Familiar Stranger (23 page)

David dropped onto the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. He glanced at the clock one more time and then rolled over onto his side. The least he could do was close his eyes and rest.

Within minutes, he was asleep.

Chapter 13

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I
t started to rain just as Frank reached his car. Hurrying before his clothes got all wet, he opened the door and jumped inside. But he didn't bother looking back to see if he'd been followed. He'd already been out of the house and into the woods before the police cruiser had even pulled into the yard. As he locked the car door, he took a gun out of his pocket and laid it beside the knife he'd been carrying.

He paused a moment, resting his forehead against the steering wheel and letting the adrenaline rush settle as his heartbeat shifted into a normal rhythm. When he finally looked up, he was smiling. The gun he'd taken from Bethany's husband was out of habit. He'd never left a weapon on a victim before and he wasn't starting now, but as he'd been running through the woods, a thought had occurred. Now that he was on his way to D.C., how poetic would it be to kill David with his own daughter's gun?

He liked the idea. In fact, he loved it. But getting it on a plane could be a problem. He started the car and quickly drove away. Considering what he'd left behind, lingering in the area wasn't wise, but as he drove, his mind was still sorting through the possibilities that would yield him what he wanted.

The streets were deserted as he entered Chiltingham on his way to the Canandaigua Airport. Even though no one was in sight, he still took great care not to speed or run any lights. The last thing he needed was to get caught with a stolen weapon.

On his way out of town, he passed a billboard advertising Fed-ex. About a half a mile later, the significance of that sign suddenly hit him, and a plan began to evolve. Now he knew how to get the gun to D.C. All he needed was a small box and some packing and the address of his hotel. With a little luck, it would be there waiting for him when he arrived.

* * *

It was mid-morning the next day when an envelope suddenly appeared beneath the door in David's room. Still in the shower and unaware of what had happened, he didn't notice until his breakfast arrived.

Later, as he was dressing, someone knocked on his door. Tucking a rugby shirt into the waistband of his slacks, he went to answer it, and as he did, he noticed the envelope and picked it up.

"Who is it?" David asked.

"Room service," a man answered.

Although he was expecting the food, he still looked through the peephole before opening the door. A bellhop smiled a good morning as he pushed a food-laden cart into the room.

"Where would you like this, sir?"

"On the table by the window will be fine," David said, as he signed the check and handed it to the bellhop, along with a generous tip.

"Thank you, sir. When you've finished, ring guest services and we'll come and remove the dishes. Enjoy your meal."

When he was gone, David sat down before the food, surprised to find he was actually hungry. He laid the letter aside for the moment and spread some jelly on his toast before tackling the first bite of his eggs. When he had partially satiated his hunger, he took a drink of coffee and then picked up the letter. Curious, he leaned back in the chair as he slit the flap, unprepared for what was inside. Abruptly, he sat up with a thump and reached for the phone.

"Front desk. How may I help you, Mr. Wilson?"

"Someone left a note under my door this morning. I want to talk to who put it there."

"Let me connect you with the mail office."

A few seconds later a woman answered. David repeated his request. There was a slight pause, as if she was checking her records.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but we have no record of a letter being sent to your room."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sure. I've been on duty since six this morning. I would have known."

"Thank you," David said, and hung up.

His food no longer appealed, his appetite completely gone. Damn it to hell. Frank had once again regained the upper hand. He'd found David, had some flunky deliver a message and walked away without notice. As he reread the letter, his stomach knotted.

O two hundred hours tonight, little brother. At the Wall.

David laid down the note, his gut in knots. How ironic that it was both their intentions to meet at the same place. The Vietnam Memorial, otherwise known as the Wall, was fitting. A symbol of where it all began.

He stood abruptly, gathered his room key and wallet and then picked up his tray and set it in the hall. He would meet Frank at 2:00 a.m. as he'd requested, but he had some reconnoitering in the area that he wanted to do first and he needed to rent a car.

* * *

The day was hot, the wind brisk, and still they came. From the steps of the Lincoln Memorial where David was standing, hundreds of people could be seen milling about the grassy mall. Some were taking pictures, others laughing and talking, pointing with excitement at the surrounding monuments. Teenagers abounded in groups and he remembered that age—the awkwardness and lack of respect for anything or anyone older than themselves.

As for the veterans, they were easy to pick out. They were the ones who stood the longest, spoke the least and quite often left with tears in their eyes. And then there were their widows and families, tenderly stroking stone and marble that had been set in their loved one's honor because it was all they had left to touch.

The long, crystal-clear waters of the gazing pool that lay between the Lincoln and the Washington monuments reflected the surrounding treetops, as well as a clear, cloudless sky. At the north end of the pool, David watched a flock of circling pigeons as they landed on the greens and then proceeded to the water for a drink. The setting was idyllic—a picture-perfect day. It seemed obscene that before the night was over, either he or Frank would most likely die in this place.

Abruptly, he adjusted his sunglasses and took the steps downward, angling to the left as he went. He'd been at the Wall many times before, but never with the need to lay out an ambush.

As he approached it, a wave of guilt washed over him. That he was actually coming to this place with such a heinous plot in mind seemed sacrilegious, yet he'd been given no choice. Even if he'd been inclined to change the game plan, it was too late now. The wheels of his destiny had been set in motion. All he had to do was make sure he wasn't run over and killed in the process.

Anxious to get this over with, he sidestepped a couple pushing a stroller, then moved past a group of teenagers. As he neared the Wall, he came up behind an elderly couple trying to negotiate the downward incline. The old man was using a walker and his wife was trying to hold it upright, since it had a tendency to roll faster than either of them could walk.

At that moment, the last thing he wanted was personal contact with anyone, but his conscience wouldn't let him ignore them.

