She drove around Lady Bird Johnson Park, then headed across the Arlington Memorial Bridge that spanned the Potomac. The water below was a roiling gray, moving swiftly, and looked so cold it made her lips tingle. She turned at the Lincoln Memorial when she saw the sign to Roosevelt Memorial Park. She’d first come here as a child, long before the memorial had been built, her small hand tucked in her father’s as they walked along the famous Cherry Tree Walk on the Tidal Basin near the national mall. She’d brought Keely here when she’d been a baby, just after Carlo was out of her life, with her mother and father.
She shivered. It was getting colder. She turned up the heater again. The sky looked like it would snow much earlier than this evening.
She parked her Silverado in the empty parking lot at the memorial, and looked around. There was no one here, no killers, no tourists, no workers, just her. She decided to walk through the memorial once again.
One started at the beginning, since the memorial was organized chronologically, and divided into four rooms, which really weren’t rooms since it was all outside, each room representing one of Roosevelt’s terms in office. There were quotes, displays, and waterfalls everywhere. The place was so huge you could wander around until you dropped, but Katie didn’t browse. She found herself walking directly to the third room, depicting Roosevelt’s third term, where the waterfall was much larger and much louder. There, just to the left of the waterfall, was a large sculpture of FDR, and beside him sat his dog, Fala. Katie’s dad had loved Fala, loved all the stories told about the little black Scottish terrier, who’d even had his own comic strip. She stood looking at the huge sculptured cape that covered Roosevelt, listening to the hammering of the water crashing against huge loose chunks of granite. She’d heard that the waterfalls froze sometimes in the winter. With the way the temperature was plummeting, she imagined it wouldn’t be long before they were silent, frozen in place.
Her mind flashed to her father lifting Keely in his arms, pointing to Fala, telling her a story about how he’d performed tricks on demand. How he’d wished he’d been old enough back then to go to Washington to see him in person. Oh Lord, she missed her father, wished he’d gone to a doctor earlier, but he hadn’t, just like a damned stubborn man, her mom had told her, and burst into tears. Not that it would have made much difference.
There were memories, she thought, that touched you throughout your life. She had to keep hoping that all of Sam’s terrible memories would be tempered with the laughter and joy of experiences that were sweet and good.
She looked at the statue of Roosevelt and said, “If you had lived any longer, would you have announced to the country that you were willing to be president for life? And would the people have elected you?”
She half-expected an answer, and smiled at herself when the crashing water was the only thing she heard. Then there was something else, footsteps coming up behind her. She didn’t turn. She thought it was one of her bodyguards, come to check on her, and that was comforting. She stood there, wishing something made sense, wishing she was back in Jessborough, with Miles and Sam and Keely, all of them, in her house that had been magically rebuilt, her mother smiling as she came from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cinnamon buns. She craved another evening filled with tuna casserola and laughter.
She nearly jumped straight into the air when a voice behind her said, “There you are, the little princess.”
Katie froze.
“That’s right, just stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”
Katie didn’t even consider a twitch.
“All right. Turn around and face me.”
Katie slowly turned.
“Surprised to see me, Katie?”
“Yes. Everyone believes you’re dead.”
Elsbeth McCamy shook her head. “They won’t for much longer. I hear they’ve nearly dug all the way through the ruins of my beautiful house. They’ll soon find just one burned body, not two. Poor Reverend McCamy, not even buried yet, left under all that rubble, all that rain pouring down on him. No! Don’t you move, Katie Benedict!”
Katie held utterly still.
“I know I shot you on Saturday, but here you are, walking around this ridiculous memorial. I just couldn’t believe it when I saw you leave that big fancy house of yours this morning, looking all chipper, herding those children off to school like any good little mother.”
Suddenly, she started shaking, and the gun jerked in her hand. “Dammit, I shot you! Why aren’t you dead like you’re supposed to be?”
Katie heard hate and despair in her voice. And a bit of madness. She said, “It appears you’re not a very good shot.”
“I practiced, dammit, practiced for a good week before I hunted you down in that park!”
“People watch TV, see lots of violent movies, and think that when you fire a gun you kill someone, but it’s just not true. No matter how good a shot you are, it’s difficult to hit what you’re aiming at. Don’t feel too bad, you didn’t miss me. You shot me in the hip.” Katie lightly rested her hand against her upper thigh. “It aches a bit, but I’ll live.”
“I’m only two feet away from you now, Katie. When I shoot you this time, you’ll die.”
That was surely the truth. Where were her bodyguards?
“I had to stay back in the park since you were with those other federal agents, and that new husband of yours. You really landed on your feet, didn’t you, Sheriff? Nice big house, husband kissing your feet, so much money you must think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Actually, I really didn’t think of it quite like that,” Katie said. Where were her bodyguards? Probably close, they surely couldn’t have lost her coming through the memorial. There wasn’t another soul around. Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on her when there was no one here to threaten her?
“I wanted servants, but Reverend McCamy only wanted God, and me. Always God first, me second. He didn’t want servants to come into our home and intrude on his privacy. So I did everything myself, even made brownies. How he loved my brownies. I made them from scratch, stirred together all that chocolate and chocolate chips and pecans, but I didn’t eat any. He didn’t like any fat on me, said it would be a sacrilege.
“Do you know that he studied his palms and his feet every single day? He prayed until his knees were raw, offered God everything he had, probably including me, if He would just bring back the sacred stigmata one more time. But God didn’t answer his prayers.”
“The story from Homer Bean was that Reverend McCamy had experienced the stigmata when he was a child. Did you believe that?”
Elsbeth McCamy nodded. “Of course. It’s all he could talk about, all he could think about. He would picture it, envision it happening again over and over in his mind, but it never did. He was furious with his parents for not recording it for posterity-to show to his congregation, to prove he wasn’t like those crooked loud-mouthed televangelists, that he was blessed by God himself.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Elsbeth, and do you know what I think?”
“If I don’t shoot you dead right this minute, I guess you’ll tell me.”
Katie stayed as still and small as she could. “I don’t think Sam suffered any holy stigmata. I think it was some sort of rash or exanthem, something brought on by his illness. I don’t think it was blood on his palms.”
“His mother believed it was blood. For God’s sake, she videotaped it! She could probably smell the blood. You can, you know. Smell blood, that is.” She shook her head, bringing herself back from some memory. “She gave the tape to a senile old priest whose sister recognized its value and knew a member of the Reverend’s congregation. That’s how it came to Reverend McCamy. Who are you to question any of this? You’re just some hick sheriff.”