State of the Onion Page 16

  Sargeant rolled his eyes and turned to see Kasim headed our way. “Yes,” he said. “Henry and Marcel seem to have matters in hand. You may go.”

  Kasim and Sargeant began a quiet discussion next to us, while I pulled on my coat and made small talk with Cyan and Bucky. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?” Cyan asked. “You’re off, right?”

  “Henry gave us both tomorrow off?” Bucky asked. “What, is he nuts?”

  “No,” I said. “You and I are off tomorrow. Henry and Cyan are off the following day. Marcel—I have no idea. Henry said since we’re all prepared, all put together, it should be fine. You both know that it’s the last-minute work that’s a killer. He wants us all to be rested and refreshed before we tackle those eighteen-hour shifts.”

  Cyan nodded. Bucky shrugged.

  “So, any big plans?” Cyan asked again.

  Still in discussion with Kasim, Sargeant edged closer to our position. I started to move past them. “I might go to the gun range,” I said. “I can use the practice.”

  “The one out in Frederick?” Bucky asked. While Tom had been eager to teach me the rudiments of shooting, Bucky was a firearms aficionado. The mere mention of a range outing was enough to make him salivate. I’d forgotten that.

  “One and the same,” I said. “I’ve been out there a couple of times.”

  “You like shooting?”

  I did. “It’s fun.”

  “What time you going to be there?”

  I shrugged. Tom usually went in the afternoon. “Two, maybe.”

  “Well, hey, maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Just what I needed. More Bucky on my day off. But then again, I reasoned that if by some wild coincidence Bucky and Tom and I all showed up at the same time, it would look a whole lot less suspicious than if I were there by myself. I could claim serendipity. And then it wouldn’t be the least bit odd to invite Tom out for coffee afterward.

  CHAPTER 21

  ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY’S SERENE beauty spread before me, beckoning. I hadn’t been here in a couple of weeks, but even if it had been years, I knew I’d never forget the way. Despite my late hours the past few nights, I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I arrived early, getting here when the cemetery opened at eight. With my fingers wrapped around a colorful bunch of blooms—only fresh-cut flowers were allowed on graves here—I made the long trek past acres of white government-issue headstones. So many heroes. So much death.

  And yet, it was the sameness of those headstones that provided quiet comfort. As though the souls of all those buried here whispered, “We served together under one flag, now we rest together, united.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a lawn mower hummed.

  My footsteps shushed against wet grass as the sun worked its way up the sky, burning off the dew and chasing the chill from the air.

  Dad had wanted to be buried here. Mom had been aware enough of that to make Dad’s final arrangements with a measure of objectivity, despite her crushing grief. I’d been young. Almost too young to remember him. Mom didn’t like to talk about how he died. And I often wondered if the reason I chose to live and work in Washington, D.C., was to be close to the memory of the father I never really knew.

  I slowed. Came to a stop. Pulled my sweatshirt tighter around me.

  Anthony M. Paras. Silver Star.

  I stood quietly for a long time.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  With no one around at this early hour I gave in to my desire to talk to him even though I knew he wasn’t really here. I knew that whatever lay beneath the soft, wet grass was just a shell of who my dad had been. And yet, my powerful need to connect won out.

  “I might…I might be leaving the White House.”

  Half the conversation went on in my brain, as though my father’s spirit could hear both my innermost thoughts as well as my spoken words. “I don’t want to go, but…”

  I mulled over everything—my first encounter with Naveen, his death at the merry-go-round, Tom’s disappointment in me, Laurel Anne’s audition, and my current failure to make any single facet of my life go right.

  “What could I have done differently?”

  The breeze wrapped the smell of fresh-cut grass and the sound of the lawn mower around me. My hair lifted and I raised my face to the burgeoning sun asking again, rhetorically: “What could I have done differently?”

  I didn’t have an answer. And despite the calm my visits to Arlington usually brought me, I wouldn’t get an answer, either.

