Placebo (34 page)

Special Agents Wendy McAuley and Tyron Harris approached the funeral home's front door.

It was a routine check, one of dozens they'd been assigned to do in the last two weeks. Yes, you try to take every call seriously, but after a while it's hard. Especially when 99.99 percent of them turn out to be crank calls.

Just like a paramedic who's no longer affected by seeing severe trauma, or a homicide detective who gets numb after viewing corpses day after day, Secret Service agents eventually get so used to investigating death threats against the president that it becomes run-of-the-mill.

Agent McAuley gave the door a knock. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Psychic assassins.”

“What are you going to do?” Agent Harris yawned. “So, remember the last time we were in Philly?”

“Cheesesteaks.”

“Get this call over with, go grab some lunch?”

“Geno's or Pat's?” McAuley asked him.

“You know I'm a Pat's fan.”

“No, it's gotta be Geno's all the way—with the onions well-done. They're so much—”

A nondescript man in his late twenties opened the door and greeted them cordially. “Yes?” He wore a name badge that told them he was the funeral director. “May I help you?”

They showed him their Secret Service creds. “We have a few questions for you,” Harris said. “May we come inside?”

“Of course.” The man stepped back, ushered them in. And swung the door shut behind them.

10:51 a.m.
4 minutes left

Dr. Colette draws her car to a stop along the side of the road leading past the Faulkner-Kernel Funeral Home.

A hearse, a sedan, and an SUV with shaded windows and government tags are in the cramped parking area. Charlene gestures toward the SUV. “What do you know, the Secret Service beat us here.”

Riah identifies the sedan as that of the twins.

The morning is quiet, just the sound of the river flowing by and a few geese honking as they settle onto a small boat landing just north of us. The sunlight is warm, but the wind funneling down the river valley feels crisp and wintry.

There's no sign of the twins or the agents.

“So?” Charlene asks. “Plan of attack?”

Riah retrieves the bag of medical instruments she'd brought with her from the research facility. I'm not certain why she brought them along, unless it was somehow to convince the twins she was going to help them after all, to buy time. She turns toward the front door. “I need to talk with them.”

But something's not right. It's too quiet. “Hang on.”

“What?”

“If the agents have the twins in custody, why haven't they brought them back to their car?”

She stops.

The twins got to them already.

“Wait here,” I tell the women. “I'll go.”

“They'll be expecting me,” Dr. Colette reiterates. “Even if they've done something to the agents, they won't harm you if you're with me.”

“She has a good point,” Charlene agrees.

A quick internal debate. “Alright. But I go first.”

I lead the way to the door. When I knock, no one responds. I try the doorknob and find it locked.

“If the twins are expecting you, Riah,” I'm thinking aloud, “why don't they open the door, and if the agents are safe, they'd answer the door too, wouldn't they? To see if we might be coconspirators?”

“I'm not sure.”

I stare at the keyed lock. It looks manageable. I don't have my lock-pick set with me or the belt buckle prong of the belt Banner severed yesterday, but I can use something else.

“Charlene, can I borrow one of your earrings.” She hands it to me and I kneel to work at the lock. “This'll only take a second.”

“Dr. Arlington.”

Cyrus immediately recognized the voice. Akinsanya. His heart almost stopped.

He turned and saw a dark-haired, stocky man close the office door behind him.

“How did you get in here?”

“Your receptionist was kind enough to grant me entrance. I convinced her that I was an old friend. Cyrus, you've been compromised.”

“No, I—”

“Those who've been compromised”—Akinsanya approached him—“have become liabilities. And you know what I do with those who've become liabilities.”

“No.” Cyrus was backing toward the window. “You have to listen to me, there's nothing to—”

But then Akinsanya was on him, a choke hold to knock him out so the young redheaded receptionist in the next room wouldn't hear what was going on.

Then Akinsanya began to do to him what he did best, working quickly and proficiently with the needle and thick thread he had
brought along. Today he tried something unique, something he'd never done to anyone else before, but he was a creative man and always ready to expand his horizons. Especially when it came to utilizing the items that his immediate environment provided him.

In this case, the contents of two aquariums.

A crowd of more than a thousand people had gathered in Independence Park. At first they were focused on the stage and the much-anticipated arrival of the president, but then a woman and her four children pointed to the top of the Franklin Grand Hotel. “There's a man!” they cried. “He's gonna jump!”

The attention of the crowd immediately shifted to the man standing on the edge of the hotel's roof.

I ease the door open. I think about calling out for the agents or the twins but then think better of it.

The lights in the foyer are off, but a shaft of light escapes from the cracked-open chapel doors on our left and from a hallway twenty feet beyond them. Before us, elegant cushioned chairs sit next to a guest book on a lectern. Thick carpet. Heavy shades keep out the sunlight. A quiet, reverent mood.

No movement.

No sounds.

I hand Charlene her earring, and she edges closer to me as she puts it back in. “Jevin, I don't think—”

I hold up my hand: “Wait.” I hear footsteps, then a voice somewhere in the hallway or just beyond. It's indistinct and I can't make out the words.

