We left it like that. Go well. A strange tableau at a strange time in our lives. I had no idea whether her lawyer husband was home or not. Was he up in the bedroom sleeping? Was his name really George? Were they still together?
It was another mystery to solve some other day, but not that day.
On the drive home, I pondered whether I should feel bad about the unconventional, surprise visit to Christine Johnson's house. I decided that I shouldn't, that I wouldn't even get embarrassed about it at a later date. She'd made that possible for me. She was incredibly easy to be around. Absolutely incredible.
It was painful in a way When I got home, I played the piano for another hour or so.
Beethoven, then Mozart. Classical felt right to me. I went up and peeked in on Damon andJannie. I gently pecked their cheeks, as Christine Johnson had pecked mine. I finally fell asleep on the downstairs couch. I didn't feel sorry for myself there, but I did feel very alone.
I slept until several shrill rings of the phone woke me, shooting adrenaline through my body like electric current.
It was Jack and Jill again.
TYSONS GALLERIA in Tysons Corner was, along with the neighboring Tysons Comer Mall, one of the largest shopping complexes in the United States, maybe in the world. Sam Harrison had parked in the enormous Galleria lot at a little past 6:00 At least a hundred cars were already there, though Versace and Neiman Marcus, FAO Schwarz and Tiljengrist wouldn't open until ten. Maryland Bagels was open and smells from the popular local bakery filled the air. Jack hadn't come to Tysons Corner for a piping-hot blueberry bagel, though.
From the parking area of the mall, he jogged to Chain Bridge Road in McLean. He wore a blue and white Fila jacket and running shorts and looked as if he belonged in the $400,000-to-$1,500,000-per-house neighborhood. That was one of the important rules in his game: Always appear to belong, to fit in, and soon you will.
With his short blond hair and trim build, he looked as if he might be a commercial pilot with USAir or Delta. Or perhaps just one of the neighborhood's many professionals, a doctor or lawyer- whatever. He definitely seemed to belong. He fit in seamlessly
He had known from the start that he would have to carry out this murder alone. Jill shouldn't be out here in McLean Village.
This was the really bad one for him personally. This one was over the top, even for Jack and Jill, even for the game of games.
The murder this morning would be extrenely dangerous.
This target might know that someone was coming for him.
Number four was going to be a hard one, done the hard way.
He thought about all this as he steadily jogged toward his final destination in the pretty and peaceful Washington suburb.
As he crossed onto Livingston Road, he attempted to clear his mind of everything except the terrible murder that lay ahead of him.
He was Jack once again, the brutal celebrity stalker. He was going to prove it in just a few minutes.
This one was going to be tough, the hardest so far. The man he was about to kill had been one of his best friends.
In the game of life and death, that didn't matter.
He had no best friends. He had no friends at all.
I AM SAM, Sam I am, he was thinking as he ran.
But he wasn't really Sam Harrison.
He didn't have blond hair, or wear trendy jogging suits with logos on the breast pocket, either.
Who in hell am I? What am I becoming? he asked himself as his feet struck the pavement hard.
He knew that the house at 31 Livingston Road was guarded by a sophisticated security system. He would have expected nothing less.
He ran at a quickening pace now. Eventually, he veered off the macadam road and disappeared into underbrush and pine trees.
He kept running through the woods.
He was in good shape and hadn't broken much of a sweat yet.
The cold weather helped. He was alert, fresh, ready for the game to resume, ready to murder again.
He figured that he could get up close, perhaps as near as ten yards from the house without being seen. Then a quick dash to the garage.
For that short period, he would be out in the open. Completely exposed. There was no way around it and, God knows, he had tried to figure out an alternative attack plan.
He was about to attack a house in McLean. How incredible that seemed. This was like a war. A war fought at home. A revolutionary war.
There were two other large Colonial-style houses that he could see from the light woods. No lights on yet; no one seemed to be up anywhere on Livingston Road. So far, his luck was holding okay. His luck, or his skill, or maybe a combination of both.
As far as he could tell, no one was awake at 31 Livingston. He couldn't be sure until he was inside the house itself, and then it would be too late to turn back.
