Sarah fell back into her thoughts, replaying the afternoon’s events in her head. Had she missed something, overlooked anything?
Nothing sprang to mind. Instead, she kept coming back to that moment when Insley told Marsha O’Hara that her husband was never coming home. The poor woman collapsed to the floor in her living room, crushed by the weight of her sudden loss. Death trumps us all, as the saying goes.
Sarah also couldn’t shake what Insley had told her on the drive back from the O’Haras’, that the couple had been married for forty-two years. Sitting in the front seat of Insley’s cruiser, she felt guilty to be thinking about herself at that moment. But the thought was inescapable. It was the first thing that came to her.
Forty-two years? I can barely stay in a relationship for forty-two days.
Suddenly Sarah heard a voice to her left, someone talking to her. It was a man’s voice. A really attractive man, actually. Sometimes you can just tell those things before you even look.
“Wow, I really just did that, didn’t I?” he asked.
Chapter 55
SARAH TURNED TO face him. He sort of reminded her of Matthew McConaughey—a little younger, without the Texas accent, and maybe without the need to always be taking off his shirt. At least so far.
He was holding a beer. Her beer. Had he grabbed it by mistake? His own bottle of Bud was close by.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Sarah. “I was practically done with it.”
On a dime, he broke into a smile—a great smile, she noticed—and started to laugh. “I’m just kidding. I knew it was your beer.”
Sarah joined in. “You had me there for a second,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I have an offbeat sense of humor. Please, let me buy you another one.”
“Really, that’s okay,” Sarah said. “It’s totally not necessary.”
“But I’m afraid it is, if only so I don’t disappoint my mother,” he said.
Sarah looked around. “Is your mother here?” she asked, half joking.
“No. But she’d be mortified if she knew her son wasn’t able to make amends. She was a stickler for manners.”
He flashed that amazing smile of his again.
“Well, I suppose we don’t want to disappoint your mother,” said Sarah.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. He turned and got the attention of the bartender, ordering another Budweiser. Then he put out his hand. “My name’s Jared, by the way. Jared Sullivan.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sarah.”
Sarah then did something she’d never done in all her years with the FBI.
She shook hands with a serial killer.
Chapter 56
“LET ME TAKE a guess,” said Jared, his index finger tapping the air. “New York, right?”
“Wrong,” said Sarah. “Not a New Yorker. Not even close.”
“But you’re definitely not from around here. I mean, I’m almost positive of that.”
“I was going to say the same about you,” she said. “You did get the East Coast part right. Fairfax, Virginia.”
Jared nodded. “I’m Chicago, born and raised.”
“Cubs or Sox?” asked Sarah.
“I’m a North Side boy,” he said. “Wrigley all the way.”
“So when you’re not cursing the plight of the Cubbies, what do you do there in Chicago?”
“Fill out expense reports, for the most part. I’m a sales rep for Wilson Sporting Goods. That’s where they’re based. The Southwest is my region, though, so I’m rarely home.”
“I know the feeling,” she said. “I own one houseplant and it’s suing me for negligence.”
Jared laughed. “You’re very funny. Cool.”
The bartender returned with Sarah’s beer, sliding a cocktail napkin underneath it with a well-practiced flick of his wrist.
Sarah was about to take a sip when Jared raised his bottle. “Here’s to life on the road,” he said.
“To life on the road,” she echoed. “And maybe one day, the possibility of parole.”
Jared laughed again as they clinked bottles. “She’s pretty and she has a sense of humor. Talk about a double threat.”
“Uh-oh,” said Sarah, shooting him a sideways stare.
“What? What is it?”
“While your mother was a stickler for manners, my mother was always warning me about strangers bearing compliments.”
“That’s why I introduced myself. We’re not strangers anymore,” he said. “As for the compliment, you don’t strike me as the blushing type.”
“What type do I strike you as?” she asked.
He thought a lot before answering. “Independent. Self-reliant. And yet not without a vulnerable side.”
“Gee, are you sure about that?”
“Think so. I like to go with my gut.”
“Me, too.”
“What does yours tell you?” he asked.
“That if I play my cards right, there might be a free tennis racket in my future,” she said.
“That’s a possibility.”
“Too bad I don’t play tennis.”
“What a shame,” he said. “Lucky for you, Wilson makes other very fine equipment.”
Sarah tapped her head. “That’s right, how could I forget? That movie, what was it called again? The one with the volleyball named Wilson?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. Nothing more, though.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” she continued. “Jeez, what was the name of that movie?”
“I know; I hate it when I get a mental block like that,” said Jared. “Drives me crazy.”
Sarah took a long sip, digesting more than the beer. Finally she shrugged. “Oh, well. I’m sure it will come to me later.”
“I hope I’m there when it does.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said, easing off the bar stool. “In the meantime, why don’t you order us a couple of shots while I go to the ladies’ room? Bourbon okay by you?”
Jared hit her with his biggest smile yet. “You certainly are a live one,” he said.
