by Wally Duff
“I don’t know that for sure, but I know he’s here.”
“If he is dressed up like a priest, is he going to use his rosary beads for bullets?” the male agent asked. “Or maybe they’re really tiny bombs.”
“This isn’t funny,” I said.
“See those teleprompters in front of the podium?” asked the female agent. “Notice anything about them?”
I hadn’t seen them at all. “No, I guess not.”
“They’re the ones the Secret Service use when there might be a threat to POTUS. They’re bulletproof and positioned for his maximum protection.”
“I didn’t know they had anything like that.”
“Neither does your bad guy,” he said. “Why don’t you be a good little girl and sit down until this is over? You’ve caused enough distraction already. Just let us do our jobs without your usual interference.”
The president’s speech was scheduled to begin in twenty-one minutes.
I have to do something!
127
Clearly, it was futile trying to get law enforcement to believe me, since I had no proof. I needed to buy time to get some.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said to the FBI agents.
“Better hurry,” the female agent said. “We wouldn’t want you to miss the president’s speech.”
I rushed to the women’s restroom. I went in and exited in less than thirty seconds.
He’s here! I can feel his presence!
The outside doors into the arena were still open as more people streamed in.
Think logically. If he isn’t going to blow us up, he might use a sniper rifle.
The bomber had shot the abortion doctor from apartment 3E. When the bomber shot Tony, the gun he fired was on the third floor too.
Third floor?
Was the bomber here on the third level of the United Center?
And then it hit me: The Manchurian Candidate! In the movie, the sniper, dressed like a priest, fired his rifle from an elevated suite in an arena like the United Center.
In a suite.
Dressed like a priest.
This has to be it!
I scanned the upper levels of the auditorium. All but one of the penthouse luxury boxes in the three hundred tier were illuminated and rapidly filling up with people. One suite was dark. It was the elevation where the priest had been in the movie.
I scanned the auditorium main floor again. Turning around, I took a breath and began to push my way back through the crowd that was still coming in. Over my shoulder, I saw the FBI agents scanning the crowd. They were no longer watching for me. I wished the Irregulars were here to help.
It’s up to me.
128
Two guards stood in front of the escalator to the three hundred tier. They checked my priority pass and waved me on. Fortunately, the pass guaranteed me access to every level.
The crowd rapidly thinned as people crammed into the open doors of the luxury boxes to get to their seats before the speeches began.
There was a “Closed for Repairs” sign on the door of one of the suites. Two orange cones stood in front of it. I moved one cone and turned the door knob. The door was locked. I pawed around in my purse for my lock pick, but I’d left it in my backpack, fearing it wouldn’t pass through security.
Maybe the suite really was closed for repairs and that was why it was dark.
I have to get into this suite to be sure.
There was a short, squatty female janitor standing off to the periphery of the crowd. She leaned on a long broom, waiting to begin the clean up after the festivities were over.
“Excuse me.” I waved at her. “Here, over here.”
She left her cart and walked over to me. “Help you, ma’am?”
“Yes, you certainly can. I’m with the Chicago Tribune.” I showed her my priority pass. “I’m supposed to cover the speeches from this suite. Have you seen anyone going in?”
“Only person going in or out of this suite has been the plumber. Some idiot plugged up the toilet, and it overflowed early this morning. A freaking mess. He’s been working on it all day, but he hasn’t been able to fix it, so management decided to close it off.”
“Have you seen an elderly priest using a walker up here?”
“With the size of this crowd, I probably woulda’ missed Elvis with his guitar, but I’m positive I haven’t seen any priests like that.” She paused. “Actually, I haven’t seen any priests on this level at all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, priests kind of stick out, especially up here with all these rich and famous people.”
“Thanks.”
She went back to her cart. I was so sure the bomber would be here dressed up like a priest.
Now what?
I watched big hitters enter the suites. I didn’t see any priests.
Priests?
Why were all these priests here? Who alerted them to come?
That’s it! I underestimated you.
The bomber had toyed with me from the beginning in Arlington, pushing me into writing his anti-abortion story. The hundreds of priests in the building were a smokescreen. He wasn’t dressed like a priest, but he could be disguised as someone else.
