The Jefferson Allegiance (15 page)

She went over and wiped away the snow at the bottom of the monument: EDGAR ALLAN POE.

************

Ducharme checked the GPS. They were less than five miles from Westminster Church. This late at night there was hardly any traffic moving, especially given the storm. Fresh snow covered the area, making downtown Baltimore look deceptively clean.

He glanced over at Evie. “Are you going to tell me why the killer is going to make a mistake here? She seems to have been on target so far.”

“She’s going to what most people think is Poe’s grave in front of the church, underneath the Poe Monument,” Evie answered.

Ducharme pulled his MK23 out with one hand, noting that Kincannon already had his on his lap. “And he’s not buried in his grave?”

“No,” Evie said.

Ducharme made sure there was a round in the chamber. “So where is he buried, then?”

“Still in his first grave in the back of the churchyard,” Evie said, and when he raised his eyebrows, explained: “In eighteen forty-nine, Poe was buried in back of the church in a plot to the right of his grandfather, General Poe. Edgar’s grave had no marker, just the General’s. However, in eighteen sixty-four, the General’s marker was turned around from facing east, to facing the west gate. In eighteen seventy-five, a bunch of school children donated money for a stone monument to honor Poe, and it was to be placed in the front of the church. Unfortunately, the gravediggers exhuming his body didn’t know the General’s marker had been reversed. So when they dug to the right, they uncovered the wrong coffin. Someone should have noted the mistake because they first hit Missus Poe, then another female relative, and then finally a mahogany coffin with a man’s body in it. But Edgar Allan Poe had been buried in a walnut-stained poplar coffin.”

Ducharme holstered the pistol. In the back, Kincannon was opening one of the cases and pulling out parts to a sniper rifle.

“No one really seemed to care at the time,” Evie continued. “The wrong coffin was then buried under the Monument in the front of the church. So even in death, Poe continues to be a mystery. The Monument also has the wrong date of birth, January twentieth, rather than January ninetenth, which might suggest someone knew it wasn’t really marking Poe’s body.

“In nineteen thirteen a stone was placed in the rear, marking the real spot, saying it was Poe’s original burial spot from eighteen forty-nine to eighteen seventy-five. It has a raven carved in it and ‘Quoth the Raven, Nevermore’ across the top. More importantly for us, the Poe Toaster leaves the roses and cognac at the old marker, not the newer monument. So, if McBride put something here, he put it where the roses and cognac would go.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Kincannon clicked the last piece of the rifle in place.

“I read books. I’m willing to bet the killer is working off the Internet. The thing about the Internet is that no one is verifying all the information posted there. Any fool with their own website or blog can post whatever they want. That doesn’t mean it’s factual.” She paused. “The Poe stuff because McBride got me interested in it.”

Ducharme made sure the cruise control was on. “All right, let’s switch. You drive.”

“What?”

“They’ve placed a tracking device in my gun and probably the truck. If we pull up to the graveyard, they’ll know it. So we keep the truck moving and use it to our advantage.” He grabbed her left hand and put it on the wheel. “Keep it steady and slide over me.”

Evie gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher, then slithered over the central console, onto Ducharme’s lap. Once she was in place, he hesitated a moment, feeling the warmth of her body, then he moved out from underneath her, climbing into the passenger seat. He noticed she gave him another strange look, before turning her attention back to the road.

“Cute,” Kincannon said, but they both ignored him.

Ducharme took the bullet transmitter out of his coat and placed it in the little tray between the seats. Glancing at the GPS display he ordered: “Take the next exit.”

Evie turned off the Interstate.

“You keep going on this road.” He traced his finger on the GPS screen. “Do this loop until you see either of us. Steady speed. You ready?” he asked Kincannon.

His partner nodded, serious now, holding up the sniper rifle. Ducharme climbed between the seats to the rear and opened another one of the cases, pulling out a thermal scope. He grabbed the MP-5 with suppressor. He made sure there was a round in the chamber. Then he mounted the scope on top of the sub-machinegun. He slid the MP-5 inside his black coat and secured it there. “Slow down so we hit this light ahead,” he ordered.

The light turned yellow, then red. Evie stopped the Blazer.

“See you soon,” Ducharme said as he opened the door and stepped out as Kincannon exited the other side.

*************

Lily stared at the stone base of Poe’s monument, where she’d cleared away the snow. The worn brick covering the ground around it showed no sign of having been disturbed since it had originally been put down.

On one side of the monument was a metal plaque, inset into the stone. Lily ran her fingers across the metal, noting how it had been placed. There was chipping around the edge, as if someone had tried to remove it. Or perhaps someone
had
removed it, she thought. She abruptly turned and walked through the gate to her van, opening the rear and grabbing her backpack full of gear, including a crowbar.

************

In the passenger seat of the surveillance car, Burns took out his knife and an apple to ease his frustration.

“What are they doing?” Turnbull asked, watching the small red dot representing the bug, continue in a large circle for the second time. “Why don’t they go to the cemetery?” He fiddled with the controls for the GPS tracker. The red changed to green. “Ducharme’s still in the vehicle.”

“The bullet transmitter is still in the vehicle,” Burns corrected. “Don’t confuse the two. I think we should go directly to the—“

“What you think isn’t important,” Turnbull snapped. “I have an operative at the cemetery already. And a quick reaction force in the area securing the perimeter.”

Burns looked up. They were parked a half-mile from the cemetery, engine idling, the heater turned up. “Why is your operative already at the cemetery?”

“To check it out.” Turnbull gave yet another vague answer.

“Who, exactly, is your operative?” Burns flicked open the switchblade.

“Classified.”

