by Debbi Mack
They were prepared for a long haul. They’d bought sandwiches for lunch and plenty of bottled water.
Hours ticked by. By quarter past noon, Cotter decided it was time for lunch. He dug into a sandwich and Billy followed suit.
Between bites, Cotter pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
At the other end, his client said, “Yes?”
“Just to let you know, no movement. In or out.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Cotter closed his phone and finished his sandwich in three bites.
“Surveillance sucks,” Billy grumbled.
“Tell me about it.”
“She’s bound to stay in there all day. What with the news and all.”
Cotter nodded. “Probably. Question is, who’ll try to come to her?”
Billy grunted assent. Cotter felt like his eyes might cross if he had to stare at the building much longer. Both men jolted when Jessica emerged and scurried down the front steps. Cotter could tell it was her, although she wore a pair of dark glasses and a floppy hat. She nibbled on a snack as she walked, head bowed, but swiveling now and then, as if to check her surroundings.
Cotter weighed the possibilities. She could be taking the subway or cab. Or she could be walking. The safest alternative for a fugitive seemed to be a cab.
She had passed them going down the opposite side of the street, when he started the car.
“Won’t she notice us?” Billy said.
“Not if we take it slow. And careful.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing before.”
Cotter gave him a hard look. “This time, we’ll do it better.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jessica
So much for lunch. I snatched a granola bar from Liz’s stash, headed out the door, and took a right toward the main road. I thought about the subway, but worried that the Metro security people might recognize me, despite my feeble attempts to disguise myself. Assuming I could remember where the nearest Metro stop was.
I felt ridiculous in the hat that I’d found in Liz’s closet, but it had a nice, wide brim that flopped over my face just enough to hide my features. I couldn’t help feeling it was just a touch too sophisticated for my jeans and T-shirt. At least it was a silk T-shirt. Still the hat seemed to cry out to be matched with something more like a little black dress or a long gown like Holly Golightly wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Hopefully, it wouldn’t have the opposite effect of making me even more conspicuous.
I was idly considering the possibility of taking up smoking through a long-handled cigarette holder and living the Bohemian life—just me and a cat holding parties every night in a New York apartment—when I reached the corner and noticed a couple of cabs roll by. Hmm. Should I take a cab or walk? The walk was several blocks. Now, in Boulder, several blocks is nothing. In D.C., even one block can seem close to a mile. It depends on which block you’re talking about. On the stretch of Constitution Avenue I was headed for, a block could stretch out for some distance.
“Oh, hell.” I waved down the next cab I spotted. He pulled up to the curb, with an abrupt squeak of tires.
As I climbed in and pulled the door shut, I said to the Plexiglas partition behind the driver, “Could you take me to the Navy Memorial on Constitution, pl—”
The cab took off with a squeal of tires—so fast I was thrown back against the seat.
The cabbie’s radio was tuned to NPR. I pulled the hat’s brim lower over my face. If this guy listened to NPR, he might follow the news in other media. He might have seen my picture in the papers, on the Web, or on TV. It was hard for me to fathom. I’m just a student, not a killer, I wanted to snivel.
Fortunately, the cab driver was so busy trying to wreck his car, barreling through yellow lights turning red as we hit the intersection and taking the cab through slalom turns around slower-moving vehicles (which is to say, everyone else), I doubt my face even registered on his radar. For my own part, I simply clung with grim determination to the seat back and sent up a prayer or two. I’ve never considered myself particularly religious, but there are no atheists in D.C. cabs.
I arrived at my destination in one piece. I was so grateful, I threw in a couple of extra bucks toward the tip. The driver smiled, his teeth gleaming from a mahogany face. His right front tooth was rimmed with gold. “Have a good day, miss,” he said, with an accent that sounded British, and he barreled back into the traffic.
I stood by the curb and looked around. The caller said he’d know me. Before we’d hung up, I’d asked him (assuming it was a “him”) how he knew me, but he’d never answered the question.
I walked toward people congregated on the amphitheater steps surrounding the Navy Memorial. Many were seated and enjoying a late lunch or just talking, legs stretched out, and soaking up the sun.
I moved toward the crowd, scanning it with each step. I wondered if he’d already seen me. I felt eyes on my back and whirled around to see a cop car, creeping by.
I turned away and hustled into the throng, which was growing dense with people coming out of the Metro.
Pulling the hat’s brim down and peering out from beneath it, I looked at the street. The cop car wasn’t there. I exhaled, releasing the tension that had hiked my shoulders halfway to my ears.
I continued to thread my way through the ever-increasing crowd. A small band with keyboard, guitars, and drums was setting up in a roped-off area below. The guitarist was tuning, and another man was testing mics. My nerves had made my mouth so dry, I thought my tongue might stick to the roof of my mouth. In the distance, I saw a deli. Desperate for water, I headed toward the deli, diagonally up the steps, sidestepping audience members. The crowd thinned out in the plaza at the top.
I glanced back. The woman behind me stopped short when I looked at her. I held my gaze a moment too long for her comfort, apparently. She turned away and hurried off.