She smiled back, tucking her hair behind her ears. That’s right, handsome. Keep thinking I’m the fish.
Chapter 57
SARAH WALKED THE long, narrow hallway in the back of Canteena’s and turned the corner, heading toward the ladies’ room. Two steps from the door she stopped and pulled out her cell.
Eric Ladum picked up on the second ring. As usual, he was still in his office at Quantico. The late night cleaning staff called him El Noctámbulo. The night owl.
“Are you in front of your keyboard?” she asked.
“Aren’t I always?”
“I need the current employee list for Wilson Sporting Goods in Chicago cross-checked with the DMV.”
“Chicago DMV or the entire state?”
“All of Illinois,” she said.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Jared Sullivan.”
“Jared Sullivan with Wilson Sporting Goods,” Eric repeated over the sound of his fingers typing away. “Can he get me a free tennis racket?”
Sarah laughed to herself. “That’s even funnier than you know,” she said. “How much time do you need?”
“How much you got?” he asked.
“Two minutes, tops. I told him I was going to the bathroom.”
“So that’s why women take so long.”
“Yeah, now you guys know what we’re really doing. Running background checks on you,” she said. “Call me back, okay?”
She hung up and stepped over to the corner of the hallway leading back to the bar. She peeked around the edge, catching a quick glimpse of Jared right where she’d left him. That’s a good boy. Have you ordered those shots yet?
Sarah knew damn well the name of the movie with the volleyball called Wilson. Cast Away. Another Tom Hanks film, no less.
Question was, how did a guy who worked for Wilson Sporting Goods not know it? That was like the mayor of Philadelphia not being
able to name that boxing movie starring Sylvester Stallone.
If anything, if you worked for the company, you’d probably be sick of talking about Cast Away and that damn volleyball.
Sarah took another peek around the corner, only to have her view blocked by a burly older man with a gray beard coming down the hallway.
She quickly pulled back, watching as he waddled by her on the way to the men’s room. He smelled of tequila and Old Spice cologne, heavy on both.
There was another thing bugging Sarah, something else about Jared. He asked where she was from but not what she did for a living—even after discussing his own job. Maybe it was an oversight.
Or maybe it was because he already knew the answer to the question.
Sarah’s cell, set to vibrate, shook in her hand. Eric was calling back already. What a guy.
“So much for our free tennis rackets,” he said. “No Jared Sullivan with Wilson Sporting Goods.”
“What about for the city?”
“Two Jared Sullivans in Chicago, five for the state. The two in Chicago are forty-six and fifty-eight.”
“Too old,” said Sarah. “Anyone in their late twenties?”
“One from Peoria; he’s twenty-nine. He’s also tall, six foot four. What’s your guy?”
“Sitting down, unfortunately.” She peeked around the corner again to see if she could better size him up. “Oh, shit!”
“What?”
“I’ll call you back!”
Got to run. Literally.
Chapter 58
SARAH JAMMED THE phone in her pocket and nearly slammed into the tequila-and-Old-Spice fat man, who was coming out of the men’s room. He mumbled something at her—“Watch it!” maybe—or maybe it was just a belch.
Either way, it was distant noise. Sarah was sprinting, a blur, and already halfway down the hallway to the bar, the same bar that was now without Jared Sullivan, or whoever he was.
For a few frantic seconds, she stopped in front of the empty seats where they’d been sitting. The only remnants of their being there were the two bottles of Bud. His was finished, hers was half full. Or more like half empty.
Sarah spun around, her eyes searching every corner of Canteena’s. But he was nowhere. At least not inside.
Damn! Damn! Dammit!
Lickety-split, she headed for the front entrance, the sawdust on the floor kicking up everywhere in her wake. Pushing through the heavy wooden slab of a door, she practically sprang outside, the hot night air immediately slamming against her face.
To her left were two women smoking. They looked like mother and daughter.
“Did you see a guy walk out a minute ago?” Sarah asked, half out of breath. “Good-looking? Sort of like Matthew McConaughey?”
“We just stepped out here, honey,” said the older woman, holding up her cigarette to show it had just been lit.
“But if he really looks like Matthew McConaughey, I’ll help you look for him,” said the younger one with a chuckle.
Sarah forced a smile, if only not to be a bitch, but her eyes had already moved on to the parking lot that wrapped around the building. It was three-quarters pickup trucks and 100 percent jam-packed, not a space to be had.
Off she ran, clockwise. Just as she and the officers had gone around the lake.
There was a chance he was parked in the back, maybe even still heading toward his car.
She ran through the lot, circling the building. She circled it again. She was in the back, standing near a couple of overstuffed Dumpsters, the only light coming from the mostly full moon overhead.
It was the sound she heard first.
The roar of an engine behind her, so loud it was as if she were standing in the middle of a runway at Dulles International Airport. The second she spun around, she was blinded by a pair of headlights. The lights were getting bigger. Very quickly, too. The car was heading straight at her.