"Need some help, sir?" he asked, and then gripped the front of the walker and proceeded to slow it down so the old couple could keep up.

The woman's face was pink from exertion and the smile she gave David was enough to make him sorry he'd even hesitated to help.

"Oh, thank you, son. We didn't know this was so steep. Matthew's walker was about to take him for a ride."

Her youthful giggle surprised David, and he caught himself smiling back.

"Have you been here before?" he asked.

Her smile crumpled. "No. We always meant to, but we live so far away. We're from Idaho, you know. Our son Dennis's name is here. Matthew wanted to see it before—"

She didn't finish what she'd been going to say, but David knew what she meant.

"Got cancer," the old man suddenly offered, as he scooted along under David's guidance. "I reckon I'll die of old age before I die of the cancer, though."

David didn't know what to say. Their optimism in the face of such adversity shamed him.

"We never know what life's going to hand us, do we?" he finally said, and then changed the subject. "Do you know what section your son's name is in?"

The old woman gave him a scrap of paper she'd been holding.

"The lady back at the information booth gave that to us."

He read the name, the section and row and then turned toward the Wall, checking to see how far along they'd come.

"It's a little bit farther down," he said. "Can you make it?"

"Me and Shirley made it this far. I reckon I can go a little farther," Matthew said.

A few yards down the slope, David stopped.

"Just a minute, sir. It should be right along here."

The old man turned his walker so it would no longer roll, and then stared at the Wall, suddenly overwhelmed by the expanse of names that seemed to go on forever.

"We sure weren't the only ones who grieved, were we, Shirley?"

His wife leaned her head against his shoulder, tears streaming down her face.

Then David turned. "Here. His name is here."

They stared at the name, as if trying to conjure up an image to go with it, but he could see their eyes were blurred by tears.

"It's been such a long time," Shirley said. "I thought I'd cried myself out years ago."

"Yes, ma'am," David said softly, and handed her his handkerchief. "I know what you mean."

Matthew looked at him then, judging him with all the wisdom of his eighty-plus years.

"You got kin on this wall, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn shame, that's what it is," he muttered, and then took out his own handkerchief and blew his nose while his wife began fumbling in her handbag. When she pulled out a camera, David knew what she intended.

"Ma'am, if you would allow me, I'd be glad to take your picture."

"I want to stand beside my boy's name," Shirley said, as she patted at her hair, trying to smooth down the white, flyaway fluff that the breeze had disturbed.

"The names don't show up too well on photographs," David said. "But if Matthew will turn just a little bit this way," David said, easing the old man and the walker a little closer to the wall, "and if you'll stand on this side, you can put your hand on your son's name. That way it will be easier for you to see it when the picture is developed."

Shirley nodded, but as she reached toward the name, her gnarled fingers tracing the letters, her little face crumpled. David looked away, waiting for her to contain her emotions.

"I'm ready now," she announced.

He took a few steps backward and lifted the camera to his face.

The image caught within the parameters of the lens almost sent him to his knees.

A dying father.

A grieving mother.

And all that was left of their son was his name on a wall.

He made himself focus and then took a deep breath.

"On the count of three," he said. "One. Two."

He snapped the picture.

"Take one more," Shirley said. "Just in case."

He took the second one, and when he handed her the camera, she gave him back his handkerchief and then gave him a hug.

"Thank you, son," she said. "And we're sorry for your loss."

David nodded, but there wasn't anything he could say. His loss? For years, he believed that he'd lost much more than a brother. Until last week, when Cara Justice had taken him back into her life and her heart, he'd almost lost his faith in God.

David started to help them along when Matthew shook his head.

"It's uphill the rest of the way and I can push better than I can run. We'll make it from here."

They meandered away, talking with animation, delighted that their quest was complete, and as they walked, David noticed that when one of them faltered, the other was there on which to lean.

A knot rose in his throat, swelling and burning until he thought he would choke. When he turned back to the Wall, he found himself looking through a thick blur of tears. Instead of looking for Frank's name, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.

And so he stood within the silence of his own heart, absorbing the peace of the monument and giving homage to the men who'd fought, those who'd died and those who were forever lost. He lost all track of time, freeing his mind of everything and feeling a cleansing from within that he'd never known before.

Finally, he lifted his head and as he started to leave, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly crawled. The sensation was old but familiar. He knew he was being watched.

Remembering the letter he'd found under his door, he turned, eyeing everyone who passed, but saw no one who set off any internal alarms. Convinced he wasn't imagining things, he began scanning the surrounding area. Again, no one person stood out in the crowds that should cause this alarm.

Still uneasy, he began to walk toward the east, coming out of the walkway and up onto the sidewalk. At the crest of the hill, he paused again. The feeling was still there.

A woman screamed loudly off to his right, shrieking her disapproval at her children. Instinctively, David turned toward the sound, and as he did, he caught a flash of movement within a cluster of trees a couple of hundred yards to his left.

There. That's where it was coming from.

It had to be Frank.

He lifted his head, his chin thrust forward in a gesture of defiance.

* * *

Frank smiled derisively as he watched his little brother playing Boy Scout to the old man and woman. When they finally moved on and he saw David bowing his head, he sneered.

"Pray, you son of a bitch. You're going to need all the help you can get."

When David suddenly looked up and then turned in place, he realized something had spooked him, but what? Adjusting his binoculars, he began to scan the area, too, searching for answers. When he looked back, David was no longer in sight. A slight spurt of panic came and went as he stepped out from behind a cluster of trees for a closer look. A few seconds later, David emerged from the walkway, pausing at the crest of the hill. As he did, Frank breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't as though he was going to do anything here—too damned many witnesses, but he liked being the one in control, and being the observer gave him a sense of power.