Riah hears it too. “It's the twins.” Her voice is low. “I can't tell which one.”

So, not the Secret Service agents, and even though I can't discern
the muffled words from the other room, there doesn't seem to be any fear in them, no urgency, no intimidation.

I don't take that as a good sign.

They're assassins. This is stupid. Get out of—

“I don't like this, Jevin,” Charlene whispers.

Riah hasn't moved. “I should go ahead. Talk to them.”

“Just a sec.” If the twins had done something to the Secret Service agents, I doubted they were going to take kindly to Riah's arrival. They would surmise that someone had leaked their location, and I doubted they would have shared it with too many other people besides her.

I don't like the idea of putting either of the women in danger, but I don't like the idea of backing away either, not when we're this close. Even without Riah's help, the twins still pose a threat to the president.

Glancing around, I look for a weapon. A hall tree for hats and jackets and a small coat area with empty hangers sit to my right. A decorative bin holding half a dozen umbrellas rests beside it.

No, not an umbrella. That won't do anything. Not if a couple Secret Service agents had been overpowered by these assassins.

All in. Remember? No turning back, no backing down. Just like your escapes. It's what you were made to do.

I indicate for the women to stay where they are. “I'll be right back.” I sense that they're about to protest but move forward before they can.

Edging closer to the chapel, I press the door open a little more.

Two rows of wooden pews, ten in each row. A closed coffin sits in the gentle light at the front of the room. Paintings of serene meadows on the walls. Other than that the room is empty.

I take a few more steps to get a better view of what lies down the hallway—

That's when I see the legs of someone on the floor in a room partway down the hall. Trousers. Men's loafers. The person isn't moving.

From where Charlene and Riah are waiting by the front door, I can't imagine they can see the body and I don't want them to.

He might still be alive.

Quietly returning to Riah and Charlene, I hush my voice. “Get to the car. Drive away. And call 911. I think someone's hurt. I have to check; don't argue with me. Go. Call 911. Get out of here.” I eye Riah. “Both of you.” I make it clear by my tone that there's no room for debate. I'm not sure how she's going to respond, but after a small moment she nods. I hand them my phone.

A voice inside of me tells me that I really should go with them.

No, Jevin.

That person might be alive.

Stop the twins.

All in.

No, I wasn't about to leave the building and wait for who knows how long for cops or more agents to show up, only to find out later that I'd left someone dying on the floor when I could've saved him.

Besides, I really doubted that the Secret Service would've sent only one agent here. That meant there might be another victim.

Or someone else to help you. Someone's who's armed.

Finally, the women step silently toward the door.

I decide that an umbrella's better than nothing and go for one after all. The end is tipped with metal, and I figure I can use it like a bayonet if I need to. It might not be lethal, but it would sure slow someone down.

Cautiously, I creep past the chapel again and make my way toward the hallway. As I get closer, I see more of the man's legs. For the moment, no other sounds.

I tighten my grip on the shaft of the umbrella and realize I haven't heard the front door opening. I glance back, see the women still in the foyer. Charlene is talking softly, urgently, on the phone. Dr. Colette is standing stoically beside her, watching me. I gesture again for them to go, and Charlene holds up a finger to indicate that they will in just a moment.

At last they ease out the door.

Good.

Okay.

Heart hammering, I round the corner.

The man on the floor has an earpiece attached to a white coiling cord that disappears into his suit coat. His head is twisted gruesomely to the side at an angle a head was never meant to turn. Eyes open. Staring.

Quickly, I scan the room. More elegant furniture. A prayer stool in the corner. A cross hanging from the wall. Heavy floor-length drapes pulled across unseen windows. No one else is present.

No sounds.

Two other doors are propped open. One leads to the crematorium. Through the other doorway, I can see a tiled floor. Old metal gurneys and countertops of chemicals and medical instruments.

The embalming room.

I make a decision:
See if this guy is alive, then go. Get out of here.

Silently, I crouch and press two fingers against the agent's neck. No pulse. Nothing.

But then I hear movement in the embalming room, someone walking across the tiled floor.

See if he has a gun. Move!

I'm no marksman, but I am a practiced shot. Mostly I've fired guns at Charlene while I'm blindfolded. That was for part of our show.

This was for real.

I feel for a shoulder holster on the dead man, find his gun, and as I'm removing it, I hear indistinct voices in the embalming room, and a man in jeans and a black sweater crosses the doorway, walking backward, dragging a woman across the floor. She's not moving.

The other agent.

Then the person dragging her speaks. This time I hear him clearly: “Go get the man.”

I scurry to the wall, duck behind one of the chairs.

Stillness. Perception. Expectation. There's no reason for him to suspect that anyone else is in the room.

He'll focus on the task, why would he look your way?

Still, I hold the gun ready, umbrella tucked behind the curtain beside me.

The man enters the room. He's athletic, walks with poise, confidence. Doesn't look my way. Identical to the other man except he wears a green sweater.

This twin grabs the wrists of the dead Secret Service agent, tugs him toward the door to the embalming room, but as he turns the corner, the flap of the dead man's jacket flips open, revealing the empty shoulder holster.