“No, the lawn, other side of Madison. How soon can you make it?”
“Maybe an hour.”
That was good, it would take her thirty-five, forty minutes this time of day—she didn’t have to cross the river from her place.
“I’ll see you there.”
After they discommed, Lewis sat and took several deep breaths. This was going to be a bitch to pull off, but she didn’t have any choice. The only gun she had was the snub-nosed .38 Special and, fortunately, it wasn’t registered to her. She went and found the gun in her bedside drawer, emptied the cartridges from it, and sprayed it with Break Free. She wiped it down carefully, then wiped the shells with the lubed rag, using it to avoid touching the brass when she reloaded the gun. No prints on anything.
She put on a pair of thin leather gloves, picked up the revolver, and dropped it into the jacket pocket of the coat hung on the bedroom door.
She put a pale blue skirt and white blouse and flats into a shopping bag, along with a darker blue sweater, then dressed in gray sweat pants and shirt, with white running shoes. Put her hair up and under a Baltimore baseball cap, slipped her jacket on, added a pair of shades.
In the bathroom, she took a Band-Aid and put that across her nose, under the sunglasses’ nosepiece. If anybody looked at her face, what they would notice would be the bandage—that’s what they’d remember. Skinny kid with a bandage on his nose. Or her nose.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Took another deep breath and let it out. Grabbed her coat and shrugged it on.
When Carruth had first come to D.C., way back when, he had, like millions of tourists before him, gone to the monuments and museums that lined the lawn. He’d scoped out the old Smith, the Air and Space Museum, crossed over a couple streets to the Navy Memorial. He’d hiked down to the war memorials, seen the thousands of names on the Wall and the Korean Monument, walked along the Reflecting Pool, all that. It had been a while since he’d spent any real time there, but he knew his way around enough to get to the lawn between Madison and Jefferson.
He parked his run-for-it car in a lot—didn’t want it towed—and walked a few blocks. It was cold, but there were still tourists around even so.
He wasn’t sure about Lewis anymore. Could be she’d set him up, but it could be the Net Force geek had made the connections she’d said. She had warned him about how good the guy was. He should have gotten rid of the gun after the cops, and if that was what had nailed him, it was his own damn fault. Couldn’t blame anybody for that.
And if Lewis had some cash, he could use it. He only had a couple thousand, and that wasn’t going to go far. There was a cabin he’d rented a couple times in Montana. They knew him there from before, and nobody would bother him if he could get there. Way out in the boonies, lotta survivalists out there didn’t have much use for newspapers, TV, certainly not the government. They minded their own business, expected you to mind yours.
Lewis would have to pay him if she made the deal, because he could bring her down, and she wouldn’t want to risk that. Could still turn out okay, maybe.
Maybe he’d been wrong. It could have happened like she’d said. One thing for sure, if he killed her like he’d been thinking, that wouldn’t make him a dime. Alive, she might still help him become a rich man. He could live in Mexico or Brazil or somewhere forever with a couple million, and live well. Lots better than some of the other options. State murder charges. Federal rap for treason.
If she didn’t come through, he could always turn her in, or pay her a visit and drop her.
The Mall was a good place to meet. Nobody would pay any attention to them, and a cop searching for him wouldn’t put the lawn next to an art galley on the top of his go-look locales.
He could collect the money and head out. Get away, get set up, see what happened. If worst came to worst, he could always find a war zone somewhere and get work. Better than a kick in the gonads. Better than prison or the chair.
He headed across Madison toward the lawn. The Smith Castle was off to his right. He didn’t see Lewis.
Lewis, across the corner of Seventh and south of Madison, close to the National Gallery West, watched Carruth amble across the lawn, his back to her. Too far. She’d have to get closer.
She started that way.
She was maybe forty meters away when Carruth stopped and turned around, as if he’d sensed her. Any sudden moves, he’d jump.
Crap. Well. It was what it was. She already had the gun in her hand, still inside her jacket pocket. She raised the shopping bag in her left hand and waved it at Carruth. Kept walking that way. She smiled real big.
He raised his right hand to wave back.
Good. His hand was as far away from his hip as it was going to get.
She pulled the S&W snubbie from her pocket and pointed it. Stopped walking and lined up the rudimentary sights. One-handed. Forty meters. Not the best.
When Carruth saw Lewis wave a shopping bag at him, he waved back. Her breath made fog in the cold air. Bag full of cash? that would be nice—
Then he saw her pull her other hand out of her pocket—
Holding a
Jesus! He jerked his hand down for his piece, jumping to his left as he did—
She had to adjust her aim, she swung her arm to her right—
She was too far away, she’d never make the shot with that stubby piece at this range, he was okay, he had time, he had time—!
He grabbed the BMF’s butt, pulled the heavy gun clear, and thrust it toward her, bringing his left hand up to catch it in a two-handed grip—he had her, the stupid bitch—!
Lewis held the revolver one-handed, like a target shooter, but she finally had Carruth under the front sight. Take it easy, don’t jerk. . . .
She squeezed the trigger, once, twice, three times—
The gun didn’t seem all that loud out here in the open, though it made a lot of smoke in the cold air—
Carruth felt the bullets slam into him, in the chest,
He tried to line up on her, but as he pulled the trigger, his arms felt weak suddenly, and they sagged. Came the monster
Crap, crap—!
He struggled to raise the gun again. So heavy—
The blast from Carruth’s gun was loud, it sounded like a bomb, but his arms drooped as he fired, and she didn’t feel the impact of the big bullet, so she was still golden—
Lewis squeezed off the last two rounds in the S&W, was sure that at least one more hit Carruth, this one higher, at collarbone level. At least three hits, maybe four, center of mass, mostly. Best she could do. Surely he’d die before they could get him to a hospital—the bullets she’d used were hot-loads that should blow up any major organs they hit. Heart, liver, lung, he should bleed out fast.
She dropped the gun, turned, and walked quickly—not a run—toward the National Galley of Art.
