by Jeff Miller
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Jeff Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612184838
ISBN-10: 1612184839
Dedicated to Kate, for reasons longer than this book
CONTENTS
PART I: THE WHAT
CHAPTER 1: January 1—Bethel, New York
CHAPTER 2: January 1—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 3: January 7—Brooklyn, New York
CHAPTER 4: January 15—Warwick, Rhode Island
CHAPTER 5: January 16—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 6: January 17—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 7: February 1—Chula Vista, California
CHAPTER 8: February 14—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 9: February 15—Columbus, Ohio
CHAPTER 10: February 26—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 11: February 27—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 12: March 1—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 13: March 3—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 14: March 12—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 15: March 13—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 16: March 14—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 17: March 15—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 18: March 15—Quantico, Virginia
PART II: THE WHO
CHAPTER 19: March 15—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 20: March 16—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 21: March 17—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 22: March 18—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 23: March 19—Bethel, New York
CHAPTER 24: March 23—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 25: March 23—Coleman, Florida
CHAPTER 26: March 24—Covington, Kentucky
CHAPTER 27: March 25—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 28: March 26—Saint George’s, Bermuda
CHAPTER 29: March 29—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 30: April 1—Salt Lake City, Utah
CHAPTER 31: April 2—Salt Lake City, Utah
CHAPTER 32: April 6—Columbus, Ohio
CHAPTER 33: April 8—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 34: April 9—Nashville, Tennessee
CHAPTER 35: April 10
CHAPTER 36: April 15
CHAPTER 37: April 15—Nashville, Tennessee
CHAPTER 38: April 16—Alexandria, Virginia
PART III: THE WHERE
CHAPTER 39: April 17—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 40: April 25—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 41: April 26—Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
CHAPTER 42: April 27—Chula Vista, California
CHAPTER 43: April 28—Nashville, Tennessee
CHAPTER 44: April 30—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 45: May 1—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 46: May 1—Atlanta, Georgia
CHAPTER 47: May 1—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 48: May 1—Tracy, California
CHAPTER 49: May 2—Tracy, California
CHAPTER 50: May 3—Tracy, California
PART IV: THE WHY
CHAPTER 51: May 6—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 52: May 7—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 53: May 9—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 54: May 13—Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
CHAPTER 55: May 14—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 56: May 16—Leesburg, Virginia
CHAPTER 57: May 23—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 58: June 1—Alexandria, Virginia
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART I
THE WHAT
CHAPTER 1
January 1—Bethel, New York
Sometimes big things start small.
Waller’s Food Mart felt like the smallest place on earth to Crosby Waller. The gangly teen sat behind the register sipping a Jones Fufu Berry Soda and leafing through a copy of Sports Illustrated with Shaquille O’Neal on the cover. A bead of sweat fell from Crosby’s forehead and landed on the magazine page, drowning the “Man” in “Manning” and blanching the “Green” from “Green Bay.” The radiator was stuck on high, and there was a four-day wait to have it fixed. Crosby tore off his sweater, stripping to an Arcade Fire T-shirt. It was three years old and too small for his frame. It had shrunk, but mostly, he had grown.
Twenty years of his father’s cigarettes had left an odor in the store that Lysol couldn’t fix, but Crosby was used to it. He wasn’t used to the soft flicker of the dying fluorescent bulb above, and it was giving him a headache. Maybe it wasn’t the flickering light. Maybe it was just boredom. Business had been slow since the Walmart Supercenter opened in Monticello, and this day had been slower than most.
The door chimed.
A cold blast of air sent a shiver through Crosby. The appearance of the tall, fit man walking through the door sent another. He wore black jeans and a grey sweatshirt, the hood of which was pulled tightly over his head, masking most of his face. The big orange lenses of his aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. Thin white gloves—not winter ones made of leather or wool, but shiny, tight hospital gloves made from rubber or latex—covered his hands. He looked, Crosby thought, like a serial killer.
“What’s up?” Crosby asked, surprised by the crack in his voice.
The man nodded in his direction and then wandered down an aisle. Crosby returned to his sullen perusal of the magazine. It was only two fifteen, and Crosby was stuck there for another four hours. When he’d agreed to work weekends and holidays in exchange for a 2002 Alero, it had seemed like a good deal. Selling Manhattan for a handful of beads had probably seemed like a good idea at the time, too.
Stuck. It’s how he felt most of the time. Stuck at his parents’ store. Stuck in Bethel. Stuck in a world of mediocrity, tedium, and boredom.
When the hooded man reached the soda fountain, he looked over at Crosby and spoke in a deep, deliberate voice. “You’re out of the big cups.” To make his point clear, the man pointed at the empty cup dispenser below the fountain drinks.
Crosby set his magazine down on the counter. “Give me a second.” He glanced at the rifle on the shelf under the register, then walked through the door to the back storeroom and tugged on the chain that hung from a bare bulb. When the light didn’t come on, he yanked four more times before the chain broke and fell to the floor. Crosby kicked the nearest box in anger, then squeezed between some shelves toward the lone window. He twisted the rod on the window blind, and bright rays of sunshine permeated the dusty air.