  I bent to place the flowers on his grave. “Keep an eye on me, Dad.”

  AT THE RANGE THAT AFTERNOON, I REALIZED I’d picked a perfect day to come shooting. The combination indoor/outdoor location was ideal no matter the weather. But today bright sun in clear skies warmed the otherwise cool day and brought out crowds of eager marksmen, everyone cheered to be outside enjoying the beautiful weather.

  Tom would want to be here today, too. I knew it. So that made the day even more perfect for arranging an “accidental” meet.

  I got there before one thirty. There was plenty to keep me busy, indoors and out, and I was determined not to give up on catching Tom till they closed the place at five. Of course, once I started target practice, I could keep shooting for hours. And while it was great fun, I never lost sight of safety issues. The range guides kept a close watch on everyone, too. As long as they made sure other patrons took the same care with firearms that I did, I knew I was safe.

  The range had storage facilities, so I stopped at the front desk first to pick up my nine-millimeter Beretta and purchase some ammunition. I wore a fanny pack that I’d bought here on an earlier trip. It looked just like an ordinary, albeit large, waist-purse, but a second zippered compartment behind the purse was designed to hold a firearm.

  I chose the closest open station, the third of five positions under a cement canopy that shielded us from the sun. I readjusted my ear plugs—snugging them in tighter to protect my hearing. With every spot active, the sound of popping gunfire could be deafening. Literally.

  I loaded my magazine, slammed it into place in the Beretta’s grip, released the slide, squared my safety goggles tight, and popped my Chicago Bears hat on my head. Ready to go.

  My first several shots went wide as shell casings danced out of my gun. My target: a black and white bull’s-eye, maybe twenty-four inches wide, fifty feet away. Even though this wasn’t considered a difficult shot, I was out of practice. Whenever a bullet hit, it made a fluorescent green hole. No mistaking where my off-center shots went, or even when they missed entirely.

  I wanted a bull’s-eye.

  No, I amended. I wanted them all to be bull’s-eyes.

  Which meant I needed a lot more practice.

  As I reloaded, I took the opportunity to check out all the other patrons under the canopy. No Tom. But just about everyone wore round-necked, long-sleeve shirts and jeans, baseball caps, goggles, and ear protection, and it was a little difficult to be sure. The shirt I wore was bright yellow, not just for safety reasons, but because it was a shirt Tom had seen before. Maybe he’d recognize it—and say hello.

  There were two other sets of stations on the far side of the main office. I gave myself a thirty-minute time limit at my current spot. After that, I’d take a walk and see what the rest of the range had to offer.

  Head up, shoulders back. Arms outstretched, slightly bent. Hands around the grip. My trigger finger rode straight along the firearm’s frame, not inside the trigger guard, not yet.

  I concentrated. With the gun’s sights set on the target’s center, I gently eased my trigger finger into position within the guard. I took a long, slow, deep breath, let it out, and squeezed.

  Off the mark. Damn. I’d pulled up. Just enough to leave a fluorescent green ding on the edge of the target’s outer circle.

  A half-hour later, my arms were sore, I smelled like cordite, and there were four people waiting their turn under the canopy. I collected my target via the overhead pulley, packed a
way my pistol, and headed down to the front office again, where I ducked into the restroom. I washed my hands thoroughly to get the lead off, and removed my goggles and ear plugs.

  My face was dirty where the glasses hadn’t covered it, and my hair had gone flat. I decided to keep the hat on—it looked better. A quick glance at my watch convinced me it was time to put the plan into action. This was Tom’s favorite time of the day to come shooting.

  The second set of stations was full, too. I stood well behind the yellow safety line and pretended to watch. My prior visits here convinced me that target shooting was largely a male-dominated sport. Today there were no females up front, and two of the older gents who worked the grounds smiled and waved me over.

