by Judi Lind
After taking a couple moments to disperse the lingering crowd, the policeman stepped over to where the paramedic unit was still examining Mary. “How’s the patient, boys?”
The two young medics glanced at the patrolman. While one continued to speak in muted tones to Mary, the other shrugged. “She refuses to be transported to the hospital. Couple abrasions from her fall. No overt signs of skull fracture but I suspect a mild concussion. She’s got a nice goose egg on the back of her head.”
The other paramedic was taking the blood pressure cuff off her arm when Trace and the policeman approached. “Ms. Wilder?”
“That’s right.”
“Want to tell me what happened here?”
Mary nibbled her upper lip before slowly answering. “I was standing on the curb, waiting for him.” She indicated Trace with a nod of her head. “The bus was stopped at the signal light. When the light changed and traffic picked up speed, I started inching back from the curb. Then, I felt someone’s hands on my back and he pushed me in front of the bus.”
“He?” The cop picked up quickly on her gender qualifier.
“He, she, whoever. I didn’t see anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Mmm.” The officer scribbled in his notebook. “You don’t think you were just jostled by someone trying to catch the bus?”
Mary shook her head emphatically, then stopped abruptly as pain washed over her.
They were interrupted by the paramedics, who handed a clipboard to Mary for her signature on their “Refused Treatment” form.
After they’d departed, the patrolman continued where he’d left off. “So somebody shoved you. What then?”
“I was so shocked, I just fell forward and landed on my knees in the street. All I could see was that bus coming at me.” She broke off, shuddering visibly. All she could remember was that bus looming, closer and closer. For an instant, Mary had been paralyzed by the headlights, like a doe caught on the highway. Then, thankfully, something had broken loose and she’d scrambled back onto the pavement.
“Must’ve been a close call,” the policeman muttered as he scribbled in his notebook. “So the bus swerved and missed you?”
Mary slowly shook her head. “He swerved, but...but if I hadn’t managed to get back on the curb, it wouldn’t have mattered.” With a nod, she pointed to the skid marks that were clearly visible under the street lamp.
Trace’s eyes followed the invisible path of her fingertip. A cold sweat popped out on his forehead as he read the clear, undeniable story told by the skid marks. By the time the bus driver had seen her, it would have been too late.
The huge, multi-ton vehicle had driven right over the spot where Mary had been lying only seconds before. If she hadn’t found the strength to move at the last second, she would be dead right now.
A rage, the like of which he’d never experienced, built up inside Trace. He wanted to bellow his fury, to beat his fist into the nearest brick wall. He wanted to find the madman who’d almost killed Mary and—
The patrolman cocked his head, and looked at Mary curiously. “Yeah, you’d have been a goner, all right. And you believe this was a random act of violence? Nobody’s got a grudge against you.”
Mary didn’t reply. To avoid his probing query, she rubbed her arms and legs. “Can we go now?”
Trace wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Don’t you think she’s had enough for this evening, Officer? Surely this can wait until morning.”
“Just a couple more questions, folks. Then it’s up to the detectives in the morning, if they think there’s something to follow up on.” With a deep sigh, the man went back to his routine questioning. “So after you got back to safety, the guy was gone?”
Tears glistened in Mary’s eyes as she relived the horrible minute that had felt like a lifetime while it was happening. “No,” she whispered, “he was still there. He pushed me again. Harder. But...but I was prepared this time. I grabbed hold of that light pole and tried to drop to the ground, while I screamed bloody murder.”
“Quick thinking,” Trace said, his eyes bright with pride.
Mary shrugged off the compliment. “I took a crime prevention course shortly after I moved here. That’s what the instructor told us to do. Anyway, it worked. He—whoever—let go. By the time I turned around, several people had gathered around, but none of them looked...evil, or anything. Mostly curious.”
The policeman asked a few more questions and then polled the remaining onlookers, but no one admitted to having seen the assailant. Apparently realizing there was no point in taking a formal statement, the officer told Mary that a detective might be contacting her in the morning. Tipping his cap, he got into his police cruiser and drove back into the traffic.
They were finally alone.
Somewhere during the proceedings, the bus driver had gathered together his passengers and departed. The remnants of the crowd had dissipated when the officer had started asking for identification. Clearly, no one wanted that much involvement.
By the time they got back to the hotel room, it was almost eleven. Only a little over an hour until they were supposed to meet with the would-be killer.
Trace carefully cleaned Mary’s face and hands and swabbed the scraped skin on her cheek with antiseptic cream. Fortunately, her jeans and long-sleeved shirt had protected her pretty well.
Taking an appreciative look at his handiwork, and noting that her skin tone was regaining its bloom, Trace leaned back on his heels. “Now, while I’m gone, I want you to stay locked up in here. Don’t even answer the phone. This may be a trap to lure me out of the hotel, so do what I say.”
He’d already fallen for the wino decoy in the park. He didn’t intend to be caught again.
Mary blinked in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to the Lincoln Memorial.” He rummaged in his overnight bag until he found a penlight and stuck it in his back pocket.
“Not alone, you’re not.”