No time for overthinking this. She dove. Part leap. Part cartwheel. Straight between the two Dumpsters to her right, the asphalt practically knocking the wind out of her as she landed.
Make and model! License plate! Get something!
But by the time she could look up and focus, his car was turning the corner, gone. It was so dark out that she couldn’t even tell what color the car was. She got nothing.
No, wait—not quite. She still had her own car.
Sarah pushed herself up, sprinting in the direction of her rental car. She could still catch him, she thought. Hell, yeah, let’s see what this Camaro can do!
“Shit!” she screamed the second she laid eyes on it.
Jared Sullivan knew who she was, all right. He knew what car she was driving, too.
Sarah stopped at the right rear tire, flat to the rim. Ditto for the left rear one. “Shit!” she yelled again. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
The bastard had slashed all four tires, and as if to rub it in he left his folding knife resting on the hood of the car.
Only it wasn’t his knife.
Sarah picked it up with the bottom of her shirt, then took out her phone for some light. There were initials inscribed on the ivory handle. J.O.
John O’Hara.
It was his fishing knife. And it was no longer missing. Sarah had found another piece of the puzzle.
Chapter 59
SARAH CALLED DAN Driesen the next morning to brief him. She didn’t want to make the call, but she had to. It was like going to the dentist. To have a tooth pulled. Without Novocain.
“Hell, Sarah, you’re supposed to be chasing him, not the other way around,” he said in a tone that was bordering on ticked off but nonetheless contained a hint of genuine concern. “He could’ve killed you.”
“That’s just it. He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t,” she said, standing by the window of her third-floor room at the Embassy Suites. Nothing but cacti and highway as far as the eye could see. “He was probably hiding at the lake and saw me with the local police. From that moment on he could’ve killed me at any time, and he chose not to.”
“So now you’re saying he didn’t try to run you over with his car?”
“Think about it. If he really wanted to, why did he flip on his headlights?”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? He knows who you are, and that’s not good.”
“Maybe I can turn it to my advantage. I’m thinking about that possibility now.”
“Really?” Driesen asked, incredulous. “How?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I will. Before he changes his mind and comes back to get me.”
“In the meantime, you have no idea where he is or where he’s heading. Unless, of course, you’re going to tell me you’ve cracked those clues he’s been leaving behind.”
“Hey, I got here from Ulysses, didn’t I?”
“Yes, courtesy of a lucky break, don’t you think? Any thoughts on where You’ve Got Mail is going to put him next?” he asked sarcastically. “Should we be trying to find a John O’Hara who works for the post office?”
The really crazy thing was, Sarah had already considered that.
She hated to admit it, but Driesen’s point was valid. The John O’Hara Killer still had the upper hand on her. And, yes, maybe even more so now.
“There’s still a lot I can do out here, though,” she said. “I haven’t even begun to work the town. Maybe he interacted with other people.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want you having to look over your shoulder all the time. Whatever game you think he might be playing, who’s to say it doesn’t end with you getting killed?”
“So that’s that?”
“For now, at least. You’re coming home,” he said. “Besides, there’s someone back here who’s requested a briefing from you.”
“Who?”
Driesen chuckled. She could practically see his sly smile through the phone.
“Who is it?” she repeated.
“You’ll see,” he said. “Come home, Sarah. That’s an order, b
y the way.”
Chapter 60
“YOU COULD’VE GIVEN me a heads-up,” Sarah whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Seriously.”
Dan, sitting in the chair right next to hers, folded his long legs under the seat. It was bright and early the next morning in D.C., barely 7:00 a.m. “Nah, that would’ve just made you nervous,” he whispered back.
“Like I’m not nervous now? I am very nervous. And I don’t ever get nervous.”
As if on cue, the door next to them opened. An older woman with a mother-hen aura walked out, giving them a slight nod. She was clutching a clipboard against her chest.
“The president will see you now,” she said.
Sarah stood up, took a deep breath, and straightened some imaginary wrinkles out of her white blouse. A couple of panicked thoughts flashed through her head. Did I forget to put on deodorant? How do you talk—intelligently—to the president?
“After you,” said Dan, his arm outstretched. “He wants to see you, not me.”
So many times, Sarah had watched this scene play out when she used to tune in to The West Wing on television. But those were all actors. Make-believe.
This was the real deal. With only one step into the Oval Office, she could feel her heartbeat going into overdrive.
Is it too late to call in sick today? Not funny, Sarah. None of this is funny.
Clayton Montgomery, the most powerful man in the free world—and not too shabby a figure everywhere else—was a Blue Dog Democrat from Connecticut who’d been an All-American lacrosse player at Duke. Although that adopted southern pedigree helped him a bit on Super Tuesday, he never would’ve captured the general election without his wife.
Rose Montgomery—née Rose O’Hara—was a former Miss Florida and beloved TV news anchor at WPLG in Miami for five years before meeting Clayton. In other words, before the election she not only had better name recognition in Florida than her husband but also had better name recognition than his Republican challenger.