The Third Coincidence (17 page)

Jack noticed that everyone on his squad was sitting up straight, most jotting notes while Rachel talked about the profile. He didn’t know where the profile would lead them, but he felt they were find- ing traction.

“The psychological profile,” Rachel continued, “and this is flimsy, is of a person who reads comic books. We took that from the tone in his communiqué in which he portrayed himself as a super- hero out to save America. Despite the juvenile overtones, the skill and ingenuity with which he’s carried out these murders suggests lengthy, patient surveillance and planning. These are the tools of an intelligent, calculating killer. We must now assume he has also been tracking nominees for the Court and the Fed. Garfield had been ru- mored to be a nominee for months even though it was only formal- ized a few days ago. The killer knows weapons, computers, and

126 David M. Bishop

explosives which suggests LW may have received training from the military or in law enforcement.

“Our boldest guess is that LW operates alone, or at least is the only killer. That is, unless he’s limited his militia to average-sized men in their thirties with clean-shaven faces who wear red baseball caps. And I don’t believe he would have enough recruits to pick from that he could be that particular. Also, the red cap could be the mili- tia’s subtle uniform, or simply something intended to draw people’s eyes so they don’t focus on his face.”

After Rachel finished, Jack thanked her and told Frank and Nora to go home and get some rest. “I don’t want to see you two again be- fore tomorrow morning.”

“We’re okay, Jack,” Frank protested.

“You’ve just been to Oregon and Cleveland and since you got back you haven’t stopped. When we get closer, it’ll be twenty-four- seven. You won’t be any help then if you’re dead on your feet. It’s not just physical. I need your minds. Now get out of here. That’s an order.”

On the way out Nora stopped at the coffee corner where Colin had just finished pouring a fresh cup. “Is your invitation still open for breakfast with a coworker?” she asked.

“You’ve been thinking about me!” He grinned. “This is good.” “Jetting across the country gives one plenty of time to think,” she

said. “You may have come to mind a time or two. It helped cut the boredom.”

“You want me to call you in the morning to remind you?” “Why don’t you just nudge me?”

“You changed your mind!”

She smiled. “Come over after you get out of here.”

“I don’t know what time that’ll be,” Colin said. “I’ll call first and pick up some Chinese.”

Nora was walking out when Rachel said, “Jack. I need you to call the White House and get the identities of any nominees not yet

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reported by the media. We can’t assume that LW doesn’t know about them.”

LW shouted in jubilation when he heard it announced on MSNBC that beginning tomorrow the station would begin round-the-clock special coverage of the hunt for LW and his militia.

To fill those hours they’ll have to cut into the meat of all this, he thought. They’ll discover these aristocrats are running amok, and alert the country. It’s working, Father. My plan is working.

The hit program
D.C. Talk,
hosted by Mel Carsten, would be the hub for the special coverage, including interviews with political leaders and guest experts on matters relevant to the hunt. Their first announced guest would be Charles Nesbit, the counterterrorism ex- pert, who had appeared yesterday on the regular version of
D.C. Talk.

Mr. Carsten, you’ll be needing a replacement.

chapter 27

Ten are dead. McCall reports no progress.

—The D.C. Tattler, June 13

The sidewalks were crowded with men with fat stomachs, women in shoes with fat heels, young workers rushing to catch the subway, nan- nies pushing baby carriages, and old people walking their dogs, all of them mere plankton floating through the sea of life.

LW mouthed another antacid tablet.

It would be too dangerous to be seen wearing his red baseball cap across from Charles Nesbit’s apartment building. He had worn the cap the night before while attaching the explosive to Nesbit’s car after he parked on a side street near Blues Alley, a D.C. jazz club on Wisconsin Avenue, NW. Nesbit had entered the club with a stat- uesque woman in a tight white sweater and a dark skirt who had ar- rived in a separate car. After dinner she had followed Nesbit back to his apartment and not left until an hour ago.

The startling clanks from the metal lattice gate rising over the exit from the parking level under Nesbit’s building, drew the atten- tion of everyone nearby. A moment later a car began its climb from the concrete tomb. The early morning sun reflecting off its wind- shield prevented LW from seeing the driver. The car topped out at the street. The glare died. The driver was Nesbit.

LW casually reached inside the pocket of his lightweight jacket, his fingers curling around the remote. Then he pressed its only but-

the third coincidence 129

ton. The explosion incinerated the car, transforming Nesbit from a lying sack of shit into a squirming stalk of fire.

When he got home, LW shut the door to the room he thought of as his hideout, plopped onto the couch, and turned on the TV to see that MSNBC had already reported what they were calling the tragic death of Charles Nesbit.

“We have another message from Commander LW,” Carsten was say- ing as the camera panned in on his expressionless face. “The au- thorities have approved our reading it.”

LW’s lip synced as Mel Carsten read his words on national TV:

President Schroeder was a fool to ignore my order. Since our demands were not met, the eliminations will continue without further delay. The greatness of our fathers can no longer be ignored.

Mr. Nesbit spoke of our cause as one led by a madman, and he has been punished for his arrogance.

It’s time to revolt against the tyranny of a government ruled by unelected aristocrats.

I advise Mr. Carsten to use his program to showcase something more than the ignorance of seeing this issue in the context of a few deaths. All meaningful change in the history of the world has required killing. Use your program to explore and discuss the deterioration of America’s repre- sentative government.

Commander LW

Hearing his own words read on television excited him. His father’s ideals carried forward with his words and tactics.

Stay tuned America. There will be more.

130 David M. Bishop

• • •

“That fuckhead,” Millet bellowed. “When we get him, let’s cut off his balls and hang him up in the town square.”

