Finally, he was sure. Nope, these people, and especially that damned president, have got to take responsibility for what they done. They had all the power; they're responsible for what happened to me and my woman. I can do this.
Satisfied, he turned his eyes back to the podium.
* * *
Presidential Limousine, Atlantic Avenue,
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Her feelings were all spilled out, from her speech to the convention, leaving the President to feel little but emptiness inside. Even the thought of going to her own, formal, political seppuku did not move her. For Wilhelmina Rottemeyer's impending press conference was for no other purpose than to announce her resignation from the office of President of the United States.
Though her body felt empty, her mind was full, full of thoughts and questions and wonderings. What went wrong? How did it all go so wrong, so quickly? I was at the top, the pinnacle. Not only at the top, but with more real power than anyone, even Roosevelt and Lincoln, had ever had.
Did I move too fast, as Carroll said once? Or did I move too slowly, as Vega insisted? One thing I know I did wrong; I underestimated that damned wetback from Texas. But who would have guessed that that little no-account, who wasn't even independent enough to keep her own name when she married, would have had the will to move her state almost to independence? Breaking me in the bargain.
Should I have left that old priest alone? Left the anti-abortion nuts alone? How could I? I had a constituency, not the least important part of it, my own federal law enforcement chiefs. How much hold over them would I have lost if I had caved in on the priest? Too much, I think.
And I had plans, I had dreams, for this country and for the world. Sure I was ambitious for myself, but who ever got anything worthwhile done that wasn't ambitious? I saw a world at peace, because why should anyone fight when everyone has enough? I saw a world where the environment was protected and cherished. I saw a world where everyone was equal . . . well, maybe women a little more equal than men. What was so wrong with that?
I wish sometimes that there really were a God so that I could ask him what I should have done.
* * *
Galilee Episcopal Church, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Alvin saw the President's limousine as it turned west off of the main road and onto the hotel driveway. He watched as the President emerged from the vehicle and two men helped her on with an overcoat that seemed somehow very heavy.
He walked, calmly enough, to the rifle, getting behind it and letting the tarp on the bar serve as a rest for his nonfiring hand even as the pedestal holding up the bar served as a rest and brace for his body. Still unseen in the shadows, Alvin took up a solid firing position, looked in the scope, and rested his cross hairs first on Rottemeyer's torso. Then, that view being frequently interrupted by the movement of the security agents, he shifted his aiming point to the President's head. Then he waited, forcing himself to breathe calmly, the breathing itself serving to calm him.
* * *
Cavalier Oceanfront Hotel, Seventh Floor,
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Calm, still, silent—like a praying mantis in ambush, or a Shao Lin monk in training, Smythe had not so much as twitched a muscle since assuming his firing position. He had, in a real sense, become one with the rifle and the view in his scope.
That view changed. On the right side of the field of view a woman, easily recognizable as Wilhelmina Rottemeyer, entered it. Smythe remained still, however. If there were any minimal adjustments to be made, they would be made when Rottemeyer stopped at the podium.
There were none. Smythe had known her height in advance and placed his cross hairs at precisely the right place. Wilhelmina Rottemeyer, President of the United States, placed herself directly on them.
Smythe took a deep breath, let a quarter of it out, moved his finger to the trigger and began to apply a gentle pressure.
* * *
Galilee Episcopal Church, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Alvin was no artist, no assassin, no highly trained oriental spiritualist. He was not even a predatory insect, however buglike a social worker had once made him feel. He was simply an angry man with a job he felt he had to do.
As soon as Rottemeyer reached the podium, he—as had Smythe—took a single deep breath, let much of it out, and began to squeeze the trigger on his rifle. Not so highly trained as the professional was, Alvin's trigger moved more quickly.
* * *
Hotel Cavalier (Hilltop), Virginia Beach, Virginia
The only man or woman present at the scene who had cause to expect a shot, Carroll had placed himself well behind Willi and slightly to her right. He had less than no desire to be either in the way, or immediately behind.
Unlike the others present, Carroll also knew exactly why Rottemeyer had called this press conference—to resign. Thus, as a memorial to the ages he forced his face into a regretful, somber mask as he watched Willi open the folder containing her resignation speech. It was either force the mask, or risk showing the nervousness that threatened to take him over.
Willi had just looked up from her notes when three things happened: the top of her head flew off in a shower of blood and brains, there was the report seemingly of a single rifle shot, and the entire scene immediately and instantaneously devolved into bedlam.
Carroll especially noticed the fourth thing that happened. A bullet, unspent, passed—only slightly deformed—through Rottemeyer's head, through the intervening space, and right through Carroll's stomach. Only the fact that the air was knocked from his lungs kept him from screaming in agony.
With the next breath he drew, the screams began.
* * *
Cavalier Oceanfront Hotel, Seventh Floor,
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Smythe's finger stopped tightening as soon as he felt the recoil and saw the top of his intended target's head fly off. Off to the right side of his scope he saw a man he recognized easily as James Carroll go down flopping like a dying fish.
"What the . . . ?"
Immediately realizing from the obvious angle of the other shot that he must have had an unknown competitor, Smythe grumbled something about "amateurs." Although his original plan had been to leave the rifle in the room and make his escape, he knew that that might be a mistake now. There was always a chance that the weapon, however "underground" it may have been, could be traced to him. Therefore, while insanity erupted below, and while he knew all eyes would have to be focused on the true assassin, he reversed the steps he had taken in preparation for his shot.
Off came the rifle from its cradle. Quickly it was broken down into its constituent parts. These were stowed in the case, to be followed by the tripod as soon as it was collapsed. The case was then closed.
Tearing off the shower cap and the plastic garment, Smythe stuffed these into the overnight bag. There was nothing inherently suspicious about them anyway, so he determined to leave them in the room, at least for now. The rifle case he slid under a bed. He could return for it later, if possible.
Smythe went to the door and opened it, looking down the hall. Good. No excitement here yet.
Lastly, as calmly as may be imagined, Smythe opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and began to walk to his own room.
* * *