Along the side wall, boxes of various sizes were piled from floor to ceiling. He found one labeled “Biggie-Gulp,” pulled it from the stack, and tossed it to the center of the room. When he tore the top flap open, the sharp edge of a one-inch staple cut his index finger. He cursed, shook his finger, and licked away the blood. Reaching into the box, he grabbed a long sleeve of sixty-four-ounce cups.
Boom.
It sounded like a gunshot.
Crosby dropped the cups and dove to the floor. This was his time. Everyone who works at a convenience store is eventually shot, and this was his time. He should have been at Suzi Fenner’s New Year’s Day party, but instead, he was going to die in his parents’ store. At least they’d feel guilty for making him work. The sound of a car door sn
apped him back to the moment. Standing up, he brushed his hair out of his eyes and peeked through the small square window in the storeroom door. The front door was flapping in the wind, and the man in the hooded sweatshirt was starting the engine of a black Ford Explorer. Crosby watched it kick up gravel as it sped away.
Crosby jogged to the store entrance and tugged the door closed, then ran behind the counter, punched in the security code, and opened the register. He counted the money, and then counted it again. All there. Beer, Crosby thought. He ran back to the refrigerated shelves. Nothing was missing. He must have stolen something, Crosby thought, as he wandered up and down the canned-goods aisle, then around the hot-dog roller. When he turned down the candy aisle, he saw it.
A white business card stood at the front of a box of Chewey’s Cinnamon Gum. Crosby had just opened the box the day before. Now one pack was missing. Crosby laughed. The hooded sweatshirt, the glasses, the gloves, even the Biggie-Gulp-cup ploy...all for a pack of gum. He picked up the white card.
THIS IS MY FIRST CRIME.
MY NEXT WILL BE BIGGER.
He turned the card over. A stick of Chewey’s gum, still in the foil wrapper, was stuck to the back of the card, held in place by a small piece of Scotch tape. Crosby tore the stick of gum off the card, unwrapped the foil, and folded the gum into his mouth. He balled up the foil and tossed it into the trash. The card, he figured, would make for a good story at school, so he stuffed it into his wallet.
Crosby looked at his watch. It was only two forty. He still had three and a half hours to kill. Suzi’s party would be over by then. Cursing his father, he walked around the counter and put on his sweater, then picked up the issue of Sports Illustrated and sat down behind the register. Flipping through the magazine, Crosby found the cover story. It began, “On March 6, 1972, Lucille O’Neal gave birth to a seven-pound eleven-ounce baby boy.”
Sometimes big things start small, Crosby figured.
CHAPTER 2
January 1—Washington, DC
Dagny Gray’s 2006 Prius was outfitted with the Option 5 package, which included Bluetooth phone integration, a line in to the stereo for her iPod, and a built-in GPS navigational system that currently showed a street map of Georgetown and a little red triangle that wasn’t moving. The little red triangle was Dagny’s car, and it wasn’t moving because traffic doesn’t move in Washington, DC—people just sit in their cars and wait for the earth to turn.
When the earth finally turned, Dagny saw something she’d never seen in Georgetown—an empty parking space on M Street. She flipped on her turn signal and pulled just ahead of the space. A man in a silver BMW ignored the gesture and pulled up behind her. Dagny honked, but the Beamer didn’t budge—the man just crossed his arms and smiled smugly, waiting to claim the space. If he’d wanted to block her entry, he should have pulled closer. Dagny sized up her clearance. If she angled it just right, she’d have an inch or two to spare on each side. She threw her Prius into reverse and floored the accelerator, turned the wheel hard to the right, then just as quickly to the left. In one swift, fluid motion, she slid into the space. Even better, she’d come close enough to give the BMW driver a deserved scare.
Dagny’s satisfaction faded as she watched the noblesse filtering into Zegman’s Gallery. Though she could hold her own among the effete and well heeled, she preferred the warm embrace of a good book and a well-worn couch, or the iPod-assisted solitude of a long run on the Mount Vernon Trail, or the torturous agony of her Arabic study, or a rusty nail embedded in her foot. But she’d promised Julia Bremmer she’d come, and Julia was her last close friend. She’d lost other friendships to geography or dereliction. Julia’s friendship was worth saving.
Besides, she had promised herself that this would be the year she’d learn to have fun, even if it was no fun at all.
Dagny was thinking about this promise when her phone rang. She didn’t have to check the display to know that Julia was canceling their plans.
“TRO,” Julia said. This meant temporary restraining order—and that Julia was stuck working on one. She was an associate at Baxter Wallace, one of the top litigation firms in town. Baxter Wallace was originally Baxter, Wallace, and McCallister, but McCallister got the shaft when some marketing consultants decided that the firm’s name was too long. It didn’t matter to McCallister, or to Baxter or Wallace, for that matter; all three of them were long dead.
“Blow it off.”
“I can’t. Not this year.” Julia was up for partner—more precisely, non-equity partner, which, like nonalcoholic beer, doesn’t taste very good and is no substitute for the real thing. “I’m sorry, Dag.”
“It’s okay, Jules. I didn’t want to go anyway.”
Julia’s voice rose. “No, no, no. Dag, you should still go in.”
“I don’t—”
“You have to.”
Dagny hadn’t seen it coming, but this excursion was a setup. “I’m not in dating shape.”
“You’re never in dating shape. Maybe you need to date to get in shape. Plus, your resolution—”
“I don’t think I used the word resolution,” Dagny protested.
“Just go,” Julia said, before hanging up.
Dagny tucked the phone back in her purse. No matter what it was called—“resolution” or “promise”—Dagny had vowed to change her life, and she couldn’t give up on the first day, especially after such a strong start. That morning, she’d picked through the boxes in her basement to find the hair dryer she hadn’t used since her last move. After her shower, she’d brushed her long black hair straight instead of tying it in the usual ponytail. Her cheeks were powdered with the slightest blush, while her eyelashes carried the unfamiliar weight of mascara. And under her new red leather swing coat, she wore her favorite black dress. It was padded in all the right places.
Dagny waited for the traffic to wane before climbing out of the car. She walked to the front of the gallery and peered through the windows, eyeing the suits and gowns inside. Some of the women towered over their dates. Dagny’s eyes followed their bodies down to their feet and saw that they were uniformly elevated by two- or three-inch heels. She looked down at her own sneakers and shrugged. At five nine, she was plenty tall, and the sneakers were black and almost looked like dress shoes. If she looked out of place, so be it. She never wore heels—not anymore.
Dagny opened the gallery door and stepped into the vestibule. A sign on the interior door announced the name of the show: A Georgetown Collection. Dagny picked a program off a nearby table and began flipping through its pages. A couple walked through the entry door, passed Dagny, and continued through the second door into the gallery. They moved effortlessly, gliding through in mere seconds. Dagny wondered how they did it.
Someone had left a copy of the day’s Washington Post next to the programs. Dagny scanned the front page. The president was urging Congress to enact tougher penalties for white-collar criminals. A young black kid had been shot and killed at a New Year’s Eve concert at the 11:30 Club. Trouble in the Middle East. It was the same news every day. Dagny glanced at her watch—5:26 p.m.—took a deep breath, and walked into the gallery.
In the main room, a densely packed mob sipped cocktails and chattered away about their latest successes. Dagny heard snippets of conversation, things like, “I read his piece in The New Republic” and, “How old do you think she is?” Two long lines snaked through the crowd, leading to cash bars on each side of the room. A woman in a tuxedo vest carried a tray of appetizers—something wrapped in prosciutto—and normally dignified socialites stumbled over each other to grab them before they were gone. Dagny looked for an avenue of escape. Because even the most devoted cognoscenti of art care more about wine and cheese than paint and canvas, the exhibition room to the right was nearly empty, so she went there.
Dagny knew a little about art. She could tell a Monet from a Manet, and a Titian from a Tintoretto. But with a million dollars and the lives of a thousand screaming babies on the line, she c
ouldn’t have distinguished most of the dreck on the gallery walls from the thirty-dollar paintings hawked at starving-artist sales in Holiday Inn conference rooms. The first three paintings were impressionistic landscapes, remarkable only for their absolute irrelevance. If there was anything interesting to say about water lilies, Dagny was pretty sure it had been said a hundred years earlier. A black canvas with a red square in the middle had been titled Red Canvas with a Black Square in the Middle, presumably to convey the artist’s witty and elevated sense of irony. The title didn’t make her laugh, but the painting’s $1,200 price tag did.
One painting put the others to shame. In it, a man stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a city. The city was painted like a dark, violent storm, with thick, swirling strokes, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. But the man was rendered in a realistic, even romantic, style. He was strong and athletic, and his features were fine and distinct. He wore a suit and tie, and held his jacket casually over his shoulder, untroubled by the chaos below.
“Isn’t it awful?” a voice said from behind. Dagny turned toward the man who said it. First, she noticed that he was tall. Then she noticed his navy-blue Brooks Brothers suit and black wing-tip shoes. These were standard issue for a lawyer or a lobbyist, though the curl of his hair in the back suggested he was neither. Sky-blue eyes and a soft smile. Cleft chin and a square jaw. He was more handsome than beautiful. “Absolutely awful,” he continued in a deep, soothing voice. “Glorious man and the savage society. It’s sloppy and indulgent. The artist must be a real egoist. Probably insufferable.”
“I don’t know,” Dagny said. “You seem okay to me.”
He smiled. “That obvious?”
She figured that he was in his early forties—not too old, considering she was rapidly approaching thirty-five. No ring, of course. Julia had made that mistake once before. She wondered if he was divorced. If so, then why did the marriage fail? If not, what was wrong with him? His hands were manicured, but there was still some dirt under his nails. She noticed a small scar above his left eyebrow. His lips were full and chapped. He had a swimmer’s build—she liked that. “I’m Dagny Gray.” She stuck out her hand and he shook it.