Page 64 of Sharp Force
“… Officials aren’t talking much yet, but from what I’ve learned from other sources?” Dana Diletti is saying into her microphone. “Another Slasher ghost was spotted drifting through the fog earlier, what we’re told is a hologram the killer uses to stalk and create panic. The same thing that floated through my bedroom window as I was exercising last night…”
“This is bad,” I say to Benton. “Who the hell is she talking to?”
“I’m guessing she has a network of people leaking information to her,” he replies.
“… And that’s not all the breaking news, folks. This just in,” she’s saying. “The woman murdered in her own bed has been identified as Georgine Duvall, a psychiatrist at the hospital…”
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
“… The surviving victim, Zain Willard, was staying with her,” she goes on. “Turns out he’s the nephew of Senator Calvin Willard, expected to be the Democratic nominee for president. The plot thickens, as they say. Could the Slasher’s attacks be politically motivated? Was Zain Willard targeted because of his prominent and powerful uncle…?”
“I can’t believe how irresponsible she is.” I end the video feed. “Now the names are out there before we can confirm identity and notify next of kin.”
We’re driving on the George Washington Memorial Parkway now. Beyond trees I catch glimmers of the river.
“What I know for a fact is she’s been a frequent visitor to the White House in recent months,” Benton informs me. “A few weeks ago, I saw her having lunch with Calvin Willard in the mess hall.”
The private dining room is used by West Wing potentates, including the president and vice president of the United States. Not just anybody can step foot in there.
“A rumor is circulating that she might become the next press secretary if Calvin Willard is elected,” Benton explains.
“You’re implying that Calvin Willard might have tipped off Dana Diletti about his nephew almost being killed on Mercy Island?” I spell it out.
“It’s possible,” he says as the driving app announces a police vehicle two hundred feet ahead.
The Virginia State Police SUV is gray like a shark with push bars on the front bumper. It’s parked off-road in a sloppy soup of snow, slush and greenish-brown grass. The trooper stares as we drive past, giving me an uneasy feeling.
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport is but a few miles ahead, the thunder of low-flying aircraft pervasive. I text Marino that we should reach the Pitié Bridge in the next fifteen minutes.
It’s slow going,I write to him.
Since Benton and I left the house, traffic has gone from moderate to heavy as it always does regardless of the holiday. I wonder where people are headed this early on Christmas morning. Most areoblivious, others furious in a discord of honking horns and rumbling engines.
10-4,Marino answers.See you when you get here.
“Everything okay?” I ask Benton as he continues glancing at his mirrors.
“Not sure,” he says, and I turn around to see what’s snagged his attention.
A state police SUV is closing in behind us, and I assume it’s the one we passed a moment ago. The trooper’s dark glasses are fixed on us like a sniper about to fire.
“Uh-oh. I’m not liking this one bit.” I watch in my side mirror as the trooper rides our bumper. “What the hell does he want?”
“Got no idea.”
“Did we do something we’re not supposed to? Speeding maybe? An expired inspection sticker?” I suggest.
“No.”
“Then why might he be following us, Benton?”
“Not for any legitimate reason,” he replies as the trooper begins whelping his siren, the emergency lights strobing. “You got to be kidding me.”
Slowing down, we pull off the road, the tires splashing through deep ice water puddles. The state police SUV halts menacingly close, almost touching the rear of our car, red and blue grille lights strobing.
“This is beyond unsettling,” I say to Benton.
“Something’s not right, that’s for sure,” he replies as we watch the uniformed trooper climbing out, putting on his campaign hat.
