial companies in several small easterly Virginia towns. Each with manufactur
ed owners and phone numbers leading to additional prepaid cells Thomas had purchased. Of course, no one was there when calls came in to verify the references. But Thomas always promptly returned the voicemail messages left by the Court’s human resources office. Using voice alteration software, he provided bona fides in sufficiently unique voices to accredit his fictitious applicant.
The interview had been a mere formality. Two weeks after he had sent in his application, Thomas’s new job allowed him undisturbed access to the very courtroom where today’s proceedings would take place. Over the course of several nights, he’d managed to sneak in six cell phones and extra SIM cards and taped them to the bottom of the three targeted seats. Including the one he now occupied.
Using three separate Craigslist ads, Thomas had surreptitiously hired three different people to stand in line this morning and get him a seat while he tended to more urgent priorities. He had paid each through a joint “Pay After Delivery” PayPal escrow account.
As for the phones, in addition to his personal smartphone for the possible rare occasion when he would need capability not included on burners, Thomas had purchased forty “burner” phones for cash over a period of several weeks. No identification was required. Each purchase was made at a different drugstore, electronics shop, or telecommunications carrier retailer. Fifty dollars bought a phone already loaded with one full month of prepaid service. The cost was a pittance.
It would have been easier, cheaper, and more efficient if he had purchased just a couple of phones and downloaded the latest burner apps to them that all the drug dealers, pimps, and hackers were using these days, but Thomas didn’t trust the vulnerable security of that approach. He was far too cautious for anything that risky.
The extra effort expended was well worth it. So long as he meticulously followed his simple protocol, neither his identity nor his location could ever be traced: Employing a new SIM card for each text sent, removing the phone battery and old SIM card immediately after their use and breaking the old SIM card in half, and then reinserting the battery and a new SIM card at the time of the next use.
The Puppet Master Page 42