I looked at the female janitor. What people are nearly invisible at events like this?
The workers.
Like a laundryman entering an abortion clinic, they are all around, but we never notice them because they are part of the background.
I have to get into that suite.
129
I slipped into the open door of the suite next to the one I needed to enter. This one was crammed with people.
On the left side of the room was a mirrored bar with crystal decanters and stemware. There were six black leather barstools in front of it. They were full.
Sitting on a hardwood floor in the middle of the room was a modern black leather couch. Two matching black leather and chrome chairs were placed perpendicular to it. They were full too.
There was a low glass and chrome coffee table in front of that grouping. On the opposite wall was a long table full of food. The aroma of BBQ, Chicago dogs, and pizza drifted in the air. The smell of industrial cleaning agents, expensive perfumes, and sweat filled the noisy room.
I pushed past the mass of people congregated around the booze and food and walked further into the room. The cacophony of noise from everyone talking irritated my ears.
The opposite end of the suite opened out to the expansive arena below. There were two rows of seven padded bleacher seats in front of the end of the suite. The seats were full. There was only one way to get into that next suite.
I edged my way to the end bleacher seat next to my target suite. Taking in a deep breath, I sat on the low railing between the two suites. When I saw that no one was watching, I lifted my legs and moved them up and over the railing.
I quickly moved back into the dark, empty suite. In the gloom, I could make out a similar décor to the suite I’d just been in. Except for one thing. There was no food or alcohol. Only the stench of a backed-up toilet filled the room.
I walked around the suite.
No one here.
I was out of ideas. If the bomber was in the United Center, he’d beaten me again.
Something hard nudged me in the middle of my back.
“I’m sorry you’re here,” a male voice said from behind me.
I recognize that voice…
I turned around.
The man wore a janitor’s green jump suit. He held a funny-looking rifle. It was pointed at my chest.
It was David John.
130
My voice cracked when I spoke. “David? What’s going on? You’re supposed to be out of town.”
“I am here to do God’s work,” he said.
His black glasses and New York Yankees hat were gone. So was his red beard.
“In a janitor’s suit?”
He smiled, but his lips thinned out into a tight
line. “You gave me the idea from the DVDs. I hoped you would alert the FBI and Secret Service and convince them I was here disguised as a priest with a rifle. You know, keep them busy and allow me to finish what I started so long ago.”
My mind whirled. “I don’t understand.”
“You haven’t figured it out?”
“I’m here chasing the bomber who tried to kill me in Arlington and is now terrorizing Chicago, but… You, David? Bombing?” I stared into his green eyes, and it hit me. “You’re my mole?!”
“I always was. It was the only way I could push you into continuing to write my story.” He quickly scanned the arena. “I’m sorry you figured I would be in here. It’s a complication I hadn’t counted on.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or get angry, but I knew I had to think clearly or lots of bad things were going to happen very soon.
He motioned with the rifle. “Back up,” he ordered.
I did. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Tie you up so you can watch. After I leave, you can report to the world why I did this.”
“You can’t do this. There has to be another way. I’ll write an article showing why you feel the way you do. I promise I’ll give you the means to go public with your side of the issue.”
“Been there, done that, and it’s never worked.” His voice hardened. “By pulling the trigger, I will show the president and this international group of reporters that our cause cannot be stopped. Then you can write the full story.”
Carter and I always laughed at movies where the bad guy tied the good guy’s hands in the front and not the back.
Hands bound in front give me a chance. In the back, I’m screwed.
Holding my arms in front of me, I prayed David would instinctively secure them there.
“Okay, tie me up, but you can’t kill the president,” I said.
He took off the belt from his jump suit and used it to bind my hands together in front of me.
Yes!
He arched his eyebrows. “The president? Why would you say that?”
“He’s here, and he’s about to announce that he’s going to support embryonic stem cell research.”
“I can see why you’re confused, but don’t you remember the original Manchurian Candidate? Poor, crazy Raymond didn’t kill the presidential candidate. He killed his stepfather and his mother.”
No!
He was going to shoot Micah and Hannah, not the president. The vision of their four children without their parents flashed into my brain.
I can’t let this happen.
He turned me around and pushed me toward the empty seats in the front of the suite.
