by Alan Orloff
He slammed the faucet knob to shut the water off, then stood in the shower, toweling off, until he’d gotten a handle on his anger.
When he’d cooled down, he realized he didn’t have any clean clothes to wear, so he secured the towel around his waist, made sure the curtains were closed, then tossed the towel back into the bathroom.
For now, he’d go au naturel.
He retrieved his bag and dug out his laptop. Amanda had wanted to get him a tablet computer, but the thought of learning how to operate yet another electronic gizmo made his head ache. So he had declined her offer and never looked back.
Reclining on the bed, he propped his head up on one pillow and used the other pillow as a lap desk for his laptop, not wanting to fry his private parts. He tried to access the motel’s Wi-Fi but didn’t know the password. He went to the desk, riffled through a pile of Welcome to the Stop Inn propaganda material, but still didn’t find the code. He picked up the bedside phone, called the front desk, and thirty seconds later, he was in business.
The password was HaveAGreatStay.
His first task was to find out how Fred Feinbaum had died.
King sometimes liked to envision the World Wide Web as a spiderweb of interconnected strings attached to a million tin cans with people shouting nonsense into them, all at the same time. Sometimes it was hard to find the truth.
He found two pages of “hits” when he typed in “Fred Feinbaum,” and about a quarter of them were obituaries. Mostly, it was the same obituary from slightly different angles, depending on the site posting it. None of the articles supplied any details about the cause of death, but from the way things were worded, King got the impression there was nothing natural about it.
His first instinct was to call Gosberg. His ass was on the line, too, although King wasn’t exactly sure about the nature of his involvement. Based on what he’d seen, and what Emily had uncovered, King figured Gosberg was hiding something. He tried to think this through from all angles. Surely the knowledge that Feinbaum’s and Connelly’s deaths were related was important, something Gosberg might be able to use. And at Connelly’s house, that piece of information hadn’t come up. King hadn’t offered it—it had initially flitted through his mind, then sailed away in the terror of the situation—and Gosberg hadn’t asked him about it.
Did Gosberg know?
And what obligation did King have to tell him?
There wasn’t much to consider. King had a moral obligation to do whatever he could to help catch Dragunov, without question, no matter how much he detested Gosberg and his clandestine government ways.
King rummaged through his bag, found Gosberg’s card, and called him, but after six rings, it rolled into voice mail. He left a terse “just the facts” message, knowing Gosberg probably had better sources to get the real story.
Hell, if Dragunov had killed Feinbaum, Gosberg probably knew about it before King did and hadn’t told him. Prick.
King’s next thought grew from Amanda’s suggestion. Maybe he should take a vacation. The workshop would be over in a week, and he could be sitting on a beach somewhere the following day. Only he wouldn’t be relaxing—he’d be hiding. At least until they captured Dragunov.
He was pretty sure Dragunov never made it to a Caribbean island in Attack on America.
King picked up the envelope that Amanda had given him containing an early draft of the novel. Hefted it. Hard to believe that 350 pages of ink on paper could cause so much trouble. If he ran everything through a shredder, would all his problems be destroyed, too?
Only in fiction. Science fiction. Unfortunately, he was in the midst of a true crime story.
It had gotten late, and despite the adrenaline still coursing through his system, King’s eyelids felt as heavy as garage doors. Going to a funeral and stumbling on a grisly murder scene had taken its toll. He tossed the manuscript onto the spare bed, next to his laptop, and padded off to use the bathroom.
Then he climbed back into his bed and felt a pang when he saw the bare nightstand and realized he couldn’t say goodnight to his loves, as was his custom. Flipping off the light, he tried to picture Rina’s face but saw only Connelly’s dismembered body. Chunks of flesh. Pool of blood. The repulsive odor of decay in the air. He tossed and turned and prayed for sleep, and eventually his prayers were answered.
