Cross

traffic was limited to those entering and leaving their homes. Good deal for his purposes today. He had on earphones and was listening to a band from Scotland that he liked, Franz Ferdinand. Finally, though, he turned off the music and got serious.
    At the redbrick home on the corner of Thirty-first and Q, some kind of elaborate dinner party was apparently being prepped for that evening. Assorted overpriced goodies were being transported from a stretch van marked “Georgetown Valet,” and the faux gas lamps in front of the house were being tested by the yardmen. The lights seemed to work just fine.
Twinkle, twinkle.
    Then the Butcher heard the
click-clack
of a woman’s high heels. The inviting, even intoxicating sound came from up ahead of him on the sidewalk, which was brick rather than pavement and wound through the neighborhood like a necklace laid out flat on a table.
    Finally, he saw the woman from behind—a fine, shapely thing, with long black hair hanging halfway to her waist. An Irisher like himself? A pretty lassie? No way to tell for certain from the back view. But the chase was on. Soon he’d know as much as he wanted to about her. He felt he was already in control of her fate, that she belonged to him, to the Butcher, his powerful alter ego, or perhaps the
real
him. Who could say?
    He was getting closer and closer to the raven-haired woman, checking out the narrow alleyways that ran behind some of the larger houses, the patches of woods, looking for a good spot—when he saw a store up ahead. What was this? The only place of business he’d encountered for blocks. It almost seemed misplaced in the neighborhood.
    S ARAH ’ S M ARKET , said the sign out front.
    And then the dark-haired beauty turned inside. “Curses—foiled,” the Butcher whispered, and grinned and imagined twisting a villain’s mustache. He loved this kind of game, this dangerous and provocative cat-and-mouse sort of thing in which he made up all the rules. But his smile instantly faded away—because he saw something else at this Sarah’s Market, and that something else was not to his liking.
    Newspapers were on display—copies of the
Washington Post.
And you know what? He suddenly remembered that Mr. Bob Woodward himself lived somewhere in the area—but that wasn’t the sticky part.
    His
face
was the problem, an approximation anyhow, a line drawing of the Butcher that wasn’t half-bad. It was situated above the fold of the daily news, right where it shouldn’t be.
    “My God, I’m famous.”

Chapter 80
    THIS WAS NO LAUGHING MATTER, though, and Michael Sullivan quickly made his way back to where he’d parked on Q Street. Actually, what had happened was just about the worst development he could imagine. Nothing much seemed to be going his way lately.
    He sat and calmly pondered the unfortunate situation in the front seat of his Cadillac.
    He thought about the likely “suspects,” about the woman who must have told tales out of school about him. Possibly given the police a description. He considered that he was being attacked from a couple of sides at once, by the Washington police and the Mafia.
What to do, what to do?
    When a partial solution came, it was satisfying and even exhilarating, because it felt like a new game to him. Another twist of the dial.
    The DC police thought that they knew what he looked like, which could be serious trouble but might also make them sloppy and even overconfident.
    Mistake.
    Theirs.
    Especially if he made the proper countermoves right now, which he definitely planned to do. But what, exactly, were those defensive actions he needed to take?
    The first step took him to Wisconsin Avenue, near Blues Alley—right where he remembered the small shop to be. A barber named Rudy had a chair open for him in midafternoon, so Sullivan settled in for a haircut and shave.
    It was relaxing and mildly enjoyable actually, wondering what he’d look like afterward, whether he’d like the new him.
    Another ten to twelve minutes and the deed was done.
Take off the bandages, Dr. Frankenstein.
The smallish, rotund barber seemed pleased with himself.
    If you messed up, you’re dead. I’m not kidding, Rudy,
the Butcher thought to himself.
I’ll cut you to ribbons with your own straight razor. See what the
Washington Post
has to say about that!
    But, hey! “Not so bad. I sort of like it. Think I look a little like Bono.”
    “Sonny and Cher—that Bono?” asked Rudy the Dense. “I don’t know about