The Third Coincidence (36 page)

After moving back from the edge of the roof, he rose, dropped the Galil, and jammed the FBI hat into his armpit under his sweat- shirt. Next, he yanked off the latex gloves and stuffed them in his back pocket, and put on his red cap. The Glock he had used to put down the two agents, went inside his waistband at his back. He tugged the coarse gloves free from his pants, pulling them on while dashing for the opposite corner of the rooftop.

An announcement came over Agent Curtis’s radio: “Evans is down. I repeat. Evans is down. Shots fired from the top of the OBA building at Sixth and F Streets. All agents in the immediate area are to converge on the OBA.”

Dalton ducked under the curved top of the air duct and grabbed the rope, wrapped his legs around it and using the knots, half slid

the third coincidence 273

and half rappelled to the bottom. It took only seconds to cross the weeded lot and reach the wall. He stuffed his red cap inside his sweatshirt, opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind himself. Then walked south on the Sixth Street sidewalk, using the L-shaped turn in the wall to conceal his presence.

When a man wearing an FBI hat came running wide around the corner onto Sixth Street, Dalton hollered, “What happened? Did I hear gunshots?”

The agent ignored him and ran faster on the straightaway.

It’s done. I’m home free. Happy Birthday, Daddy.

At D Street Dalton turned west. Without pursuit he would not take out the Glock or his red cap. He wanted onlookers to report the gun and the hat. But without pursuers there was no reason to call atten- tion to himself. The FBI agents would assume he could not get down off the building quickly without an elevator. Right now they were likely surrounding the OBA while he was already outside their hastily constructed web. He grinned.

Dalton continued toward the Sculpture Garden, confident he would have time to complete his metamorphosis in the Mall and emerge to laugh at the collectors unable to catch him in their net.

Daddy, it’s going better than I expected.

“What do you mean, you lost him?” Jack yelled into his cell phone. “Everyone’s holding their positions,” Rex replied. “He thinks he’s shot the chief justice. He doesn’t know we know his identity. He’ll come to us, Jack. He has to. He’ll go for his car. He left the Hyatt wearing full-length tan pants, a white sweatshirt, and white sneak-

ers.”

“Anything else?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. Dalton killed Agents Curtis and Bradley after I sent them up to the roof of the OBA building to provide cover. Dalton must have already been up there. Agent Curtis’s FBI hat is missing and his radio. Dalton may try posing as an agent.”

274 David M. Bishop

“Okay, Rex. We’ll hold our positions.”

“I just used the radio to tell the agents not to use their radios,” Rex said, “you probably heard that order, so Dalton did too. But it only told him we knew he had a radio. He would have anticipated our knowing that once we found Agent Curtis’s body on top the OBA.”

Jack hit his end button and cursed under his breath before punching in the numbers to call Rachel whom he could see stand- ing across the street in front of the National Archives Building.

“Our boy’s on the run,” he told her. “He could be anywhere.

Keep your eyes open.”

After filling in Rachel on the description, including the missing FBI hat and radio, he again used his cell phone to relay the news to Frank and then Colin.

Jack was certain now of only one thing. Right now had to be it.

He couldn’t let Dalton kill again.

Dalton turned south toward the Sculpture Garden. South toward his new appearance. South toward safety.

Near the corner of Eighth and D Streets, he stepped into a drug- store to get out of sight while watching for pursuit, but there was none. He knew what he needed to know. They had discovered Agent Curtis’s body and learned of his missing radio. He dropped the radio into a trash bin, but kept the FBI hat under his arm, under his sweat- shirt.

When the sidewalk grew busy, he stepped out of the store, merg- ing into a sea of chattering clothes carried forward on wingtips, ten- nis shoes, and flip-flops. He continued south with the crowd. Eighth Street, below D, near Pennsylvania Avenue had been permanently closed to vehicles and developed into a U.S. Naval Memorial. There he paused and loitered like a tourist, while studying the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue.

When he felt it safe, he starting to move again as part of a form- less group of walkers. A few minutes later, he stopped near the

the third coincidence 275

corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Seventh Street, loitering behind some bushes in a raised planter that included another of D.C.’s nu- merous statues.

The agents near Evans would be tied down for a while. They had a dead chief justice of the United States and three dead agents, not to mention a crowd of frightened and injured citizens. He knew that agents dispatched from the FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue would be swarming the area like locusts, but even that coverage would dilute as they spread out trying to cover all of the downtown area.

Dalton crossed Seventh to the opposite corner and slowed near the Monument to the Grand Army of the Republic. He had to get past Pennsylvania and Constitution Avenues before he would get into the Sculpture Garden, change his appearance, and become a jogger to cover his retreat back to the Hyatt.

With the next green light he stepped from behind the monu- ment and started across Pennsylvania Avenue. Halfway into the cross- walk, he saw Jack McCall fifty yards ahead, moving out from under a tree near the Federal Trade Commission. He had a cell phone in his hand. He turned his back to Dalton.

