The Jefferson Allegiance (31 page)

“Lily,” he said. “That’s a nice name.”

“Do you read Keats?”

“Who?”

She gave an alluring smile. “
La Belle Dame sans Merci
. It’s a poem he wrote. My father gave me my name from it.”

“What does it mean?” Vince asked, his eyes locked into hers. She was very close now. She put her free hand on his thigh, feeling the solid muscles. His breathing shifted, and got shallower. His eyes locked onto hers and she saw the arrogance in them. She moved her hand up, to his crotch, felt his hardness. She leaned her head close and whispered in his ear, her tongue almost touching his skin. “’The Beautiful Lady without Pity.”

Realization began to seep into Vince’s eyes,s but she didn’t give him a chance to fully process it. She slammed the wakizashi into his thigh, just below where she was gripping him, severing his femoral artery. His warm blood flowed down the blade, over her hand. He remained hard.

She let go of him and wrapped her hand around his neck, bringing his shocked face close to hers. To anyone watching, it would look like a lover’s embrace.

“You’ve failed,” she whispered in his ear. “And you’re in the wrong place.”

He was trying to say something and she pressed her face against the side of his, feeling the warmth of his skin and his dying breaths caress her neck and ear. “You feel so good,” she whispered.

She grabbed his coat and pulled it tight, letting his weight drop him to a sitting position, back against the crypt she’d been on. She quickly searched his pockets as the life faded from his eyes. He had one disk in his coat pocket. Number 8. She took it. She saw the ‘Budweiser’ insignia of the SEALs pinned to the inside lapel of the man’s coat. She took that also.

She smiled. This was almost as good as getting all of Groves’s disks. And much more satisfying, as she pulled the sword out of the Navy SEAL, wiping the blade off on the inside of his coat. She looked over and saw the re-enactor standing alone and forlorn inside the iron gate to the cemetery. She considered going over and ending the poor man’s misery and decided against it. Let the fool suffer. He wasn’t a worthy kill.

Two down of the new generation. Only Ducharme and Tolliver left.

She quickly walked out of the cemetery and onto Wall Street.

Chapter Sixteen

Ducharme had run this trail during intramural cross-country as a cadet. A rocky, precipitous route through thick woods. He emerged onto a parking lot paved with gravel and full of sports cars. This was one of the lots where Firsties—senior cadets—parked their vehicles during the week. There was a high percentage of Corvettes. Ducharme paused, catching his breath and surveying the lot. Evie would say there’s a lot of compensating going on here.

Ducharme turned to the east. The upper levels of Michie Stadium were ahead. He curved to the left, toward Fort Putnam, a redoubt built to protect the rear of the post during the Revolution. He went around the base of the rock wall of the fort and then down-slope. Through gaps in the trees he saw the Cadet Chapel. He checked his watch, putting it in compass mode, shooting an azimuth to the front of the Chapel. He made his way down, moving slightly right. Checked azimuth again. He was on line. He looked up, checking the trees.

There was an old, towering oak tree directly between his location and the front of the Chapel. Ducharme scrambled down to it. He dug at the base of it facing the chapel. Six inches down, he hit something hard. He pulled up a packet. Opening it, he saw he had six more disks. He closed his eyes, remembering his uncle, picturing him digging here, burying these disks. He gripped them tightly. They had better be worth it.

Ducharme stuffed them in his pocket and began running downhill toward the impound lot.

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

Lily sat in the truck in the heliport parking lot, slicing her arm once more, trying to come down off the high from the killing. A Navy SEAL—a worthy opponent. And she had taken him down as easily as she had the old men—easier, in fact, than his mentor the Admiral.

She was running out of space on her forearm. She decided to continue on her thigh—no one was going to see it. After what had happened at the Academy, no one would ever see the inside of her thigh again. She was a weapon, pure and simple. She drew sustenance from blood, not sex.

She opened her laptop and looked at the information that General Parker had researched. The flow of his Google searches. The results. She focused like she used to when taking final exams at the Academy in subjects she didn’t enjoy. Total. Complete immersion.

Two results.

She had no idea where
Parker’s
disks were. No clues, except for the enigmatic comment that the grave was no one’s and everyone’s. Apparently Parker had been concerned that Groves’s replacement wouldn’t understand the logic flow of the Admiral’s clue. She thought about it. He’d known somehow that the replacement wouldn’t have the clue—which she had taken from Groves’s home.

Still.

She knew the answer was there.

Right in front of her.

She went back through the information.

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

Burns looked at the broken window, walked over, and glanced down at the small red flag marking where the body had hit the ground. No chalk outline of the position—in all his years in the FBI he’d never seen such a thing. TV bullshit. Chalk or even a tape outline would contaminate a crime scene. That’s what the crime scene photos in his hand were for.

“The American Philosophical Society,” he said to Turnbull. “Sounds rather innocent.”

Turnbull shrugged. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”

“So true.” Burns went over to the computer. The hard drive had been ripped out of it. Then he looked at the wall. The painting of Jefferson was sliced to bits. And there was a clean spot to the right where something else had been hanging. And a wall safe in the middle of the clean spot.

“A portrait of Hamilton hung there,” Turnbull said.

“Hamilton and Jefferson,” Burns mused. “Curious. Perhaps we’re dealing with an art lover and hater.”

“Your humor escapes me,” Turnbull said.

“The safe?” Burns asked.

“Nothing in it.”