“Now what?” I asked, trying to sound calm despite my heart nearly beating through my chest.
“You are going to sit there and watch me shoot a man who kills the unborn babies he creates in a petri dish.”
“What about Hannah?”
“Poor dear. If I have time to get off a second shot, she’ll be collateral damage.”
131
I was taller than David, and he was a pathologic clean freak.
Two things in my favor.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.
“You can do that after I have completed God’s mission,” David said, shoving me in the back against the seats at the front of the suite.
“I really need to right now.”
“Sit down and shut up.”
I turned around and faced him. “If you don’t let me use the bathroom right now, I am going to pee on the floor. I apologize if I splash urine on your shoes.”
Hail to the Chief blared over the loudspeakers.
“The president is coming,” he said. “There is no time for this foolishness.”
“Oh, really? Watch me.”
My hands were bound, but that wasn’t stopping me. I reached under my skirt and pulled my panties down.
His eyebrows shot up.
Shaking the panties free from my foot, I pulled my skirt up to my thighs, spread my legs widely, and began peeing. The stream of urine splashed on the hardwood floor and my feet. It splattered on his legs and shoes.
He started hopping up and down.
“Stop that!” he wailed.
I continued to pee. He spun around and turned his back to me trying to avoid the gush of cascading urine.
Now!
Using my height advantage, I looped my tied hands over his head and moved the belt down to his throat. I tugged backward as hard as I could, nearly lifting his feet off the floor.
He dropped the rifle and clawed at my tied hands. He gurgled as he struggled to breathe. Pulling harder, I leaned back as far as I could so his feet were no longer touching anything.
He kicked his legs and flailed his arms. The only sound coming from his airway was a strangled wheeze.
The crowd began to roar.
The president is coming!
Unexpectedly, the belt dropped to the floor. With the tension released from the now-untied belt, my hands flew upward, and I staggered backward. He bent forward with his hands on his knees and struggled to pull air through his swollen vocal cords.
I reached down for the rifle. He saw me move and dove for the weapon. So did I. He got to it first. I jumped on his back. The rifle was trapped under him. He struggled to pull it into firing position.
I grabbed his red hair with both hands and slammed his forehead and nose on the floor. There was a loud crunch. Blood gushed onto the floor, forming a bright red puddle under his face. He gurgled as he tried to inhale. I felt him relax under me.
You’re not gonna shoot anyone, buster!
132
The noise resounding through the United Center was deafening. Leaning on the back of David’s head, I used it as a support to help me stand up. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the president waving at the crowd. Micah and Hannah stood to his left.
Suddenly, David rolled over and grabbed the rifle’s barrel.
“You bitch!” he hissed.
Still on his knees, he thrust the stock of the gun directly into my abdomen. Instantly, I was struck with an abdominal cramp of frightening intensity.
He jabbed me with the stock again, harder this time. Searing pain doubled me over. It felt like something in my belly ripped apart.
Adrenaline surged through my system. I fought through the pain.
This little wimp isn’t going to beat me.
He jumped up, pushing past me. “I will not be stopped!”
He brought the rifle into firing position to acquire Micah, his first target. I jerked the rifle barrel down and smashed him in his now-broken nose with my elbow.
His eyes bugged open and more blood flew all over me. He lurched backward. His arms wind-milled, and the rifle flew from his grasp. I picked it up and pointed it at his chest.
Blood from his face dripped on the floor. “You won’t shoot me,” he smirked. “I know you. You can’t do it.”
He laughed.
I hate men who laugh at me.
He moved toward me and reached out to grab the rifle.
“You don’t know me at all.”
I aimed at his center mass and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit my intended mark and knocked him off his feet. He fell backward over the coffee table and rolled to his side.
The noise in the United Center was so loud I could barely hear the shot, and I’d fired the rifle.
He groaned. Crawling to his knees, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
He laughed at me again. “You should have known I had a master plan.”
There’s a bomb in the building too! He’s going to set it off with his cell phone.
Thousands of people are going to die!
I pulled the trigger again and again, but his specially-made sniper rifle was a single-shot weapon.
The rifle’s empty.
“Bet you wish you had these,” he said, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a handful of bullets.