Trace grasped her firmly by the shoulders and gave her his best ferocious glare. “This is no time to argue. You’ve just been through a terrifying and grueling experience. The best thing for you to do right now is—”
Mary pushed his hands aside and rose to her feet. A tiny wince of pain was the only sign she gave of her discomfort. “The best thing for you to do, Armstrong, is stop treating me like a poor, weak female with the vapors!”
“Now, that’s not fair, Mary!”
“Neither are you. I’m going. If you leave without me, I’ll follow in a taxi. Take your choice.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, they were in Trace’s car making their way along the almost deserted Independence Avenue near the Lincoln Memorial. He had kept a sharp eye on the rearview mirror. No one had followed them. When they pulled into the empty parking area beside the reflecting pool, he took a moment to double-check his revolver and scan the area.
Mary pulled her dark knit cap out of her pocket and jammed it on her head, covering her glowing blond hair.
Hand in hand, they cautiously started toward the memorial, keeping in the shadow of the trees that lined the reflecting pool.
With the approach of the witching hour, an eerie stillness had descended over the night. Even earlier in the evening, the Lincoln Memorial, like the other national treasures that dotted the city, would have been lit with enormous floodlights. But after ten, the lights were turned off for energy conservation, and the area was now dark and foreboding. The very air reverberated with menace.
It was dark, very dark. The moon had escaped behind the concealing cover of a bank of storm clouds. A brief crackle of lightning illuminated the sky and cast them in an unearthly green glow.
Keeping his weapon by his side, Trace drew Mary closer as they came to the concrete apron that surrounded the huge memorial.
One more step, and they’d be out of the protective shadows that had been covering their approach. One more step and they’d be sit
ting ducks for a sniper at the top of the monument looking down at them.
A drop of rain slapped the ground in front of them. If it started to pour in earnest, Trace thought, it would provide at least a modicum of cover. He gave a silent prayer for rain.
Mary looked up at him. Her huge eyes were wide, but her step was sure, unfaltering. Trace squeezed her hand reassuringly and felt her warming smile. Her absolute trust in his ability to keep her safe was like a heavy coat that weighed down his shoulders.
He’d never felt his responsibility more strongly; not even when he’d been guarding the president.
But then, Mary was far more important to him than any politician. Than anyone.
Sniffing the air like a lithe jaguar seeking out danger, Trace took a cautious step forward. Then another. A sudden strong breeze whistled through the treetops, wailing like the cry of a banshee as death approaches.
Their sneakered feet were silent on the damp pavement as they approached the wide staircase leading up to the immense statue of Abraham Lincoln enthroned at the top of the memorial.
The moon suddenly poked out from behind a cloud, and the brief splatter of rain abruptly stopped. It was as if the sky was holding its breath, watching the drama unfolding below.
Trace’s eyes made a continual sweep of the monument, the pillars above them, the vast emptiness below. But nothing moved in the moonlight.
They climbed the last few steps and found themselves beside a huge pillar. While their eyes adjusted to the dimness under the roofed structure, Trace stood as still as death, listening.
No sound, not even a cooing pigeon, broke the silence.
Then, he felt Mary’s hand tugging at his arm.
Glancing down, he followed the track of her pointing finger. She was pointing at the enormous statue of Mr. Lincoln. At first, Trace couldn’t see anything, but then he thought he saw what Mary had noticed.
Motioning for her to stay behind the pillar, he eased forward.
After a few steps, he could more readily discern the outline of a male figure, propped against the base of the statue. A dark ball cap with a light insignia on the front sat on his head at a curious angle. Trace couldn’t see the color, but he’d be willing to bet his pension that the cap was bright purple. They’d found the stalker.
Pointing his gun at the waiting man, Trace walked directly up to him.
The man didn’t move.
Kicking the sole of the man’s shoe with his own, Trace ordered, “Get up, you slug.”
Still, no reaction from the stranger sprawled against the statue.
The first tingling sensation of something awry poked at Trace’s backbone. Shifting his weapon to his left hand, he pulled his penlight out of his back pocket and aimed its thready light at the man’s face.
The stranger’s eyes were closed and his head lolled on his shoulders.
Was he injured or was this another game? Another trap?
“Mary, stay back!” Trace hissed as he felt her approach behind him. He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t heed his warning. In another second, she was directly behind him, her hand on his back.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
In response, Trace redirected the light into the man’s face. He appeared to be unconscious, but the purple cap glowed like an amethyst in the frail light.
“Recognize him?”
“I...I’m not sure,” Mary said. “I can’t really see his face.”
Trace reached down and lifted the man’s chin, and refocused the beam on his features.
Mary stared at the stranger for a long time. “I’m not sure,” she finally said. “He looks vaguely familiar but I’m sure that I don’t know him personally.”
Trace released the man’s chin and was mildly surprised when he jerked loose and moaned weakly. “Help...help me.”
At the sound of his voice, Trace’s hand jumped and the flashlight beam skittered to the ground. The reason for the man’s lethargic reaction became readily apparent.
He was lying in a pool of bright red blood.