Chapter Fourteen
The man who looked like Cole Tanner but acted like Dragunov the Destroyer scuffed along a DC sidewalk, observing the gaggles of tourists. Most of the younger ones were focused on the devices in their hands—phones, cameras, iPods—rather than on the sights of one of the world’s most powerful cities. An evil city, definitely, but still notable in its malevolence.
He chuckled to himself, thinking how different their attitudes would be in the not-too-distant future when chaos would reign, after many of their most precious landmarks and monuments had been destroyed.
He sidestepped a group of six Segways as they cruised toward him, thinking that the materialistic excesses of these Americans would serve to be their downfall. People too lazy to walk? No wonder the majority of their guts hung over their belts and they jiggled when they moved.
Dragunov crossed the closed-off pedestrian mall on Pennsylvania Avenue, heading for the congregation of people by the black wrought-iron fence. When he got closer, he saw it wasn’t one gathering, but several. Each seemed to have its own composition and mission. Three separate demonstrations. Three separate speakers. One was political. One was religious. And one Dragunov couldn’t quite comprehend.
Beyond the demonstrations, dozens of people, oblivious to the cacophony around them, stared at the large building set hundreds of yards from the fence.
The White House.
Construction began in 1792 adhering to architect James Hoban’s plans. First occupied by President John Adams in 1800, while still incomplete. After the house was burned in the War of 1812, it was rebuilt, and James Monroe moved in during 1817. Both Monroe and Andrew Jackson expanded the building, but it didn’t undergo a complete renovation until 1902, during President Theodore Roosevelt’s administration. This was followed by another significant reconstruction during Harry Truman’s presidency.
In its fifty-five thousand square feet, the White House contains 132 rooms, which includes 35 bathrooms, 16 family-guest rooms, and 3 kitchens. It has more than four hundred doors, twenty-eight fireplaces, and three elevators. It takes 570 gallons of paint to cover the outside of the building.
The tourists flocked on the sidewalk, taking pictures of the building alone, then posing in front of the fence with the building in the background, then shuffling positions so a different person could get in the photo. It all amused Dragunov.
He adjusted his Phillies baseball cap—a souvenir he’d swiped from James Connelly’s house, along with a pair of sunglasses and a few hundred bucks in cash—and strolled up to the fence. He copied the tourists and stared at the famous building across a well-manicured lawn dotted with trees. In the center, ringed by flowers, a fountain burbled water. This side of the building, the North side, had tall columns supporting the portico. All very nice, but not what Dragunov cared about.
His gaze slowly drifted right, then left, as he checked out the security provided by the overrated Secret Service. He couldn’t spot anyone from his vantage point, but he knew they were there. Waiting.
Dragunov was aware of his capabilities. He could outfox four or five highly trained operatives with ease. Given the advantage of surprise, he might be able to outmaneuver ten or twelve. But a whole cadre of Secret Service agents protecting the White House? Even he would have a tough time accomplishing that.
But he wasn’t discouraged. There were always other times, other places. Persistence would pay off.
He strode away, whistling and happy, exactly like all the other stupid tourists.
Before he went two blocks, though, he remembered the items in his windbreaker pocket and cursed himself—and those confusing mind storms—for almost fo
rgetting his immediate task.
He might not be able get to the president at the moment, but the day wasn’t going to be a total waste. He turned around and headed back to the demonstrations in front of the White House fence, whistling just a little louder.
#
Emily liked her roommates well enough. Missy, the fifth-year junior still searching for a suitable major, was an affable party girl who always seemed to have at least one drink in her hand. Jeri, a senior economics major, was an athletic blonde with a dazzling smile, whose toughest chore in life was fending off all the straight male Mason students.
Those two girls had been living in the condo first and had needed a fill-in when their third roommate graduated. In a perfect world, Emily probably wouldn’t have chosen them as roomies, but she’d responded to an ad in the campus rag, and evidently, she’d been the least objectionable of the applicants.
The three of them shared an antiseptic, vanilla apartment close enough to campus to hear the Saturday night shrieks from the high-rise dorms. The apartment had the usual amenities: TV, stereo, well-equipped kitchen, laundry room in the basement. Two tennis courts shared by the entire complex. It was an easy—and safe—walk to the Percup and to Extreme ’Za, and not very far from the library where Emily had practically lived as an undergrad.
But the best thing about her living arrangement? Both Missy and Jeri had steady boyfriends—more accurately, Jeri had a string of steady boyfriends—and they were almost never around, just bopping in every so often for a change of clothes or to ask for some help with a research paper.
A small price to pay for all the much-appreciated privacy.
Emily had woken up early and set up camp in the common room, the large open area that served as their living room, dining room, and family room. And Emily’s library. At first, she’d put a few books on the existing bookshelf, which was used mostly to display Missy’s collection of souvenir drinking glasses emblazoned with the names and logos from various drinking holes around the country. From spring break trips to Lauderdale and New Orleans and Cancun. In addition to dozens of cups and mugs and shot glasses from local establishments.
Gradually, though, Emily had been moving the drinkware, first tightening up the groupings, then hiding some glasses behind other glasses, then stacking them, then finally sweeping the glasses off the shelves entirely and packing them into cardboard boxes, filling the shelves with her collection of books instead.
No one had noticed, or if they had, no one had cared.
From her current spot on the couch, Emily glanced up at the shelves, and the familiar feelings warmed her. All her favorite stories and characters, keeping her company, watching over her. Whenever she felt down, or stressed, or out of sorts, she sought comfort between the covers of a book. Lost in a story. In a world that wasn’t hers, where somebody else’s problems took center stage.
Reading the titles, most people might conclude she had a narrow range of interest: crime fiction. But if you asked Emily, she’d say her interests were quite diverse: psychological suspense, thrillers, spy novels, detective novels, traditional mysteries, cozy mysteries, serial killer novels, noir fiction, apocalyptic novels, caper novels, police procedurals, historical mysteries, medical thrillers, political thrillers, techno-thrillers, supernatural thrillers, horror thrillers. Anything that got the blood pumping.
She even liked stories where the mysteries were solved by talking cats.
And those were only the novels. Emily had amassed a vast collection of comic books and graphic novels—all types, but her favorite ones featured superheroes. She spent many lonely afternoons over the years with her fictional friends, imagining she was one of them. Great Girl of the Justice League, able to hold her own with her super compatriots, or Widget Woman, the spunky heroine who invented her own gadgets to defeat the worst villains in the universe.
They were her friends, and they’d taught her a lot about life.
Emily cut her musing short and returned her attention to the laptop. Twenty-one students were taking Professor King’s summer workshop, and most of them had submitted a final draft of their work in progress. Emily’s job was to do a quick line edit and make a few notes about some of the larger issues. Then she’d pass along her comments to Professor King, and he’d add his opinions to the package.
Last night, when Professor King had been held up, she’d run the workshop, and in her completely unbiased opinion, she’d done a bang-up job. Hopefully, one or two of the students would let Professor King know how well she’d done.
She quickly scanned several submissions. After reading just a few sentences, she could tell if the students had improved their work since their last submittals. Most had, but a few simply hadn’t gotten the hang of revision, no matter how much she and Professor King had worked with them. Emily supposed it was like that in all avenues of life. A small percentage of people were stars, many were competent, and there were always a few laggards. Why should creative writing be any different?
She curled her feet underneath her, balanced her laptop on her knees, and read the next submission. Four stories later, Emily rose and snagged a Coke from the kitchen. She popped it open and gulped down a few sips, delighting in the way the carbonation tickled and burned at the same time. She returned to the couch with a dose of caffeine on board to get her going. She didn’t do coffee in the morning, but she did consume Coke.
She opened up another student’s story and slogged through it, virtual red pen scratching away. But her mind wasn’t really on the work. It kept wandering back to Professor King’s mysterious situation. Her gaze flitted to the bookshelf again. This time, she got off the couch to get a closer view.
