Meyerson took in all the sights and sounds while she ran. It relaxed her. With everything on her mind, it helped.
Closer again. He watched as she hugged the fence that separated the outfield from the greens, then followed a worn path toward the tennis courts, another 200 yards further. There she angled right, which took her by an asphalt basketball court. A few players stopped to catch a glimpse of the redhead. She’s not for you. No one noticed when Olsen fell into step about fifty yards behind her.
Lynn rounded the recreation center. She heard a dance class. The door was open and young girls, probably no older than six or seven, were practicing ballet. She circled around again and ran in place just to take in the sight. About ten girls struggled to stay on their toes. It was sweet and almost comical. They were all dressed in pink tights and black leotards, their hair tied with pink ribbons. They did their best to please their instructor, a Russian immigrant, who had obviously worked with better students.
Lynn saw the pride in the faces of both the youngsters and the parents. She remembered the looks of her own mother and father, watching from bleachers just like the ones in the rec room. For an instant, it seemed like yesterday.
He suddenly slowed, rounding a turn along the path. The woman was jogging in place, distracted by something inside a building. Olsen rerouted to the sidewalk and leaned against a tree. He pretended to be out of breath. Thirty seconds later, she took up her run again, but he waited, not wanting to get too close too early. He noted how her breasts rose and fell with each step. He watched the firmness of her ass and the grace of her legs. He estimated how far away he was. Sixty yards. Good.
Meyerson continued running on a sidewalk that bordered the parking lot she’d crossed before. She gave her watch a quick glance. She figured she had another thirty minutes or so of good light. Enough time to finish up and get back to the hotel. She tried to be aware of the light and run when it was safe. All told, it would be a six-plus- mile course, covering the exact same path she’d carved out two days earlier and repeated the day before.
Now she cut left on the last arc of her run, down a road that rounded a dog park and to the empty park bench she’d spotted the previous day. She’d sit and rest there.
Fifty yards. Thirty. Twenty-five. The jogger behind Lynn counted down the distance as he closed in. The girl had paced herself the entire run, except when she stopped to watch the dancers. For a moment, he thought she might not continue beyond that point, but the ritual called out too loudly to her.
Twenty, he thought. Fifteen. He calculated his steps against hers. She took long, measured strides with her muscular legs that, no doubt, could still deliver a burst of energy in an emergency. But his approach wouldn’t appear threatening. Exactly the opposite. In a few more steps she would hear his labored breathing; nothing unusual at the end of a day. It would announce his presence through a charade.
Now ten. Five. He caught up with her and matched her pace for ten yards. After some heavy exhales, Nat Olsen managed a harmless “Hello.” They were approaching an area about forty feet long, with an incline that fell off sharply to the right.
“Hello,” she said with little effort.
Ten steps later, “This used to be a lot easier.”
She glanced over to him. Oh man. Out of shape. Another automatic look. This one to his ring finger. Married.
He caught the eye contact. She’ll be less on guard. Good. “I want to meet the guy who said it’s all about conditioning, not age.”
Lynn gave him a reassuring nod. “You’re doing fine. Only a little bit further.”
Yes, only a little bit. He had managed to do the whole run without having had to talk with anyone else.
A few yards from the highest point of the incline, he grabbed his side and grimaced.
“You okay?” Lynn asked.
“I’ll run through it.” Five more steps. Four. Three.
They continued running in tandem for two more steps. Then he grunted, stumbled a step, locked his feet up, and tumbled down the hill.
“Hey!” she called out.
The jogger tumbled over four times and came to a stop precisely where he had planned, out of sight in the underbrush. Lynn automatically cut down the hill, calling out, “Are you all right? Need any help?”
He rose to his knees, his back to her. He nodded as if in pain, and waved for her to come down.
“Okay, maybe it’s age, not conditioning,” she joked, seeing that he was trying to regain his balance. “On my way.”
Lynn was only a few feet from him now. She spoke softly. “Can you stand?”
For a moment, the caring in her voice broke his concentration; after all, she was coming to his aid. But he had agreed. The amount was set. Like always, half was already in his account. Instantly, any empathy for the woman evaporated.
He shook his head.
“Okay. Just take a few seconds, you’ll be okay,” she said, coming upon him.
Meyerson knelt down beside him, her arm on his shoulders. A thought flashed in her mind. He’s a lot more muscular than…
Suddenly, the man reached his right arm in front of his chest, across his shoulder, grabbing her left wrist. Simultaneously, he brought his body down. With the combination of his forward motion and his hard yank, she flipped over his back and onto hers. In that one swift move, she lay flat on the ground, with shocked eyes staring into his. They were cold, peering at her from someplace darkly dangerous.
He’s not sweating. He should be sweating.
He rolled on top of her, painfully pinning her arms down with his knees; his butt firmly on her pelvis. One hand went right for her mouth as she struggled to say, “Let me go!”
Lynn arched up her back, trying to toss him off. But she couldn’t.
He’s going to rape me! Her mind raced. Oh my God! She acted instinctively. Kick him! Lynn tried, but his weight and position locked her down.
It had already gone on three seconds longer than it should have. He had no desire to put the woman through any unnecessary agony. After all, it wasn’t her fault. He knew where she worked, but little more. He didn’t need to. All he had focused on were her habits, her rituals, and whether she carried Secret Service protection. The president’s trip provided the perfect opportunity, although her regular jogging trail along the district’s Rock Creek would have worked as well.
He had studied her as he did all his targets. He never considered them victims, just targets. This one was like most others, a creature of habit. In Washington, mornings were always the same. Out at 7:05. A Starbucks stop. A Metro ride to Union Station. An eleven-minute walk to the White House. Coming home depended upon the day. But he knew from his surveillance she always managed to run if the weather held and it wasn’t too late. He followed her on weekends, noting that she dated rarely. No one special was in her life. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He’d killed husbands and wives without so much as a second thought.
The method of dispatching the woman had been left up to him. She ran. So he’d find her while she was running. If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. He’d been given only one additional instruction, which he would quickly carry out after. First things first.
He had decided that strangulation would be too slow. Slitting her jugular, too messy. A silenced shot to the head, too professional. He would do it like a gang member might in a rape.
In one effortless motion he reached under his sweat suit, pulled out the knife from its Velcro hiding place, and depressed the release. It instantly opened, and without further hesitation, he plunged it through her left breast, pressing through the softness, through her ribs, into her heart. He turned the blade slightly inwards to ensure he would cut across the ventricle, flooding her lungs with blood and killing her at least two ways.