Cooper didn’t want to answer directly but she knew Harry would see through any evasion. “It very well may be, which means keep out, Harry. Those people are highly intelligent and ruthless.”
“Do they get paid a lot?”
“Yes. Most do, and they take pride in their work.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine being proud of killing people.”
“It’s not so out there. What if a killer is a rampant ideologue? Like the Bolsheviks in Russia. They had mass-starvation campaigns, killing millions who they believed would impede the revolution. These are people who kill because they believe that killing will solve the problem, make a better world. Or create more profit—not exactly a better world, but better for whoever’s paying them. Ideologues are worse than profiteers.”
“The Thirty Years’ War.” Harry remembered her history.
“Isis. That kind of thinking will never go away. It might be able to be contained but it will be with us because it’s so simple. Here’s the equation: I will kill all my enemies and then I’ll be safe.”
“Doublethink,” Harry murmured. “But do you think this is the work of such a person?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“We’d have hints by now. Earlier run-ins. An ideological killer often has to brag or shows signs of the quality through writing, Facebook, that stuff. Nothing like that here.”
“You’re right, but is it possible something triggered the response?”
“Something did, but I don’t think it’s ideology.”
“CYA? Someone needs to cover their ass or that of the person paying the bill?”
“Yes. This is too clean. Know what I mean?”
“But there has to be a trigger.” Harry was adamant.
There was, underfoot, part of their lives every day. They didn’t know it, never looked for it, had no special interest in it.
36
May 5, 1787
Saturday
The poor whites and free blacks made up a third row. Anticipation of the competition was high.
Maureen and Jeffrey, arm in arm, walked along the front row, nodding and chatting as they displayed themselves.
The maroon coach-in-four with the gold pinstripes that Jeffrey built for his wife was also on display. Some men even knelt down to investigate the axles. DoRe, reins relaxed, sat in his driving seat, the best seat for the races, he was sure. Barker O. felt the same way as he observed the large crowd from the height of Ewing’s coach-in-four. Rachel and Charles attended in their older open two-seater; Charles drove but Rachel would drive for spells. She quite liked it. All the Cloverfields’ coaches gleamed navy with mustard pinstripes enlivened by a tiny shamrock in the center of each door. Ewing shied away from brash display.
Many others did not, most especially Georgina and her girls. Pinks, mint greens, aqua silks fit her ladies to show them at their best, and their best, cleavage to the max, was prominently visible. The ladies of quality, high born or low, refused to even glance at the tarts, as they thought of them. The men suffered little restraint, all eyes mostly on Deborah. Naturally, Georgina’s girls couldn’t mix with the other people, so they stayed together, behaving like the ladies they dreamed of becoming. Mignon and Eudes, fearing trouble, did not attend. The chances of someone identifying Mignon as an escaped slave from Maureen’s Big Rawly might be slim, but Eudes wouldn’t risk it. As spirits were freely flowing, common at any large event, someone could shoot off their mouth without thinking.
Catherine and John, back at the area for the horses, away from the commotion, paid no attention to the social whirl. Jeddie, tight breeches, high boots, and a navy silk shirt, a navy cap with a mustard button in the middle, fidgeted on a tack trunk. John sat with him as Catherine rested in a campaign chair. Ralston and Tulli sat with Reynaldo, already fascinated with the activity. Reynaldo had never seen this many people, smelled the foods, the liquor, the other horses—some nervous, which, of course, he could smell. Catherine tried to relax. If they needed an extra hand, a strong man, Barker O. could be brought back.
“Got the sweats?” Tulli unhelpfully asked from his seat by the 16.2-hand horse.
“No,” Jeddie called back in irritation.
“Bettina made sweet tea,” Catherine offered.
“I don’t trust my stomach,” he replied.
“Smart man. I never trusted mine before a battle.” John rarely recalled his time in the war. “You’d think once the fighting started you’d be scared, but that’s when I would settle down.”
Catherine looked at her handsome husband. “You were in your element, darling.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He grinned.
A roar diverted their attention. The first race was off.
Tulli jumped out of his seat, which brought a snort and a step backward from Reynaldo.
“Dammit, Tulli, you’re supposed to keep him quiet,” Jeddie cursed.
“Tulli, come here,” John ordered.
The little fellow, chastened, walked over to John, who stood up, put his hands under Tulli’s armpits, held him up over his head. If anyone around them had a notion to shine on Catherine, that display of raw power dissuaded them.