Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

during dove and quail season. The problem with that theory was that both seasons were still several months away.
    Danny looked to the heavens. Was it a sign? A test? A way to make him stop his awful plan? Then he looked down, trying to gaze past the earth and into hell. Could it be an early birthday gift from dear old Dad? Make the cop, the Texas Ranger, inside Danny take over and save his son’s life?
    Danny considered this new option. If criminals were using the monastery as a hideout and he got killed raiding it, he would die an honorable death. He would be, as Jon Bon Jovi had so eloquently put it, shot down in a blaze of glory. If harmless American businessmen were there, maybe they could help convince Danny that his life was worth the trouble of living. A win-win situation if there ever was one, he thought.
    Danny walked back inside the cabin and decided that, for now, he wouldn’t take his own life. He would let fate decide.
    While he took the next five minutes deciding on what weapons to take along, Danny couldn’t keep his eyes off the spot in the kitchen where his father had committed suicide. Without even closing his eyes, he visualized every centimeter of the crime scene photos that he was never supposed to see. He concentrated on the empty bottle of Old Grandad whiskey lying on the floor next to a lake of his father’s blood. Although he craved another shot of Jim Beam or several to temporarily lasso his unruly mind, he didn’t want anyone to think that he had gone out like his old man.
    Though his brain wouldn’t let go of the image of his father’s dead body, Danny was able to see beyond it as he headed out the door. He concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other, as he walked into the wilderness toward his destiny.

Chapter 7
    Evan Pruitt left his apartment building at eight o’clock this morning like he had every weekday morning for the past two months. The rationale was simple. Performing tasks that are second nature reinforces confidence. Confidence breeds success. So, Evan Pruitt got up at seven in his drafty one-bedroom apartment in Crystal City. Like every morning, he dressed in a suit, tie, overcoat, and gloves. The black leather briefcase that hung from his right shoulder carried the same forged think tank documents inside the same manila file folders. In his right hand, Evan clutched this morning’s copy of the Washington Post , which was delivered in the hallway outside his front door. He balled his other hand into a fist and then slowly released the pressure, feeling the glove around his fingers. The weather was beginning to warm in the afternoons, which bothered Evan. But his luck held out. It was still cold enough in the mornings that wearing gloves wouldn’t seem strange.
    Evan gazed at the empty basketball court in Virginia Highlands Park on the corner of 15th and Hayes streets. Past the court was an open field where he would see the pee-wee football practices on his return this afternoon. Evan crossed 15th Street and joined the flow of commuters shuffling toward the escalators that would carry them to the Metro platform beneath the street. From the corner of his eye, he scanned the faces of these people and imagined what they would soon be telling their coworkers about their close call with catastrophe.
    I was just on those very same tracks! That could have been me!
    Evan opened his wallet and fingered the Metro card he had paid for in cash. He inserted it into the reader, glided through the open gates, and retrieved the card on the other side. As he walked toward another escalator that would ferry him to the boarding platform, he inspected the dwindling balance recorded on the card. A mere $9.65 remained.
    He edged past the other rush-hour subway riders and headed toward the front of the platform. As he waited for the blue-line train that would take him into the heart of D.C., Evan Pruitt nonchalantly thumbed through the wallet that was given to him three months ago. He looked at his fake business cards that were linked to the real think tank, credit cards with real limits, and even a real Virginia driver’s license with holograms embedded in the lamination. The name Evan Pruitt was plastered on everything.
    But Evan Pruitt was not his real name.
    -
    The train operator’s familiar baritone rolled over the rustled silence that was the unwritten rule of the Metro during rush hour.
    “L-L-L-L-L’Enfant Plaza next stop. Transfer station for orange, yellow,