Surveying the area one last time, before entering the deli, I shook my head. What am I doing?
I walked inside and ordered a large bottled water. Moments later, clutching the bottle, I emerged into the sunlit plaza.
The band was warming up now. I figured I’d stand at the edge of the crowd until my “date” appeared.
I felt a light touch on my elbow and heard the voice. “Jessica?”
I caught my breath and turned. The man was short with sandy, disheveled hair and an incipient beard that would have looked grungy cool if his expression weren’t so distraught. He looked oddly familiar.
“You’re the one who called me?” I said.
He nodded. “Let’s take a seat,” he said, in the husky voice I recognized from the calls.
We worked our way through the crowd on the steps and sat among the spectators.
“So what’s going on?” I asked, after sipping my water.
He frowned. “You need to keep away from the two men who are following you.”
“I may be slow, but I’ve figured that much out.” I took another drink, but my mouth still felt gluey. “First things first, though. Who are you?” I said, enunciating with care, since my dry lips felt stuck to my teeth.
“I guess you don’t remember. Fred introduced us once. On campus?”
“Right!” I remembered then where I’d seen him. We’d been walking across campus and this man—clean-shaven at the time—had approached. Fred had seemed uncomfortable but still introduced him. I tried to think of the name. Something unusual.
“Selby,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Selby Harris.”
“Yes! I remember now.” I took another swig of water and waited for Selby to go on. When he didn’t, I said, “So, Selby, what the hell is going on? Did those men kill Fred?”
“To be honest, I don’t know if they did. I don’t even know who they are, but if I were you, I wouldn’t trust them.”
I started to agree, then stopped myself. “Hold on. If you don’t know anything about them, how come you don’t trust them?”
“How c
ome you don’t?”
Because they followed me from Fred’s place and they’ve been spying on me, I wanted to say. Instead, I held my tongue. I wanted to hear his thoughts, unadulterated by my own opinions.
“That’s not an answer,” I finally said. “In fact, you still haven’t told me anything. Like, why all the secrecy? Why couldn’t we talk on the phone? And what’s this all about, anyway?”
Selby’s glance darted around. The band launched into its first number. Classic rock, sounding like the Rolling Stones or maybe the Kinks. He said something I could barely hear for the music.
“What?” I yelled.
“I said, it’s about your book.”
“About my book?” I scowled and leaned toward him, so he could hear me. “Why would someone kill Fred because of my book?”
“Because of the research he did for you. He was putting himself in danger.”
“What do you mean?” I said, after nearly doing a spit-take.
“He was infiltrating extremist groups. Getting inside information.”
Suddenly, my mouth turned desert dry. I swigged water, but gulping it down took effort.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Selby shook his head, his eyes aglow with—what? Fear? Madness?
“I know what he was up to, Jessica. I know because I was in one of those groups.”
“So . . . I don’t understand. I’m just writing fiction, not spying.”
Selby’s stare bore holes through me. “You have to understand how these people think. Any outsider could be perceived as threatening.”
“So how did he get involved if they didn’t trust him?”
Selby stared at his feet. “It was my fault. I was his source. I . . . I realized I was in too deep with the wrong people.” He matched my gaze again, with a hint of defiance. “They were supposed to be protecting our freedom. Keeping our government honest. But they turned out to be selfish bastards. And the things they talked about doing . . . .” He shook his head, looking away. “They were using my knowledge, but I didn’t want anything to do with them after a while.”
“And if you stopped associating with them?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
He snorted. “It’s like leaving the Mafia. You don’t. Not without dangerous consequences.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Let’s get back to those guys in the van. You said you don’t trust them. Why?”
“They could be hired killers. Or—”
I waited for the rest of his answer. One look at Selby and I realized I wouldn’t be getting it anytime soon.
He was doubled over, gasping for breath.
I placed my hand on his shoulder and moved closer, so I could hear him over the music. “What’s wrong?”
He lifted his head. “My . . . neck . . . .”
I examined his neck. A tiny hole was visible on the back. From a poisoned pin or dart maybe? Selby moaned and seemed barely able to hold his head up.
“Go!” he croaked.
I craned my neck. The family seated behind us seemed oblivious to Selby and me. I stood, and my gaze swept the crowd for anyone running or looking suspicious. I kept my hand on Selby. “What about you? You need help.”
“Just go,” he said. “They’ve probably seen you . . . so go . . . now . . . .”
I squatted down. “If they got to you, why didn’t they hurt me? You said they could be hired killers or—who?”
Selby licked his lips and struggled to speak. “Ho . . . .”
His voice trailed off and he doubled over completely. My chest tightened and my heart thumped so hard, I could’ve sworn people heard it as a backbeat to the song being played. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t get my voice to work. This is like a bad dream! Even if I could scream, the last thing I needed was to call attention to myself. I could feel panic rising from my pelvis to my throat. People were on their feet now, clapping along to the music, heedless to the man dying on the steps. It seemed like an ideal time to leave.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jessica
I turned to my neighbor with unfeigned panic. “This man’s having a heart attack!” Then I pushed through the crowd as fast as I could, hoping that no one had noticed me talking with Selby, who was now doubled over and possibly dying at their feet.