Trace’s years of emergency training made his reaction swift and certain. Handing Mary the flashlight, he bent down to determine the extent of the man’s injuries.
Feeling almost sickened by the vast quantity of blood that was creeping along the concrete floor, Mary swallowed hard and kept her gaze fastened to the man’s face. His eyes were closed again and he looked almost peacefully asleep.
When Trace lifted him up, to look behind him, the man came fully to consciousness and cried, “God! Stop.”
“Mary, shine the light back here.”
Her hand trembled, but she shifted slightly and followed Trace’s direction. The wooden handle of a kitchen butcher knife protruded from the stranger’s back.
Trace looked up and caught her eye. With a small, sad shake of his head, he gently eased the man back against the base of the statue, taking care not to put more pressure on the knife.
Trace looked around. He had no idea where a telephone might be. He couldn’t leave this man to die alone, nor could he allow Mary out of his sight. Not that it really mattered, he thought. Even if the knife wound hadn’t ruptured any vital organs, the stalker had already lost too much blood. The man was only moments—perhaps seconds—from death.
Mary redirected the beam and saw the man’s complexion had paled to a frightful pallor. As she stared, his eyes drifted open and he looked directly into her face.
“Listen...to me,” he croaked.
Mary dropped to her knees beside him. No matter what sickness had prompted him to torment her these past weeks, he was past her hatred now. She’d never experienced death up close before, but knew instinctively that the stranger’s life was slowly draining from his body. They were too far from a phone; it was too late for help.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“No.” His hands clawed the air, seeking hers. His eyes drifted closed and she knew he was dying.
She dropped the flashlight and took his cold, shaking hand in her own. “Please, don’t talk.”
Using the very last of his breath, his life, he opened his eyes once again and whispered, “Martin... Watch out for Martin.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mary slept straight through the morning into the middle of the afternoon. After they’d finally found a phone and reported the man’s death, they had to wait for what seemed hours while the police secured the scene then tended to the forensic details. The homicide detective hadn’t liked or believed their story so he had them brought to the station for further questioning. Only when Trace had finally been allowed to make a phone call and had convinced Harley Tobias to intervene on their behalf, had the police begun taking them seriously.
Eventually, a patrol car had been summoned to return them to where their own car had been left near the memorial. The early-morning traffic was already beginning to hum, and it was well past dawn before they trudged back into the Georgetown Regent, mentally and physically exhausted.
They’d talked very little. There was nothing left to say. Mary couldn’t positively identify the dead man as her stalker, despite the meaningful purple cap. Was the dead man the same person who’d been persecuting her these past weeks? Had he tried to push her in front of that bus?
The biggest imponderable, of course, was why?
When she staggered into the sitting room, Trace was in a whispered conversation on the telephone. Gratefully spying the insulated carafe of coffee on the round table in front of the window, Mary poured herself a reviving cup and curled on the miniscule sofa and waited for Trace.
He hung up and swiveled to face her. “Hey, kiddo, how’s it going this morning, er, afternoon?”
She sipped her coffee and shrugged eloquently. “So-so. Who was on the phone?”
“Harley Tobias. I asked him to see what the D.C. police learned about the man we found last night.”
“And?”
Trace cupped his chin and rasped hi
s fingers across the rather spectacular black stubble. “And nothing. He wasn’t carrying any identification. His clothes were from a national chain and, other than the odd mole or freckle, no identifying marks. A complete blank.”
“It’s almost like...like he expected to be murdered and didn’t want to be identified afterward.”
“Or the killer didn’t want him identified.”
Mary nodded, agreeing that Trace’s theory was more likely. “So that’s it? We just wait and see if he’s reported missing?”
Trace could hear the hopelessness in her voice and wished there was something he could say, some crumb of encouragement he could offer to spark the light back into her hollow eyes. “The only other hope is his fingerprints. Harley said he’d see what he could do to expedite the processing, but unless his prints were already on file somewhere...”
Mary knew what Trace didn’t say. The odds were slim enough. But if the dead man didn’t have some kind of record, they might never find out who he was. Or why he’d been stalking her.
Trace got up and stretched, his fingers entwined over his head. “I’ve been waiting for you to mention one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Martin. The dead man said you were to watch out for Martin.”
Mary carefully set her cup back into the china saucer and shoved her mussed hair from her eyes. “That’s another problem. I’ve been wracking my brain and I don’t know anyone named Martin.”
“Hmmph. Makes it kind of hard to watch out for him then, doesn’t it?”
When he saw Mary’s shoulders slump in dejection, Trace decided she needed a change of pace. A complete mood lifter.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“A little.”
“I’ve got an idea. Let’s get cleaned up and go for a drive. There’s this great seafood joint I know over on the bay in Maryland. They have an all-you-can-eat captain’s platter that the fat lady in the circus couldn’t finish.”
“Gee, Trace, I’m still kind of tired. And grubby.”
He knelt in front of her and dipped his fingers into the thick, blond tresses at the back of her head. “How’s the old noggin? That’s a pretty serious knot. Maybe we’d better have that x-rayed.”