He concentrated hard. Sampson was sleeping in the big, fluffy armchair next to the piano.
His stockinged feet were propped up on a matching hassock.
His holstered gun was on a small side table, maybe twelve inches from his right hand. His holstered gun.
Twelve inches. Hmmm. Just twelve little inches, the killer thought, mulled it over.
Danny Boudreaux held on to the doorknob for dear life. He didn't move. His chest hurt as if he'd been punched.
What to do? What to do? What in hell to do?... TWELVE MEASLY INCHES...
His mind was going about a million miles a second. There were so many thoughts blasting through his brain that it almost shut down on him.
He wanted to go at Sampson. To rush in and take the big moke out. Then hurry upstairs and do the family. He wanted it so much that the thought burned in him, scared the inside of his brain, fried his thought waves.
He slid in and out of his military mind. The better part of valor and all that shit. Logic conquers all. He knew what he had to do.
Even more slowly than he'd come up the steps, he backed away from the porch door of the Cross house. He couldn't believe how close he'd come to stumbling right into the huge, menacing detective.
Maybe he could have snuck up on the big moke -- blown his brains out. Maybe not, though. The big moke was a really big moke.
No, the Truth School killer wouldn't take the chance. He had too much fun, too many games, ahead of him to blow it like this.
He was too experienced now. He was getting better and better at this.
He disappeared into the night. He had other choices, other business, he could take care of. Danny Boudreaux was on the loose in D.C., and he loved it. He had a taste for it now. There would be time for Cross and his stupid family later.
He'd already forgotten that just minutes before he had been crying his eyes out. He hadn't taken his medicine in seven days.
The hated, despicable Depakote, his goddamn mood-disorder medicine.
He was wearing his favorite sweatshirt again. Happy, happy.
Joy, joy.
I WOKE WITH A START and a trembling shiver. My skin was prickling, my heart racing furiously.
Bad dream? Something unholy, real, or imagined? The room was pitch-black, all the lights out, and it took me a second to remember where in the name of God I was.
Then I remembered. I remembered everything. I was part of the team assigned to try and protect the President- except the President had decided to make our job even harder than it had been. The President had decided to travel out of Washington m to show the colors- to demonstrate that he wasn't afraid of terrorists and crackpots of any kind.
I was in New York City m at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue. Jack and Jill were in New York, too. They were so sure of themselves that they had sent us a calling card.
I groped around for the lamp on the bedside table, then for the damn lamp switch. Finally, I clicked it on. I looked at the night table clock. Two fifty-five.
“That's just terrific,” I whispered under my breath. “That's great.”
I thought of calling my kids in Washington. Calling Nana. It wasn't a real serious idea, but the notion floated across my mind.
I thought about Christine Johnson. Calling her at home. Absolutely not! But I did have the thought, and I did like the idea of talking to her on the phone.
I finally pulled on a pair of khakis, stepped into battered Converse sneaks, slipped into an old sweatshirt. I wandered out into the hotel. I needed to be out of my hotel room. I needed to be out of my own skin.
The Waldorf-Astoria was sound asleep. As it should be. Except that very uptight Secret Service agents were posted everywhere! in every hallway where I wandered. The presidential detail was on its night watch. They were mostly athletic-looking men, who reminded me of very fit accountants. Only a couple of women were assigned to the detail in New York.
“You going for a late walk through midtown New York, Detective Cross?” one of the Secret Service agents asked as I passed by.
It was a woman named Camille Robinson. She was serious and very dedicated, as most of the Secret Service agents seemed to be. They seemed to like President Thomas Byrnes a lot, enough to take a bullet for.
“My mind is up and mnning, for sure,” I said and managed a smile. “Probably do a couple of marathons before morning. You okay? Need some coffee or anything?”
Camille shook her head and kept her serious face on. Watchdogs can be female, too. I'd met my share of them. I saluted the diligent agent, then kept on walking.
A few thoughts continued to plague me as I wandered inside the eerily quiet hotel. My mind was running way too hot.
The murder of Charlotte Kinsey was one disturbing puzzle piece.
That murder might have been committed by somebody other than Jack and Jill. Could there be a third killer? Why would there be a third killer? How did it fit?
