The objects the man was holding were two human ears and two human eyes.
Jon Mallory strode back across the lawn to the house, his heart beating wildly. Stomach convulsing. He closed the door. Walked into the bathroom, stood above the toilet bowl, retched once, and then threw up.
In the kitchen, he started to dial 911. Then he stopped.
He took a deep breath and went back outside, to have another look. He strode across the moist dead grass, gripping the flashlight in his right hand. As he came closer, pointing the beam at the man’s face, he realized that he was right. Yes, he knew why the figure seemed vaguely familiar.
Jon stood in front of him, looked away, and swore. Breathed the cold air deeply several times, filling with anger. Then he turned back one more time, clicked the light again, to make sure he was right.
Yes, he recognized the man. Knew him. It was Honi Gandera, Jon Mallory’s contact from Saudi Arabia. The man who had set this story in motion.
THIRTY-THREE
HE WOKE IN A place he did not recognize. A small bedroom, which felt warm and smelled faintly of perfume and powder. A room with inexpensive decorator furniture that he had never seen before, and four teddy bears lined up on a shelf. As he lay there, he smelled burnt toast and heard a television blaring in another room.
He blinked at the daylight through a sheer curtain, his head throbbing. His mouth dry. Then he remembered.
He remembered sitting in his kitchen and staring numbly at the back yard, tasting bile. Then calling 911.
“Jon Mallory,” the man had said, extending a hand. His name was Daniel Foster. He was a “Special Agent.” FBI.
Jon had answered his questions, telling him all he knew about Honi Gandera. But the agent didn’t seem especially interested. That had been strange. Daniel Foster had listened, nodding occasionally and glancing out back frequently, as police took more photos and finally removed the body.
When the others had all gone, Foster had said, “Hold on.” Jon watched him walk out the front door and across the lawn. Unlock his unmarked car. Open the front passenger door and remove something. Close the door and return to the house.
“This is my card,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything at any time.”
He had handed Jon a business card, but also something else: a small dark plastic pouch, with a square-ish object inside.
Jon reached for his trousers, which were on the floor beside the bed. The pouch was there, in his pants pocket, containing a passport and a credit card. He opened it and looked again. The passport bore his picture, the same one that was on his driver’s license. But the name wasn’t his. The name was one he didn’t know: Martin Grant.
Moments after Agent Foster left, Jon Mallory had heard a car horn and looked at the street. It was a silver Lexus 260. Melanie Cross.
Jon lay back and closed his eyes. Then he remembered the rest and realized where he was: this was Melanie Cross’s apartment. He was lying in her spare bedroom, slightly hung over.
She had heard from “a source” that police had gone to his house, and she had stopped by to check. Drove him around for an hour or so. Then they’d gone to her apartment and talked some more, Melanie pouring him drinks while she drank green tea.
What had he told her, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Had anything physical happened? No, he was pretty certain not.
Jon finally climbed out of bed and pulled on his trousers. Stopped in the bathroom and then continued toward the kitchen.
Melanie was wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, staring at the television. She didn’t acknowledge him as he came in. It was a surprisingly utilitarian kitchen, like the rest of her apartment. The home of someone not used to entertaining. A renter.
“Good morning,” Jon said.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
That’s when he got it. The look on her face.
Jon turned to the television. Saw the “Breaking News” banner across the bottom of the screen. “Breaking News” didn’t mean much anymore, but this time it did.
He watched as she switched channels, to Fox, then to MSNBC, each of which carried a “Breaking News” banner.
They both watched: Yellow crime scene tape blocked the entrance to what looked like a park. Men in uniforms walking back and forth. Police lights spinning. Then the scene shifted, and the banner changed. “Earlier.” The same location, but in darkness. A covered body being wheeled on a stretcher along a sidewalk to a D.C. EMS transport ambulance.
It wasn’t a park, though, it was some sort of garden. With high walls and various sculptures. In fact, Jon knew exactly where it was: the sculpture garden in front of the Hirshhorn Museum on the National Mall. He had walked past it twice the night before. Jon recognized Rodin’s famous
It was where he’d been fourteen hours earlier. Jon looked momentarily at Melanie, whose blue eyes were staring at the screen.
On television, Mika Brzezinski was saying: “And if you’re just joining us, we have breaking news from Washington. It has now been confirmed that Thomas Trent, the maverick media tycoon, a pioneer in the fields of cable television, film, satellite, and Internet technology, was found dead this morning on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. We don’t have independent confirmation yet, but The Associated Press is reporting that he was the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Thomas Trent was 66.”
THIRTY-FOUR
FORTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER, JON Mallory was downtown in Foggy Bottom, rapping on Roger Church’s door.
“Come in.” Church turned away from his computer table. “How are you holding up?”
“Feeling numb. What’s happening?”
“Don’t know. Not sure.” Church was still more a reporter than an editor, a man with lots of curiosity and more than a few connections. Jon was sure he knew more about Trent than was being reported on television. “What do
“It wasn’t self-inflicted,” Jon said.
“Okay.” Church sipped his coffee, watching him. Returned the mug to the coaster on his desk.
“What time did it happen?” Jon asked.