“How do you know?”

“My men checked,” Turnbull said vaguely.

“Are we going to the Annapolis crime scene?” Burns asked. They’d raced down from New York on the functioning Blackhawk, Turnbull wanting his opinion on the crime scene, which Burns didn’t believe for a minute.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t need to.”

“But we needed to come here,” Burns said. He looked at the crime scene photos from the responding FBI units, then back at the room. “We have a problem.”

“And that is?”

“The hard drive was taken after the first units got here. Its removal wasn’t part of the crime. The original crime, that is. Tampering with evidence is a separate crime.”

“It’s not a problem,” Turnbull said. “My people took it. Tried to read what was on it, but it had been wiped clean.”

“What
did
you find?” Burns asked. “Where’s his phone?”

“Very good,” Turnbull said. He crooked a finger and a man came over with an evidence bag, which Turnbull reached into. “We’ve got it,” he said pulling out the phone and ignoring the look of surprise from the agent at the mishandling of evidence. “Parker called four numbers and texted them all the same message just before he died.” He held out the phone to Burns.

Burns took the phone and checked the numbers. Then he scrolled through the message. He went back up and looked at the numbers once more. Then he pulled out his small notebook and checked. “He texted Ducharme and Evie.”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

“A Navy SEAL named Vince Simone. Body was just discovered in Trinity Church Cemetery in New York City. Stabbed in femoral and bled out. Right in front of Alexander Hamilton’s grave.”

“And who’s the fourth?”

Turnbull nodded toward the door where a pool of blood indicated where the other body had been found.

Burns checked his small notebook. “Major Elizabeth Peters. What was her connection to Parker?”

Turnbull shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Burns decided it was just as well to ignore Turnbull when he lied.

“So we’re up to seven for our killer.”

Burns looked at the message again. “The killer saw this. Went to New York City for some reason.”

“I think the killer made a mistake again,” Turnbull said.

Burns was confused. “By killing the Navy SEAL or Major Peters?”

Turnbull shook his head. “No. I think, like at Poe’s grave, she went to the wrong place. As did the SEAL.”

“So they read the clues wrong.” Burns straightened as the implications hit home. “You want me to read the clues right.” It was not a question.

“I want you to do your job,” Turnbull said blandly. “If the killer read them wrong and came up empty-handed, then she’ll backtrack. If you can read them right, we can beat her to her next location.”

“We could have done all this in Baltimore,” Burns said.

“That irritating habit of telling me something I already know.” Turnbull shook his scarred and battered head. “Very bothersome and worthless.”

“What makes you think the killer will backtrack? How can you be certain the killer didn’t find what she was looking for in New York?”

“Stop asking me questions,” Turnbull said. “I’m the supervisor. I do the asking. So where should the killer go next?”

Burns stiffened and turned and looked at the older FBI agent. “Strange way you phrased that question.”

“It’s a still a question and I’m still your superior,” Turnbull said.

Burns looked at the slashed picture. “Well, she went to Hamilton’s grave and was wrong. Maybe Jefferson’s?”

“Then let’s catch her there.” Turnbull turned toward the door.

Burns looked at one of the crime scene photos. “Why was Peters’s ring left on her chest? The killer had to have put it there. She’s
taken
trophies before, not arranged them.”

“No clue,” Turnbull said over his shoulder.

Burns watched him leave, and looked around at the other paintings on the walls. He glanced at the desk on the way out and paused. The mouse pad for the computer had an insignia on it. He leaned over: A helmet with two crossed rifles overlaid on it. Across the top was written USAF Honor Guard. And across the bottom: In Honore Et Dignitate.

Burns wondered about the honor and dignity of taking a header out a window. He made some notes in his pad, shook his head, and followed Turnbull, stepping around the still congealing puddle of blood that had once graced Major Peters’s veins.

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

Evie found a small electronics store in Highland Falls, just outside the main gate of West Point. The owner scratched his head for a moment when she asked about a 8mm projector, then disappeared into the recesses of the store. She heard some banging, and then he reappeared with a dusty metal case. He opened it, revealing a projector.

“Can’t guarantee it works,” he warned, but she bought it anyway.

She took it back to the pickup, and then headed back to the dirt road where she had parted ways with Ducharme. She was chagrined that he was already there, leaning against the black Blazer, checking his watch. She stopped and he came to the driver’s door.

“You got a projector?” Ducharme asked, looking over his shoulder into the bed of the truck.

“You got the disks?” Evie asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Know someplace where we can watch this film? It’s got to be important if LaGrange put it in with the cache report directing you to the disks. He wants you to do more than just find things; he wants you to understand
why
the disks are important. Ultimately, why the Jefferson Allegiance is important. Same way McBride gave me his journal.”

“Let’s check it out,” Ducharme said as he headed for the driver’s door.

“I’m driving,” Evie said.

Ducharme paused, then shrugged. “Sure.” They got in and she threw the Blazer into drive.

Ducharme pointed. “Go that way.”

She followed his directions and finally turned right underneath a metal sign that proclaimed: CAMP BUCKNER.

“Second year cadets—yearlings—do summer training here,” Ducharme explained as they drove up to a locked pole gate. He got out, looked at the lock, then drew his pistol and shot it off.

“You might get in trouble for that,” Evie noted when he got back in after pushing the pole aside.

“I’m worried.”

They drove down the road until rows of long metal barracks came into view.

“Pick one,” Ducharme said.