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24
A sweating Parker Kincaid ran into the FBI Document Division lab.
Lukas walked up to him. Her face was paler than he'd remembered it. "I got your message," she said. "That reporter-Phillips-he got to one of the mailroom people. Somehow he found out your real name."
"You promised," he raged.
"I'm sorry, Parker," she responded. "I'm sorry. It didn't come from here. I don't know what happened."
Dr. Evans and Tobe Geller were quiet. They knew what was going on but, perhaps seeing the look in Parkers eyes, they wanted no part of it. Cage was not in the room.
Parker had called them on his cell phone as he sped-with a red dashboard flasher borrowed from the agents stationed in front of his house-from Fairfax to downtown. His mind had been racing. How could he control the disaster? All he'd wanted to do was help save some lives. That was his only motive, save some children. And look what had happened…
Now his own children would be taken away from him.
The end of the world…
He pictured the nightmare if Joan had even partial custody. She'd soon lose interest in mothering. If she couldn't get a baby-sitter she'd drop them off, alone, at the mall. She'd lose her temper at them. They'd have to fix their own meals, wash their own clothes. He was in despair.
Why the hell had he even considered Cage's request for help tonight?
A small TV sat on a table nearby. Parker turned it on to the news. It was just nine. A commercial ended and smiling pictures of the WPLT "news team" flipped onto the screen.
"Where's Cage?" he asked angrily.
"I don't know," Lukas answered. "Upstairs somewhere."
Could they move out of the state? he wondered manically But, no, Joan would fight that and the Virginia courts would still have jurisdiction.
On the screen, that son of a bitch Phillips looked up from a stack of papers and gazed at the camera with a grotesquely sincere expression.
"Good evening. I'm Slade Phillips… Eleven people were killed and twenty-nine were wounded an hour ago in the third of the mass shootings that have terrorized Washington tonight. In this special report we'll have exclusive interviews with victims and with police on the scene. In addition, WPLT has obtained exclusive videotape of the scene of the most recent killings-on a yacht anchored in the Potomac River."
Parker, hands clenched, watched silently.
"WPLT has also learned that police and FBI agents were sent to a hotel where it was mistakenly believed that the killer would strike next, leaving too few officers and agents to respond to the shooting on the boat. It's not known for certain who is responsible for this mix-up but informed sources have… have reported… "
Phillips's voice faded. The anchor cocked his head, probably listening to someone through the flesh-colored earphone stuck in his ear. He glanced camera right and a shadow of a frown crossed his face. There was a brief pause and his mouth registered defeat as he recited, "Informed sources have reported that District of Columbia Mayor Gerald D. Ke
Cage walked into the lab, wearing an overcoat. He clicked the TV set off. Parker closed his eyes and exhaled. "Jesus."
"Sorry, Parker," Cage said. "Things fall through the cracks sometimes. But I made a deal with you and we're keeping our end of the bargain. Oh, one thing-don't ever ask me how I did this one. You definitely don't wa
The limo eased up to the curb in front of City Hall like a yacht docking.
Mayor Jerry Ke
He leaned forward and clicked the TV off.
"How could he?" Claire whispered, referring to Slade Phillips's suggestion that Ke
Wendell Jefferies leaned forward, resting his glossy head in his hands. "Phillips… I already paid him. I-"
Ke
Yeah, Jefferies had paid Slade Phillips his twenty-five thousand. And, no, they'd never get it back.
"Whatever happens," Ke
His delivery was, as always, deadpan and it took them a minute before they realized it was a joke. Claire laughed. Jefferies still seemed shell-shocked.
The irony was that Ke
"What do we do now?" Claire asked.
"Well have a drink and then go to the African-American Teachers' Association party. Who knows? The Digger might still come forward and want the money. I still may have a chance to meet him face-to-face."
Claire shook her head. "After what happened on the boat? You couldn't trust him. He'd kill you."
Couldn't kill me any deader than the press has done tonight, Ke
Claire tacked down her wispy hair with a burst from a small container of perfumed spray. Ke
"How bad is all this?" she asked.
"As bad as it gets."
Claire Ke
Neither spoke for a moment.
"Is there any champagne in there?" he asked suddenly, nodding toward the minibar.
"Champagne?"
"Sure. Let's start celebrating my ignominious defeat early."
"You wanted to teach," she pointed out. Then with a wink she added, "Professor Ke
"And you did too, Professor Ke
She smiled at him and opened the minibar of the limo.
But Jerry Ke
He glanced at his wife. She was laughing.
She pointed to the bar. "Gallo and Budweiser."
What else in the District of Columbia?
Ke
The guns are finally loaded.
The silencer he's been using has been repacked and the new one is mounted on the second gun.
The Digger, in his comfy room, checks his pocket. Let's see… He has one pistol with him and two more in the glove compartment of his car. And lots and lots of ammunition.