The Third Coincidence (33 page)

“Yes.” Rachel moved a small branch that was blurring her view. The street was bright with the morning sun, but oak trees shaded the side of Dalton’s driveway, as well as the side of his house.

“My men are ready to come out, Agent Johnstone,” Martin said. “Watch them and make your own judgment on when you go. Your end will move quicker if we cut out the back and forth talk.”

“Roger that.”

Three agents wearing overalls and dirty T-shirts came out the front door of the observation house carrying boxes, then loaded those boxes into the back of a van. Two of the men walked toward the far north front of the property, stood back, and stared at the roof of the rental house. The third agent backed the van into the street and pulled up to park at the curb, then joined the other two talking and pointing. After a minute or two, one agent got back in the truck and drove north while the other two walked slowly back inside the rental house.

While the agents had been playing their roles in the front yard of the rental house, Frank had run for the back door through the shad- ows in a crouch. After picking the lock, he motioned to the others.

Inside, they heard nothing other than the occasional complaint of an old house railing against the stresses of time. They quickly con- firmed Dalton’s house was still empty just as the observation team had reported.

“I know it’s an oven in here,” Jack said, “but don’t touch the ther-

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mostat. Most people won’t adjust their temperature when they leave for less than a full day. His is set at eighty-five, so he’s likely gone. But we don’t know how long he’s already been away. If he comes home, a cooler temperature could alert him when he opens the door.”

Stabs of light slicing through small breaks in the lowered window shades illuminated the dust particles seemingly drawn to the beams of light as metal is drawn to a magnet.

“The team across the street will let us know if anyone approaches,” Jack said, “so let’s get to it. Rachel, get Millet upstairs on that com- puter. Frank. You and Nora take the rest of the upstairs. Colin and I’ll take the downstairs.”

In a kitchen that looked like it had come straight out of the fifties, Jack and Colin searched the drawers and cabinets, opened contain- ers and everything in the refrigerator.

Nothing.

Frank called softly from upstairs. “Jack. Come up here.”

Jack found Frank standing in the doorway of the bedroom at the far end of the hall. The doorway to what had they figured to be Dal- ton’s bedroom. The bed covers were balled up in the center of the mattress and the pillowcase was heavily soiled.

On the nightstand on the far side of the bed stood a framed pic- ture of a woman. Jack recognized the woman as Mrs. Harry Dalton from her photo in the newspaper article about Harry Dalton’s sui- cide. In the black-and-white picture she wore a skimpy two-piece bathing suit. The wall above Isaac’s dresser held a collage of several more mother pictures, her poses ranging from those of a young mother cradling her cherubic son to the seductive cheesecake shots of a middle-aged lover.

“Some nutcase, eh?” Frank said as they headed down the hall to check on the progress in the office.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “Both him and his momma.”

“This thing is filled with household and family stuff,” Nora said, shutting a drawer in the file cabinet. “There’s nothing on the

252 David M. Bishop

targets, not a damn thing. It’s as if we have the right guy and the wrong house.”

“Not possible,” Rachel snapped, “this shrine to Harry Dalton proves this is the right place.”

“This fucking computer is lifting its skirt,” Millet bellowed. “But I can’t get it to put out.”

“Okay. Let’s all cool it.” Rachel said, motioning downward with her hands. “Just stay with it.”

Nora began checking for loose or hollow sounding floorboards. “The evidence must be here somewhere,” Frank said. “I’ll check

behind his father’s speeches.”

Millet slammed his hand against the desk top. The echo vibrated through the room.

“Take it easy.” Rachel massaged his shoulders. “Loud unex- pected noises are not recommended in covert ops.”

“If I could find where to stick my dick, I’d just fuck this com- puter and be done with it.”

“I’d unplug it first,” Rachel said with a straight face.

Millet laughed. “I’m okay. Really. Sorry for the coarse language.” “I’ve heard it before.” She slapped his shoulder. “From you, now

that I think about it. Now settle down and stay with it.”

