The end of the block, and he turned around.
Damnit, there was someone back there. It wasn’t so much the sound of footsteps as it was a presence. A feeling. The certainty that he wasn’t alone. He knew that feeling well — it had almost driven him around the bend, over there in the jungle, knowing they were in the trees, watching, waiting, fingers on triggers.
“Hey!” he called, glad for the sound of his voice, wishing it didn’t echo so much.
Nothing there.
Yes, there was.
Screw it, he thought, turning with a disgusted wave of his hand; I don’t need the aggravation.
If it was another drunk, he didn’t care; if it was some kid looking for a quick mugging, he didn’t care about that either because he didn’t have anything worth taking.
But by the end of the block he couldn’t help it; he had to look.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
A sudden breeze made him narrow his eyes as it sifted mist against his face, and when he did, he saw something move at the mouth of a narrow alley about thirty feet back.
“Hey, damnit!”
No one answered.
And that pissed him off.
Bad enough the Army had fucked him over, and bad enough he hadn’t been able to leave this damn place and leave the ghosts behind, but he was not about to let some goddamn punk mess with his head.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and marched back, breathing slowly, deeply, letting his anger build by degrees instead of exploding.
“Hey, you son of a bitch!”
No one answered.
Nothing moved.
By the time he reached the alley, he was in full-bore fighting mode, and he stood at the mouth, feet slightly apart, fists on his hips.
“You want to come outta there, buddy?”
A sigh; maybe the breeze, maybe not.
He couldn’t see more than five feet in — three stories of brick on either side, a pair of dented trash cans on the left, scraps of paper on the ground, fluttering weakly as the breeze blew again.
He wasn’t sure, but he thought the alley was a dead end, which meant the sucker wasn’t going anywhere as long as he stood here. The question was, how far was he going to push this thing? How drunk was he?
He took one step in, and heard the breathing.
Slow, measured; someone was trying very hard not to be heard.
This didn’t make sense. If whoever it was had hidden himself back there, Grady would have heard him moving around. Had to. There was too much crap on the ground, too much water. His own single step had sounded like a gunshot.
And the breathing sounded close.
“I ain’t got time for this,” he muttered, and turned.
And saw the arm reach out of the brick wall on his right.
The arm, and the hand with the blade.
He knew what it was; God knows he had used it himself dozens of times.
He also knew how sharp it was.
He almost didn’t feel it sweep across his throat.
And he almost managed to make it to the street before his knees gave out and he fell against the wall, staring at the arm, at the hand, at the bayonet as he slid down, legs stretched out before him.
“Goddamn ghost,” he whispered.
“Not quite,” someone answered. “Not quite, old man.”
That’s when Grady felt the fire around his neck, and the warmth flowing over his chest, and the garbage beneath him, and the fog settling on his face.
That’s when he saw the face of the thing that had killed him.
TWO
The afternoon was pleasantly warm, the sky a sharp and cloudless blue. The sounds of Thursday traffic were muted by the trees carrying their new leaves, although the cherry trees hadn’t yet sprung all their blossoms. The tourists were few at the Jefferson Memorial, mostly older people with cameras around their necks or camcorders in their hands, moving slowly, taking their time. A handful of joggers followed the Tidal Basin rim; two paddle boats glided over the water, seemingly in a clumsy, not very earnest race.
That’s why Fox Mulder preferred this place over the others when he wanted time to think. He could sit undisturbed on the steps, off to one side, without having to listen to terminally bored tour guides chattering like robots, or schoolkids laughing and horsing around, or any of the rest of the circus that Old Abe or the Washington Monument managed to attract.
His dark blue suit jacket was folded on the marble step beside him. His tie was pulled, down and his collar unbuttoned. He looked much younger than his years, his face as yet unlined, his brown hair unruly in the light breeze that slipped over the water. Those who bothered to look in his direction figured, he supposed, that he was some kind of academic.
That was all right with him.
His sandwich was almost done, a plastic cup of soda just about empty, when he saw a tall man in a dark brown suit moving around the edge of the Basin, staring at those he passed as if expecting to discover someone he knew. Mulder looked quickly from side to side, but there was no way he could duck around the building or into the trees without being seen.
“Hey!” the man called, catching sight of him and waving.
Mulder smiled politely, but he didn’t stand.
This was not what he needed on a great day like this. What he needed was his sandwich, his soda — although he’d prefer a cold beer in a bottle, preferably sitting in a booth at Ripley’s, in Alexandria — and maybe that short brunette over there, taking slow tight circles on a pair of in-line skates, earphones attached to a Walkman at her waist. He supposed maintaining balance was a lot like being on ice skates; it seemed to be the same principle. Not that he was all that good when roller skates had wheels at the corners, spending, as he had done, more time on his rump than attaining great speeds.
The skater shifted suddenly, and he blinked, realizing for the first time how tan she was, and how snug her red satin shorts and red T-shirt were.
Then a shadow blocked his view.
It was the redhead.
“Mulder,” the man said, standing two steps below him, grinning like an idiot, “where the hell have you been?”
“Right here, Hank.”
Special Agent Hank Webber stared over Mulder’s head at the daylit figure of Thomas Jefferson standing tall beneath the dome. A puzzled frown came and went. “Never did see this place, you know what I mean?” He shook his head, scratched through his dark red hair. “What do you want to come to a place like this for?”
Mulder shrugged. “It’s nice. It’s quiet.” He deepened his voice. “It’s not the office.”
Webber didn’t take the hint. “So, did you hear what came in?”
Mulder just looked at him.
“Oh.” The younger man grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Of course you wouldn’t hear. You were here.”
“Hank, your powers of deduction have never failed to give me a shiver.” He smiled when the younger man sputtered, telling him with a gesture that it was only a stupid joke. Hank was a good man, but there were times when Mulder thought him dense as a post. “Hear what?”
“Helevito.”
He sat up slowly, lunch momentarily forgotten. “What about him?”
“They got him.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh, cheer, shock the kid with a victory dance, or play it the Bureau way by simply nodding, as if the outcome of a three-month manhunt for a kidnapper had never been in doubt, especially since the kidnapped child had already been recovered safely. What he decided to do was take another bite of his sandwich.
Webber hooked a thumb in his belt. “Yep. Not two hours ago. You figured it right, Mulder. They staked out his cousin’s place in Biloxi, and sure enough, he comes strolling in this morning all by his lonesome. Spent most of the night on one of those new riverboats, pissing away half the ransom money at roulette. Most of the rest evidently went to some blonde.” He laughed and shook his head. “I heard the first thing he said was, ‘I knew I should’ve played thirty-six and red.’”