“I’m a Special Agent with a lot of time in grade.”

“Don’t remind of things I already know.”

“We are after the killer, right?” Burns asked. “And Ducharme and Evie have solid alibis. Do you think the killer—“

“The killer is looking for something,” Turnbull said. “Ducharme and Evie are following the clues and we’re following them. Sooner or later something will happen.”

“Not much of a plan,” Burns noted.

“Works for me and you work for me,” Turnbull said.

Burns began to peel the apple. “You’re the boss.”

*************

Ducharme paused a block away from Westminster Hall, sliding into the darker shadows of a storefront entrance, Kincannon at his side. Ducharme pulled the MP-5 out and turned on the thermal scope. He surveyed the area surrounding the church and cemetery. There were no hot vehicles parked in the area, so he began to scan the buildings overlooking the cemetery.

Within twenty seconds he spotted a watcher. A red form was kneeling among a cluster of stacked chairs at an outdoor café across the street from the cemetery. The red form had the darker outline of a sub-machinegun in its hands.

“Rooftops are clear,” Kincannon reported, his eye to the thermal sight on the sniper rifle.

“I’ve got one watcher in front of that café,” he replied.
So, Burns was on top of things
, Ducharme thought.

Kincannon shifted the rifle and looked. “I got him.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Ducharme said.

“Right,” Kincannon said dryly. “The guns are just for show.”

“They’ll be wearing body armor,” Ducharme pointed out. “If you have to shoot, do it center of mass. They’ll hurt, but they won’t be dead. They’re on our side, after all.”

“You sure about that?” Kincannon said.

Ducharme pointed up. “You take high. I’m going back and through that café.”

“Roger that.”

Ducharme paused, knowing Kincannon. “No killing.”

Kincannon stared at him blankly for a second, then reluctantly nodded. “Roger that.”

Knowing Kincannon, Ducharme reached out and put a hand on the Sergeant Major’s shoulder. “Seriously.”

Kincannon gave a lopsided grin. “No killing, Colonel. Except for
her
.”

Ducharme went around the block and into an alley. He picked the lock in the rear of the café. He made his way to the front and peered through the glass. The man was still there, intently watching the cemetery and the street. He was dressed in body armor, a black SWAT jumpsuit and wore a black balaclava over his head, and night vision goggles. Not a single inch of flesh was exposed—he might as well have been a robot, Ducharme thought.

Ducharme quietly unlocked the front door. The man started to turn, and Ducharme smacked the barrel of the MP-5 against the man’s temple. He dropped like a stone. Ducharme quickly ripped off the man’s body armor. He paused when he saw a red trident patch velcroed on the man’s jumpsuit, just above the breast pocket. TriOp--
A fucking contractor, not FBI
. Ducharme ripped off the patch and stuck it in his pocket. He put the armor and balaclava on. He slid the night vision goggles over his eyes.

Ducharme pulled out two sets of flex cuffs and secured the unconscious man’s wrists and ankles. Then he pulled the earpiece out of the man’s ear and removed the radio. Ducharme pressed the earpiece into his right ear. He opened the man’s sub-machinegun and took the bolt out, putting it in his own pocket. Then he dragged the body into the café and hid it behind the counter.

Low and fast, Ducharme ran across the road to the brick and iron grate fence that surrounded Westminster. He climbed the fence and dropped lightly to the snow-covered ground on the other side. Gravestones and leaf-less trees surrounded him. He took a step forward, but paused when he heard the sound of metal hitting stone echo through the cemetery. Evie had been right—the killer was on the other side of the church at the wrong grave.

The earpiece came alive with a crackle. “All units, check in.”

“Sierra One. Wolf.”

There was a moment of silence, then: “Sierra Two. Fox.”

The silence lasted a bit longer, and then the first voice spoke again. “Sierra Three. Check in.”

Silence. Ducharme knew he had Sierra Three’s radio, but he didn’t know what the man’s code word was. These were not run of the mill contractors to be operating like this. Probably all former special operations. Opting for the bigger paycheck as a mercenary.

“Sierra Three. Check in.”

Ducharme saw a stone with a rounded top to his right. He went to it. A raven was carved in the semi-circle below the top. And as Evie had said, etched into the stone arc were the words:
Quoth the Raven Nevermore.

Ducharme knelt in the snow and read what was written below the arc and raven:

Original Burial Place of

Edgar Allan Poe

From October 9, 1849

Until November 17, 1875

Mrs. Maria Clemm, his mother-in-law,

Lies upon his right and Virginia Poe,

His wife, upon his left. Under the

Monument erected to him in this cemetery.

Ducharme wiped snow away from the ground in front of the marker, uncovering leaves and dirt. He stared at it carefully. He noted that where the front of the stone met the ground, last fall’s leaves had been disturbed.

There was another clang of metal on stone.

“Sierra Seven, check on Three.”

“This is Seven. Roger.”

Ducharme drew his knife and dug into the semi-frozen ground. He hit something solid just a few inches down. He scraped away and uncovered an object wrapped in black plastic. He pulled it out and tucked it away in one of the pouches on the body armor. He heard the metal on stone once more echoing around the church from the front of the cemetery.

“This is Seven. Three is not in position.”

“All units close in. Close in.”

Ducharme ran toward the church, tucking the stock of the MP-5 into his shoulder. As he rounded the corner, he saw a short figure in a long black cape, head covered with a hood, and a pickaxe in her hands, chipping away at the front of the Poe Memorial.

Ducharme fired, double-tapping two head shots into the center of the hood, the only sound the soft explosion of gases through the baffles of the suppressor and the bolt moving back and forth inside the gun. She slammed into the Memorial and slid to the ground.