It took only a moment for Emily to find the volume she was looking for. A well-worn paperback edition of Attack on America. She took it back to the couch with her. Time for another reread. Maybe she could find something in the novel that would help track down the fugitive.
Not that she really needed an excuse to read Attack. A photo of a much-younger Mathias King looked at her from the back cover. Bushy head of dark hair, face devoid of wrinkles. But what grabbed her most was the genuine smile on his face.
She’d never seen him smile so big, and she suspected she never would, not after what had happened in his life. She sat back and tried to remember the details of the murder of King’s wife. Emily hadn’t been born yet, of course, but when she’d applied to be King’s graduate assistant, she’d googled him every way to Sunday and found a number of archived articles recounting the event. She remembered the horror—and sadness—she’d felt as she read the terrible accounts of the tragedy. For weeks, she had trouble looking him in the face without getting misty eyed. No details came to her, but the image of Professor King’s wife getting murdered in her sleep would never leave her.
Curious, Emily put the paperback down and picked up her laptop. She opened up a browser window and searched “murder” and “Mathias King.” Sifting through the results, she read twenty different articles, and those same feelings of sadness enveloped her. Rina King had been stabbed, multiple times, by Oscar Boorman, a mentally ill man who’d been stalking King for years. And Mathias King had shot Boorman eight times at point-blank range.
The massacre had occurred as their then-eleven-year-old daughter Amanda stood in the doorway, watching.
Professor King had never mentioned the incident to Emily. Never even given a hint anything tragic had befallen him. And she’d never asked, of course. Not her place. But from time to time, she’d find herself staring at him, trying to grasp the enormity of his loss and feeling hopeless that there was nothing she could do to ease his pain, the pain she was sure he still felt. How could you ever get over anything so terrible?
Professor King deserved to be happy. And even though he wouldn’t admit it, he had to be tortured by what was going on—the possible connection of his book to the dangerous fugitive. She rose from the couch. Maybe there was something Emily could do to help Professor King, more than rereading h
is book. Something Nick Nolan would approve of.
She ran to the bedroom to get her car keys.
Chapter Fifteen
King hadn’t slept well; disturbing dreams seemed to haunt every moment. He’d gotten up at five a.m. for the day, took another long, cleansing shower, then threw his dirty clothes on. After an early breakfast at the Waffle Shack, he’d waited for an hour in the parking lot of a nearby Target until it opened. Then he’d bought some fresh clothes and an armful of snacks. No telling how long he was going to be living at the Stop Inn, and he’d need some fortification between waffle meals.
Now he was back in bed, trying to steal some more sleep but not having any luck. It wasn’t the specter of Dragunov keeping him awake. As was often the case, it was his memories of Amanda that kept him from relaxing. On too many occasions, he replayed the scene of that horrible night, as if he were watching a movie in super slo-mo. What seemed to stick with him most were the sounds, especially as he lay in the silent darkness. Rina’s strangled screams. Boorman’s high-pitched loony laugh that made King’s skin crawl. The deafening roar as he emptied his gun into Boorman’s body.
Amanda’s shrill keening above it all. To this day, any time King heard a young girl shriek, he flashed back to that living nightmare.
But another memory with sharp talons gripped his mind and wouldn’t let go. Even now, with Amanda grown up and settled down, recalling that incident sent his pulse racing. He’d botched that day, just as he’d botched most of his parenting moments.
Right after the murder, when she’d first gone to see a psychologist, Amanda had been withdrawn, sullen. There’d been a lot of tears, understandably, but there hadn’t been any anger or guilt or resentment. Nothing except sadness.
The therapist said it wasn’t anything to be concerned about, people grieve in different ways. Her second therapist, a year or so later, noted that Amanda was strangely disaffected, that she didn’t show the classic stages of mourning, but that it was “probably within the range of normalcy.”