Dad. You orchestrated this, didn’t you? Its time isn’t it? Time to kill Jack McCall.

Thirty-five yards.

Killing McCall would derail the government’s godless investi- gation. While the government reorganized, he would eliminate the newly confirmed aristocrats and the senators who chaired the con- firmation committees.

I see your thinking, Dad.

Thirty yards. McCall’s back made a broad target. An easy shot. Twenty-five yards.

He tugged the Glock free of his waistband and slipped it out from under his shirt.

Twenty yards.

A few pedestrians saw his gun and shrank back, terror on their

276 David M. Bishop

faces, their mouths open. To Dalton their screams sounded as though they were coming from underwater.

Ten yards.

He raised the Glock.

The pedestrians scurried to avoid Dalton’s line of fire.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman crossing from the National Archives building on the west side of Seventh.

Her arm came up.

It’s that bitch, Rachel Johnstone! She’s aiming at me.

Jack watched as Rachel turned slightly to her left.
She’s drawing her Sig,
he said to himself. With his eyes still on Rachel, he heard nerv- ous commotion behind himself. Reflex put his Baretta in his hand as it had countless times before. He spun in a direction matching Rachel’s turn, but lagging behind her as a shadow lags behind its master.

Dalton pivoted on Rachel. He would take her first. McCall would pause when he saw Rachel killed. That would give him the split sec- ond he would need to turn back and kill McCall.

Jack saw the reason Rachel had drawn her Sig. Dalton. Things were moving at jet speed, yet, as to detail, in slow motion. Jack could see the tendons stiffen in the killer’s forearm as the man they hunted tightened his grip on the trigger. Dalton’s gun aimed at the woman Jack loved.

Dalton saw the spit-flash at the muzzle of Rachel’s gun at almost the same instant he felt her bullet burst through his ribs, ripping a path to his heart. Saw his own shot thrown high by the impact from her bullet. And felt his resolve draining from his body. His purpose di- minishing.

the third coincidence 277

As he went down, he saw McCall fire. A dull thump rocked the side of his chest, but he never truly felt McCall’s bullet, only the thud against his body, the shudder of a fastball hitting a bat.

Jack and Rachel reached Dalton at the same moment. Jack kicking the dropped Glock away from the blood-soaked red baseball cap that had fallen from under Dalton’s sweatshirt.

The madman’s eyes closed and then, in the moment of death, snapped open. His stare cold and straight. Gravity took his head to the side, his right arm flopping limply across his chest as if he were about to recite the pledge of allegiance.

EPILOGUE

On July first, Rachel resigned from the FBI. Jack left the CIA on the same date.

They were married three months later in the Rose Garden at the White Hose. President Samuel Schroeder and the First Lady sat in the front row.

Colin Stewart stood up as Jack’s best man, Nora Burke acting as Rachel’s bridesmaid. The entire squad had come to the wedding. The heads of the intelligence agencies were also there. And, Ms. Gruber. After a long honeymoon, Jack and Rachel planned to open McCall Investigations in Washington, D.C. Nora Burke had agreed to join them. But Frank Wade, having reconciled with his ex-wife Sharon, had decided to stay with the Metropolitan Police Depart-

ment.

The newlyweds moved into Jack’s home on Potomac Avenue NW. They would adopt two or three children, after taking the first year or two to get acquainted as husband and wife.

Author’s Note

As I often do, I got by with a lot of help from my friends. The com- ments of discerning readers including Jody Madden, Mary Lee, Ellie Brooks, Toni Jaskowitz, and Jeanne Bishop, as well as John Logan, who has a wonderful ear for dialogue, Frank Evans, Dick Houser, Beth Eggers, and the invaluable observations and keen eye for detail of Kim Mellen provided direction and insight into the shaping of the story. Thanks are also due the fine folks at the U.S. Chess Fed- eration, who provided insight into the fascinations and functions of multiyear e-mail chess tournaments.

The contributions offered by law enforcement officers from the FBI, CIA, and the D.C. Police Department, as well as the U.S. Supreme Court Police, and the White House Secret Service during my research visit to Washington, D.C., provided critical points of confirmation and enhancement.

The professional staff of Oceanview Publishing including, but not limited to, Pat Gussin, Frank Troncale, and Susan Hayes pro- vided the invaluable guidance that can only come from experience in and knowledge of the publishing of fiction. And I cannot forget George Foster, who somehow wed his wondrous talents to the scat- tered thoughts of this author to create the book jacket.

The generous contributions of these people as well as others I may have inadvertently failed to mention were indispensable. The characters, who roam the pages of
The Third Coincidence,
were made smarter, tougher, sexier, or more villainous through your unselfish assistance. Those characters join the author to say thank you one and all.