“Figured that out already. Something about that bombing. Then the murder of Thomas Weir. Shafer back in town.” Sampson looked into my eyes. “So what is it?”
“This is confidential, John. They’ve made a threat against Washington. It’s pretty serious. We’ve been warned about an attack. They demanded a huge ransom to stop it.”
“Which can’t be paid?” Sampson asked. “The United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m not sure if anybody does, except maybe the president. I’m on the inside, but not that far inside. Anyway, now you know as much as I do.”
“And I should act accordingly.”
“Yeah, you should. But you can’t talk about this with anybody. Not anyone, not even Billie.”
Sampson took my hand. “I got it. Thank you.”
Chapter 41
ON THE WAY HOME late that night I was guilt-tripping and a little shaky about what I’d told Sampson, but I felt I’d had no choice. John was my family, simple as that. Also, maybe I was on burnout because we were working eighteen-to-twenty-hour days. Maybe the stress was getting to me. There was a lot of disaster planning going on behind the scenes, but nobody I talked to knew where we were on the ransom demands. Everybody’s nerves were frayed, including mine. About twelve hours were gone on our deadline.
Other questions burned in my mind. Was Shafer the one who had murdered and maimed the woman we’d found on New Jersey Avenue? I was almost sure he was, and Sampson agreed. But why commit that type of grisly murder now? Why risk it? I sure as hell doubted it was a coincidence that the young woman’s body had been dumped less than two miles from my house.
It was late and I wanted to think about something else, anything else, but I couldn’t get my head off the case. I drove the old Porsche faster than I needed to on the mostly empty streets, knowing I had to focus on the driving. It didn’t really work too well, though.
I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head before I went inside. Things to do. I needed to give Jamilla a call—it was only eleven on the coast. I felt as though my head would explode. And I knew when I’d felt this way before: the last time the Weasel went on a killing spree in Washington. Only this was so much worse.
I finally trudged inside the house, past the old piano on the sunporch. I thought about sitting down and playing. A little blues? Broadway? At two in the morning? Sure, why not. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.
The phone began to ring and I ran to get it. Awhh, Jesus, who the hell?
I snatched up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge.
“Hello. Cross.”
Nothing.
And then a hang-up.
Seconds later, the phone rang again. I picked up after one ring.
Another hang-up.
And another after that.
I took the phone off the hook. Set it on the counter inside Nana’s oven mitt to muffle the sound.
I heard a noise behind me.
I turned around quickly.
Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up.
“What’s wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?” she asked. “This isn’t right. Who’s calling the house this late at night?”
I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.
Chapter 42
THE NEXT DAY I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our assignment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable—fast, incredibly fast.
Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it’s difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth.