The two baseball fans had their Phillies and Mets caps turned around backward. Not as any kind of fashion statement, but so that the bills of their caps didn’t obstruct their views through the night-vision scopes of their matching suppressed SR-25 sniper rifles. Most would argue that this weapon was the finest ever designed by Eugene Stoner (SR stood for Stoner Rifle) and manufactured by the Knight’s Armament Company. The SR-25 was a work of industrial art. Functional, beautiful, and lethal. The baseball fans carried the same weapon not only because they both preferred it, but also because redundancy was a good idea in any system. If one cog goes down, another is available to take its place, and the machine can keep right on functioning.
The baseball fans were lying prone on the ground about forty yards apart. Murphy, the Mets fan, had been here for hours, demonstrating masterful patience, but the Phillies fan, Giles, had only just arrived, shortly after the nurse. He had followed her from Harmony House to make sure she got there. Murphy had worked out their kill zone, which was generous by their standards, and directed his partner into position by speaking into the bone-conduction tactical headset positioned snugly against his larynx. Giles wore a matching headset. Both men could whisper at nearly inaudible volumes and still hear each other clearly.
Murphy moved his right index finger onto the trigger, gently applying consistent tension before he prepared to fully squeeze. He spoke almost silently. “One.”
Giles used a slightly different technique to prepare for firing his weapon: he gently pulsed his finger on the trigger in synch with his heart rate. This allowed him to make sure he pulled the trigger in between beats. A sniper learns never to fire on the beat, which can be unpredictable. No one’s heart beats perfectly every time. Exactly one second after he heard his partner’s voice, he responded quietly. “Two.”
Neither man said “three.” Instead, they simultaneously fired their .22-caliber suppressed sniper rifles. Fffwwt!
The muzzle flashes on either side of Michael Barnes’s men told them they were under attack, but Strunk and Dobson didn’t have time to react. They were taken by complete surprise. The two men were thirty feet from Gloria Pruitt’s kitchen door when their chests exploded. The entrance wounds were small compared with the gaping holes that exploded out their backs.
The gunfire was impressively quiet, and demonstrated recent improvements in suppression technology. In fact, the sound of the two bodies collapsing to the ground had created more of a ruckus than the guns. Branches cracked. Leaves crackled.
Was that thunder she heard? Did something fall out of a tree? Whatever it was, there was some kind of commotion going on outside Gloria’s window. She went to the back door and yelled out through the screen, “Is anybody there?”
Strunk didn’t move. He was already dead, lying on his back. But to the surprise of the baseball fans, who were watching through their infrared scopes, Dobson’s eyes were still blinking. His mouth was moving, but no words were coming out because his lungs, what was left of them, were full of blood.
Determined to find out what was going on, Gloria retreated inside her house to look for a flashlight. In the pantry, she opened the toolbox she kept for such emergencies. Of the three flashlights inside, only one worked, and this one barely. She took the dim flashlight and walked fearlessly out into her backyard. “Anybody back here?” She flashed the light around, moving it across the shrubs and trees until something on the ground caught her eye. Something red, which looked like blood. As she moved closer to the area, she became sure it was blood. There were two pools of it right next to each other, like two animals had just been killed there. Big animals.
But where were the bodies?
It occurred to her that whatever killed the two animals was still out there, and might still be hungry. There were confirmed recent sightings of coyotes in New Jersey. For all she knew, there might even be wolves. Gloria suddenly forgot all about the pain in her legs, and ran the ten yards to her kitchen door faster than she’d run any distance in years.
She locked and bolted the door. She shook her head while catching her breath, thanking the Lord for not punishing her bravado. He must have known she’d be going to church the next day, and decided to cut her some slack.
She didn’t drink hard liquor very often, but tonight’s dinner was definitely going to be accompanied by three or four fingers of scotch. Maybe five.
CHAPTER 78
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 27, 9:32 p.m.
The human body begins to cool immediately after the moment of death, which was why the heat signatures of the two bodies being carried from Gloria Pruitt’s property were different from those of the baseball fans carrying them, as indicated by the thermal-imaging technology being used to observe them. From her office, Caitlin McCloskey watched along with Daryl Trotter while they enjoyed deli sandwiches from Jersey Mike’s. She pointed to the dead bodies as they were carried to the Jeep Wagoneer. “They were killed at the same time, but their body temperatures are different. Why?”
Daryl corrected her. “They were shot at the same time, but both didn’t die right away. It took him several minutes longer.” He pointed to the brighter one.
“Nasty,” she said with a noticeable lack of emotion.
Daryl asked, “How will they get rid of the bodies?”
“Fish food, if I had to guess,” Caitlin answered with her mouth full of turkey and provolone.
Daryl concurred. “Cliché, but effective.”
Bob Stenson briskly entered Caitlin’s office. “How is our nurse doing?”
“Alive and well, thanks to the baseball fans.”
“Where are they now?”
“Disposing of the bodies.”
Satisfied, Stenson nodded. That was all he needed to hear. “I want you both to put all your focus back on the echo box. Homeland has no idea where either Drummond or Parks is. For all we know, they’ve left the city.”
“Only if they’re together,” said Daryl. He was thinking strategically. “The doctor wouldn’t leave without her patient unless she was forced to.”
Caitlin nodded in agreement. She was thinking emotionally. “She’d turn herself in before leaving him alone on the streets this long.”
Stenson spoke definitively. “She has not turned herself in.”
Daryl spoke quickly as his mouth tried to keep up with his brain. “The only conclusion is that they are together. The question is, did they leave the city, or are they hiding?”
Caitlin jumped in. “She has few other close relationships with people in the city.”
Daryl blinked rapidly as he factored in the additional data. “Edward’s behavior is unpredictable, and might draw unwanted attention. Her goal will be to get him out of the city, probably somewhere nice and quiet.”
Caitlin turned to Daryl. “Where?”
Daryl paused, his biological supercomputer running through an awesome number of calculations per second. He didn’t like his answer. “I don’t know.”
Stenson made sure to look genuinely surprised. “That’s disheartening.”
“Let me give it some more thought.” Trotter left the office quickly.
Stenson glanced at Caitlin, who couldn’t stop herself from smirking. Human beings, even the smartest of them, were very easy creatures to manipulate if you knew which buttons to push.
CHAPTER 79
Dr. Marcus Fenton’s House, Pine Hill, New Jersey, May 27, 9:35 p.m.
Butler McHenry sat in his car, which was parked in front of Marcus Fenton’s farmhouse. He had clearly been there for quite a while by the time the veteran doctor arrived home. Fenton seemed genuinely surprised to find that he had a visitor. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Fenton, I’m Detective Butler McHenry with the New York City Police.” Butler watched the older man closely.
Fenton didn’t bat an eye. “Good evening, Detective. You’re a long way from the city. What brings you all the way out here?”
Butler said pleasantly, “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that would be all right.”
“About what?” Fenton smiled innocently.
“I’d prefer we talk at the station.” It was, of course, a bluff. A big one. But he wanted the doctor on McHenry turf, not Fenton turf.
“You must be joking.”
“Not even slightly.” The hint of a smile crept into his face as he saw the frustration build in Fenton. The trip here was now officially worth it, even if the doctor called his bluff.
“And if I decline?” The contempt in Fenton’s voice couldn’t hide his anxiety.
McHenry knew he had him. “I’ll return with a warrant.”