Despite Rachel’s words of calm and encouragement, a moment later Millet again swore at the computer, then wiped his runny nose on his shirtsleeve.

“There’s nothing behind this stuff on the walls,” Frank said. “C’mon Frank,” Jack declared, “let’s go give Colin a hand down-

stairs. Nora, search his bedroom and the rest of the upstairs.”

They found Colin in the garage. “You finding anything?” Frank asked.

Colin, who had been poking around a shelf of paint cans, looked at them expressionlessly. “Just garage stuff, nothing incriminating. Is Millet having any luck with that computer?”

“Its looking like a dry hole,” Frank answered. “Jack, you want me to start taking off the air grates and get in the attic crawlspace?”

the third coincidence 253

“Help us finish the garage,” Jack said. “Then if we still have noth- ing, the three of us will divide up the attic and registers.”

“This looks like a standard-sized double garage,” Colin said, looking around. “Twentyish-plus feet wide and about the same front to back.”

“So?” asked Frank.

“When we were waiting in the bushes, while you picked the lock, I crouched across from the side of the garage. From the outside, that window,” Colin motioned with his head, “was in the middle of the garage wall. Here on the inside, it’s much nearer the back wall.” “I’ve often been amazed at your capacity for noticing the shape

of every woman,” Jack said. “I never knew that talent extended to garages. I—”

“Don’t move.” Colin said sharply, starring at the cement floor. “See that discoloration? Someone’s walked back and forth here a lot.”

After pointing out a pattern of steps to the back door of the house, Colin pointed out a fainter second path that Jack could not see, that he said led to the back wall of the garage.

“The discoloration ends here,” he said. He shut his eyes, then reopened them. Jack watched Colin as he felt around until he found a push release that unlatched to reveal an eight-foot-deep room, the width of the garage.

Inside were file cabinets, a TV, a computer set-up, and a chess- board with a partially completed game. A red baseball cap hung on a nail. Popcorn dotted the green indoor-outdoor carpet. A stack of partially uneaten TV dinners stacked on a coffee table in front of a leather recliner functioned as a cul-de-sac for the army of ants that marched back and forth from the baseboard behind the TV.

“Colin, get Millet and Rachel,” Jack said. “Tell them unless they’ve found something by now to shut that computer off and get down here. Fast!”

They had found the mother lode. But could they find Dalton?

CHAPTER 51

The opposition minority leader is demanding to know why Jack McCall has not been replaced.

—Headline News, June 21

june 21, noon

Dalton swung his legs over the side of the bed, poked the off button on the alarm, hacked up and reswallowed a wad of phlegm, popped an antacid, and slipped into the white terry cloth robe provided by the hotel. A moment later the wake-up service rang the phone.

Time to get to work.

Today would be an important day. Today he would take a giant step toward freeing Americans from those who had captured the country.

He rechecked his Galil sniping rifle and its scope and again made sure that he had an adequate supply of the same Winchester cartridges he’d used in Dallas to eliminate Capone. For one final practice, he assembled the Galil in twenty-eight seconds, then dis- assembled it and wedged it into his backpack.

He showered and dressed, then surfed the news networks. The channels were all regurgitating the same message: McCall had made no progress and his job was hanging by a thread. The president kept saying otherwise, but the standard procedure in politics and pro sports sounded the same: McCall was the president’s man.

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At least until the president sacks Jack’s sorry ass tomorrow or the next day.

Dalton entered the hotel restaurant wearing his tearaway long pants, a sweatshirt over his T-shirt, and his backpack. He slipped off the backpack, put it on the floor with his foot on the strap and or- dered a salad and a glass of peach iced tea.

After eating and leaving cash on the table, he returned to his room for his carry bag, and took the hotel’s elevator down to the un- derground level. He stowed his bag in his Explorer, and told the parking attendant that he would do some sightseeing before taking his car.

The sunlight warmed him as he emerged from the garage. Clutched in his hand, in what appeared to be a brown-bag lunch, were the six red baseball caps he would leave in the National Mall. In the cargo-styled pocket of his pants, he had orange sweatbands for his wrists and head, and the reflective tape for his shoes. He’d kept one red cap in his backpack with the rifle to wear when he ran from the killing zone. Today would be the last time he’d wear his trademark red cap, but it would go out in glory—the elimination of the chief justice of the Unites States.

june 21, 12:47 p.m.

Millet’s fingers moved on the keyboard like slam dancers in an un- derground New York club. The others spent the time searching the file cabinets and documents stacked on the floor.

“Holy shit,” Millet shouted. “Remember Justice Monroe, killed with oleander-laced ginseng?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Dalton kept a doc titled, Diary to Dad. It says, ‘This morning I followed Monroe, the one with the twitchy nose who insisted on driving him- self. When he stopped for breakfast, he left his car door unlocked and his ginseng bottle in his seat-side console. I swapped out the capsules. I admit I was nervous, but it was easier than I imagined. Our resurrection of America has begun.’ ”

256 David M. Bishop

“I’ll be damned,” Nora said. “The man stopped for breakfast and died.”

Millet held centerstage, the keeper of the secrets. “They’re all in here. All his killings.” He read more. “ ‘Daddy, do you remember that old picture of grandma pushing momma in the carriage? Well, I found that carriage and that old dress in the attic and used it to spook Santee. When I put the dress on, I called myself Grandma Moses—you remember that’s what I called Grandma. I never liked her. I named the invisible baby in the carriage, Shirley, after that silly little twit—’ ”

“Millet,” Jack scolded, “we want to hear all of it, but right now let’s find this guy. Fast-forward to the end and read what’s there.”

“Okay, Jackman. Don’t get a knot in your shorts. The diary ends with his eliminations of Justice Roberts and Jenny Robinson, but nothing we don’t already know, unless you want me to read his description of her ass. . . . Okay, Jackman. Okay. The next line just says, ‘to be continued.’ ”

They all stopped what they were doing when Jack’s cell phone rang. It was Agent Smith.

“Jack. Rex. I’ve got good news.”

“So do we. Did you find his Explorer?”

“Not in an economy lot, so we figured he might have taken a hotel shuttle. Bottom line, his Explorer is in the underground park- ing at the downtown Hyatt Regency on New Jersey. The hotel says the Explorer belongs to a guest named Tim LaRue who checked out less than an hour ago. The parking lot attendant identified Dal- ton’s picture as LaRue. The hotel manager opened the suite Dalton had rented. It’s empty. We marked it as a crime scene and called in an ERT. They should be here any min—”

“Rex,” Jack injected, “you got anything that tells us where he is right now?”

“Dalton told the parking attendant he had checked out, but he would leave his car for a few hours while he walked to do some sight- seeing. The attendant said he left about fifteen minutes ago with a

the third coincidence 257

backpack slung over his shoulder. We can guess what’s in the back- pack. Dalton is within a few blocks of where I’m standing!”

“Hold on, Rex.” Jack held the phone down near his waist. “Everybody! Dalton’s on foot downtown. Get on your phones to the protective squads. We need to know which of the targets is or will be in D.C. today, and where.” Jack brought the phone back to his ear. “Great job, Rex. Stay where you are. In a few minutes we may know the identity of his target. That may tell us where Dalton’s headed. I’ll call you back. In the meantime, get agents around you who know downtown D.C.”

“Jack!” Rex shouted to stop him from hanging up. “What’s your good news?”

“Dalton’s house has a secret room with a different computer set- up in it. We found a red baseball cap in that room. The witnesses did see him.”

Time always moved at the same speed. It just gave the impres- sion that it moved much slower when you were desperate for some- thing to happen.