As I broke free of the masses, I heard a woman scream and a babble of voices. I struggled to maintain my composure and ignore the hysteria behind me.
I strode down the sidewalk, scanning for cabs. And cops. And men in trench coats. Men in black with sunglasses. Trench coats and sunglasses? Please. The killers probably wore jeans and T-shirts. The thought raised goose bumps. They could be anyone. Male, female. Anyone at all.
Standing at that curb, I felt as exposed as a target in an arcade game.
I spotted an available cab. My arm shot up, waving as if to a rescue ship from a desert island.
Once settled into the cab, I thought about my conversation with Selby. He had been with a group of political dissidents. Extremists was his term. He had provided Fred an “in” with this group. Fred found out too much—about what? Selby said the group was talking about doing things that prompted him to leave, at risk to his own life. That suggested they were up to something extraordinarily bad.
And he’d emphasized that they were using his knowledge. So what did all this have to do with my book? Fred never told me what Selby studied, but if it was physics, it suggested some ugly possibilities.
Fred might have been doing research on how political extremists would react if the scientific premise of my novel—the ability to create a weapon twice as powerful as an atom bomb—proved to be possible.
Good God.
By trying to extract information on terrorist angles, had Fred sent up a red flag? Had he, in fact, been killed trying to help me get information for my book? Worse still, was it because the group was planning something big—something on the scale of 9/11 or worse—that would involve the kind of weapon I was writing about? Was that the thing that provoked Selby Harris to flee the group?
I lay back against the bench seat and took deep, even breaths and tried to empty my mind of all thoughts. Later. I’ll figure it out later.
At my request, the cab stopped near a coffee shop I’d seen on the way to Liz’s the previous night. As I sat, counting out the fare and figuring the tip, I saw the shop’s door open. The two men from the van emerged. I froze and stared at the tall man I called Flattop and his younger red-haired assistant, remembering Selby’s warning about them.
Shit! Did these guys really follow me halfway across the country to kill me, too?
Then Liz emerged and called the taller man back to have a few words with him. I thought my heart had stopped.
The cabbie cleared his throat. “Um, we’re here, miss.”
“No.” The word leapt from my mouth, as reflexively as a muscle twitch. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Could you take me somewhere else?” I said, my voice quavering despite myself.
I had the driver make a quick detour to Liz’s place and had him wait while I stuffed the few belongings I’d removed back into my bag and grabbed my laptop. I left Liz’s hat where I’d found it. Frankly, I wanted to avoid thinking about Liz. I didn’t know what was going on, and maybe I wasn’t giving her a fair shake by sneaking out this way. I had no idea why she’d be talking to those men or vice versa. I was beginning to wonder if I should check myself into the psych ward at the nearest hospital, in anticipation of the nervous breakdown I was no doubt going to have soon.
Anyplace, I thought. Dupont Circle came to mind, because Liz and I had gone to dinner at a restaurant there. There were a lot of restaurants lining that section of Connecticut Avenue. Surely, there’d be a hotel around somewhere.
After I hopped back into the cab, I asked, “Can you recommend a cheap hotel in Dupont Circle?”
The driver smirked. “Cheap hotel? I don’t think so.”
“Can you recommend one anywhere?�
�
The driver’s brow furrowed. “Well . . . not one good enough for a young lady like you.”
I threw up my hands. “It doesn’t have to be dirt cheap. Are you sure you can’t think of a decent hotel that’s not too expensive?”
The cabbie appeared to relent. “Possibly. Dupont Circle, you said?”
“Anyplace halfway decent.”
He nodded. “The Dupont Plaza. An old hotel. Remodeled. Not cheap but not as expensive as the others.”
When I got to The Dupont Plaza, I checked in and went straight up to my room—making sure to turn the deadbolt and attach the chain. Not that it wouldn’t give to a swift kick. Sighing, I placed my bag down and set my laptop up on the table.
I stood and gazed out the eighth floor window. People milled about in the street far below, so distant, so oblivious to me and my problems. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives. Feeling bored, unhappy, stuck in lousy jobs or bland marriages. How I envied them.
Somewhere out there was a killer. Or killers.
Selby, the man I’d just met, was once with an extremist group. He was killed, perhaps for leaving the group, knowing what they had planned, talking to Fred or talking to me. But by whom?
Selby said the men in the van might be assassins. But my sister wouldn’t get involved with anyone like that. Maybe they told her they were someone else. Possible. But still, Liz is no fool. She’d ask for identification, if they told her they were cops or something. Of course, you can get fake IDs.
I walked to the side table and picked up the remote. I turned the TV on to CNN to see if there was an update about Fred or me. I figured Liz had to know by now, and it hurt to think that I hadn’t talked to her about it.
The CNN anchor was doing a report on heightened airport security and the threat of terrorist attacks. My ears perked up at these words, but most of the report was delivered in generalities. More of the usual hype. Orange alerts and intelligence reports seemed to have become part of the background noise of modern life.