  They leaned on push brooms as they conversed. Whenever the range was declared “cold,” as it was every hour or so, they’d move in, sweep the casings from the concrete floor and dump them into the nearby garbage drums. Bill was taller, Harold shorter, but both wore overalls and skin toughened from years of being outdoors. Bright white skin remained tucked deep inside cheerful wrinkles. “How’ve you been, honey?” Harold asked.

  “Busy,” I said, “how about you?”

  Bill snorted a laugh. “Tell me about it. You see the crowd over there?” He snapped a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be chasing brass all afternoon.”

  “I was over there before it got busy.” Casually, so as not to arouse the male protect-our-brother mentality, I asked, “Have you seen Tom MacKenzie here today?”

  Harold’s eyes narrowed. “The guy who brought you here the first time? The Secret Service guy?”

  I nodded.

  Bill asked, “You didn’t come together?”

  “No.”

  They exchanged a look. Harold’s eyebrows raised, and he thought about it for a couple of seconds. “Yeah, he’s here.”

  Bill pointed to the range’s far side. His look said he was reluctant to share the information and all of a sudden I realized why. “Is he with someone?”

  The two men leaned back from their brooms, surprised. “No,” they said in unison.

  “He’s practicing pretty hard today,” Harold said. “Never seen him so focused.” He shrugged and shared another glance with Bill. His eyes twinkled. “Maybe he’s taking his frustrations out, or something. You should probably go over there and say hey.”

  “I think I will,” I said.

  By the time I reached the farthest set of stations, I’d convinced myself that this was a stupid move. I’d apologized to Tom. I’d been rebuffed. Appearing here now would only make him feel claustrophobic and I risked pushing him further away.

  I was about to turn back when I caught sight of him.

  I couldn’t help myself. I drew closer, watching him as he nailed that target—pop—pop—pop—pop—pop—pop. Bull’s-eyes, every one.

  He didn’t turn. Didn’t seem to notice anything or anyone around him, save for the occasional glances side-to-side when shooters in his periphery moved or changed firearms. Harold was right. He was focused.

  From my position behind a small shed, I could watch without looking too obvious to passersby, and if Tom should turn, I’d be able to duck behind the shed quickly and avoid any uncomfortable confrontations.

  I felt like a high-school girl, gazing adoringly at my crush.

  And I felt stupid being here, unwilling and afraid to approach him.

  Tom switched the Sig Sauer to his left hand. Firing offhanded, he consistently hit within the second circle of the round target. When he stopped, he shook his head as if disappointed in his performance.

  I thought he did great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so.

  When he changed firearms again, and began practicing with his revolver, I realized he was winding up. He always finished with the Smith & Wesson six-shooter, and even if he had several speed-loaders on hand, he’d be finished soon.

  What was I was doing here? This was silly. Again, I felt schoolgirl crush monsters devouring my usually solid self-esteem.

  I fingered the brim of my Bears cap—and decided to punt.

  Under bright blue canopies strategically placed around the range, the owners had set up vending machines and washroom facilities for the comfort and convenience of their patrons. The nearest oasis was about a hundred yards away. If Tom finished soon, he’d be thirsty, and he’d probably stop here before heading back to his car.

  I trotted up to the vending machines, hoping at least one offered ice cold water. My lucky day. I dug two dollars out of the front pouch of my purse. Two bucks for water was highway robbery, but there wasn’t much choice.

  “You come here often?”

  I turned. The man who spoke to me was just an inch or so taller than I was, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes. Tanned, but not leathery, he’d either spent yesterday in a tanning booth or an afternoon being sprayed that color. For being at a shooting range, he was oddly dressed. Short-sleeved gray button-down dress shirt, navy blue Dockers, and polished loafers. He smiled, inched closer. A little too close. I backed up. “Often enough,” I said.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got it.” I stepped forward to insert the first of the dollars into the slot, jamming it in fast and following up with the second dollar so my new friend didn’t get any ideas to help.

  “Oh, is the lady taken?” He smirked and glanced back toward the shed where I’d been watching Tom shoot. Had this guy been watching me?

  I hit the machine’s wide blue button and heard my relief tumble to the bottom shelf. “She is now,” I said.

  Letting the cool water trickle down the back of my throat, I strode away. Fifteen steps later, I realized I’d been rude. I thought about the guy behind me—he was just being friendly.

  Maybe I’d been too hasty. Not with this guy in particular, but in my attitude. I’d rejected him out of hand because he tried to pick me up. A pessimistic thought caught a beat in the background of my mind. I tried to ignore it, but it played there nonetheless: If Tom and I broke up for good, I’d be encountering these Vending Machine Romeos and their brethren everywhere. Worse, eventually I’d be seeking them out.

  I wasn’t interested in Mr. Tan Boy, but I shouldn’t have been so discourteous brushing him off.

  That little bit of remorse was enough to make me turn.

  Romeo was following me.

  He smiled. But not the kind of smile you use to pick up a girl.

  I picked up the pace.

  The shooting station was still about fifty feet away.

  Behind me, Romeo’s shoes chafed the asphalt. His pace picked up, too.

  I had a sudden flashback to the merry-go-round. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  I turned again.

  “Just a minute,” he said. “Wait. Please. I have to ask you something.”

  The “please” almost stopped me. But in a heartbeat I decided I’d rather be rude than take my chances. Something about this man was unpleasantly familiar. “No!” I dropped into a flat-out run. Up ahead I saw Tom packing up, getting ready to leave. “Tom!”

  He turned, gave me the oddest look. “Ollie? What are you doing—”

  I stumbled as I reached him. Tom grabbed me by my wrists—holding me at arm’s length. My brain ticked off that “distancing maneuver” tidbit despite my panic. “That guy,” I said, panting, pointing behind me. “He’s following me. I think he’s—”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said. “Who?”

  And just like at the merry-go-round, he was gone.

  “IT WAS THE SAME MAN,” I SAID. “IT WAS THE Chameleon.”

  We sat in my car, Tom staring at me as if seeing me for the first time.

  “How can you be sure?”

  From my pocket, I pulled the picture that sketch artist Darren Sorrell printed for me and now I spread it out against my steering wheel. For some reason I carried it everywhere, thinking it might come in handy. Hoping it wouldn’t.

  But now it d
id. I shook my head. Could it have been the same guy? There were similarities in height and build, but the coloring was different. And I couldn’t be sure about the face.

  “Just…” I hated it when I faltered over words. “Just…I just feel it.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  I didn’t know what to say, what the right answer was. I couldn’t swear it was the same man I’d encountered at the merry-go-round, but it felt the same. “His hair was different. And this guy wasn’t pale. And his eyes were a different color.”

  “But you’re convinced it was the same man.”

  Skepticism in Tom’s tone. His expression, too. I couldn’t blame him, but I knew what I felt. “I am.”

  “Why did you come to the range today?”

  Yikes. Good time for a fib. “I needed the practice.”

  “And you believe the Chameleon followed you here?” Tom’s tone was half-disbelieving, half-coy, as though he saw all this as a manufactured stunt to get back together. I could understand why it looked suspicious. But I couldn’t dismiss my very real fear.

  “You said yourself I’m the only person who can identify him.”

  “Okay, calm down,” he said. “It might have just been a guy who wanted your number. He just got overeager. Guys do that sometimes.”

  I usually hate when people tell me to calm down, but I had to face facts. Tom could be right. I could be overreacting. I took a deep breath and gave it one last shot. “Listen, there was something about this guy that felt familiar. Felt wrong. And he followed me. He chased me. And he disappeared into the crowd, just like the other day.”

  “You get a good look at him?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you think another visit from the sketch artist will do any good?”

  “So we can have two versions of the Chameleon floating around?” I gave a laugh I didn’t feel. “We already know he blends into the background. What good would it do?” Morosely, I added. “And I have to face it, you’re right. I’m not even sure it was the same guy.”