“Easy, Millet,” Jack said, “let’s not lose sight of what he is and who we are.”

Nora, who was standing behind Millet, put her hands on his shoulders. “Our revenge comes when we stop him.”

Millet hurled a wadded piece of paper at his wastebasket. He missed, swore, took a deep breath, and challenged the others. “Did you notice that bastard used ‘fathers’ not forefathers. Wouldn’t you say that means that his father was a force in his life?”

Rachel exhaled slowly. “Could be? We just don’t know enough yet.”

“I can think of no reason why Charlie Nesbit would have been among LW’s targets,” Jack said, looking at the pictures of Charlie Nesbit that came on each of the three televisions in the Bullpen.

“Godspeed, Nessy,” Jack said before turning to the others. “The president wants to introduce me at a press conference. He’s hoping it will help calm the public and the financial markets. ‘Let America meet the man on the job,’ is how he put it. I had hoped to avoid it, but I promised I would if he thought it necessary.”

“Let’s hope the attention doesn’t make you a target like it did Charles Nesbit,” Rachel said, avoiding Jack’s eyes.

Nora asked Jack why he was in favor of Carsten reading LW’s communiqué. “Why give this jerkoff another audience?” she asked. “LW is itching to talk about what compels him to do what he’s doing,” Jack said. “Every time he shows himself, we get another

piece for the puzzle.”

Jack moved through a strand of Princeton elms across from his house.

He had been coming home on foot from different directions each night since LW had left Rachel’s bra in the envelope on his porch. He hadn’t liked lying to the others, but he had not ordered

the third coincidence 131

protection for himself. This cat-and-mouse game could go on until all the targets had been killed. Jack needed to try everything, in- cluding setting himself up as a target.

He held his position near a tree until another cloud again dimmed the moon, then crossed to the front yard of his neighbor, Janet Parker. He loitered in the bushes between their two properties, and used a remote to turn on two of his lamps. He had positioned the lamps to make it impossible for a person to be in his living room without casting a shadow on one of the front window shades. There were no shadows, but the light spilling from the moon reflecting off the wings of moths circulating outside the illuminated window shades, gave the appearance of swirling snowflakes. He drew his SIG, held it along the side of his thigh, and moved toward the make-be- lieve snow.

Once inside he checked the other rooms, then the phone rang.

It was Rachel.

“You were really sharp today,” she said, “with that observation about LW flying to San Francisco and driving to Oregon.”

“Not bad for a spook, eh?” he asked, keeping it light.

She laughed. “No. Not bad for a spook. You want to talk about what we’ve learned? Maybe I should say, what we’re guessing we’ve learned. Also, what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

After they had reviewed the last two days in detail, she asked, “Did you really remember me from that time years ago?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her. “I never forgot your blue eyes.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls with blue eyes and cleavage.” “We were on the carrier
John Stennis
in the Persian Gulf. I re- member your eyes kept changing. Inside they were a deep blue. Out-

side they matched the blue-green of the Persian Sea.”

“Have a bowl of your ice cream and no insomnia tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.” She hung up.

Atypical for Jack, he fell asleep rather quickly. His clock said he had been asleep an hour when the ringing phone woke him.

“Hello, friend. I’m the guy who brought you Rachel’s bra.”

132 David M. Bishop

“If you’re calling to get more underwear, I can leave a pair of my shorts on the porch.” Jack looked at caller ID. It hadn’t been blocked so LW was probably calling from a pay phone.

“Cute, Jack. You can’t make me angry. We’re a lot alike, you know.”

Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet. “Just how do you figure that?” He picked up the drink on his night- stand. The ice cubes were mostly melted, the outside of the glass wet. Then he heard a faint scrape, perhaps his caller’s unshaven cheek dragging across the mouthpiece.

“You hunt me, Jack. I hunt the aristocrats. You’ve done covert op- erations. I’m doing a covert operation.”

“It’s not the same,” Jack said. “When I kill you, the murders will stop.”

“We are also alike because we’re both protecting something. You’re trying to protect America’s unelected government. I’m trying to protect the future of our country. Without a cause, there can be no true greatness. I offer you that cause. Join me, Jack. Together we can resurrect America and achieve immortality.”

“Sounds right to me. You know where I live. Come on over. Ring the doorbell.” Jack sipped his diluted drink.

“Not so fast, Jack. We can meet later. You know who the targets are. Earn your stripes. Take out a few. Then we’ll meet.”

“Starting tomorrow, you keep a keen watch over your shoulder.

The footsteps you’ll hear will be mine.”

“I haven’t told you the main reason why we’re so much alike.” Jack heard traffic in the background. “Go ahead,” he said, “then

I’m hanging up. If you want to talk more, come over.”

“You want to fuck Rachel Johnstone. So do I. A friendly wager says I’ll be in her panties before you.” He laughed. “In fact, I’ve al- ready won. I’m in her panties right now. I wonder why we call panties plural? Yes, there are two leg holes, but a brassiere has two cups and they are named in the singular. Strange isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve got the flesh-colored sheer ones I took from her apartment

the third coincidence 133

pulled over my head. With each breath, I inhale her fragrance. My tongue tastes her. Now I want the whopper, not just the wrapper.”

“You aren’t kidding me for a moment. You’re not interested in America, only in having an excuse to kill. You’re a coward. You kill women and unsuspecting men who have no chance to defend them- selves.”

“Fuck you, Jack McCall. At least I wasn’t inept enough to get my own brother killed.”

Jack fought to hang onto his composure. He rolled his cold drink glass across his forehead. “Charles Nesbit had you pegged,” Jack said. “You’re one wacky psycho and I’m guessing your father was nuttier than you are.”