Double Cross

view of the cars passing below.
    The girl was still alive. One of her small hands was in her lap; the other hung limply overhead, where she was cuffed to the bridge’s railing. A line of sweat beads showed on her upper lip, just above the duct tape that was wrapped all the way around her mouth and head.
    David Hayneswiggle looked down at the girl, who was all bug-eyed and shaking like an addict. “How you doing? You still with me?” he asked.
    She either ignored him or didn’t hear what he’d said.
It doesn’t matter what the girl thinks, or how she acts
, David Hayneswiggle thought to himself. Once again, he watched the traffic down below on the George Washington, gauging for speed and distance, and just the right moment. The third story was going to be something else.
    Whenever some total jackass honked at him, he held up the double peace sign. “I am not a crook,” he said in his best croaky Nixon voice. He identified so much with Nixon, another loser with a chip on his shoulder.
    When he had seen enough, had memorized the scene for future reference, he knelt down next to the girl. She scrambled, moving away maybe a foot, all that she could manage on account of the handcuffs attached to the railing.
    “Save your strength,” he said. “You’re safe, right? As long as you’re cuffed to the rail. Think about it. Everything is cool.”
    He squiggled his arms under the boy’s body, then strained to get himself into a half-kneeling position. The kid couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds, but it seemed like a ton.
Deadweight
, no joke.
    David Hayneswiggle flexed his leg muscles, keeping them ready as he eyed the highway from a squatting position. He saw his target. A white Toyota minivan had come into view about a quarter mile away. There were no trucks allowed on the parkway, so a Hummer, or something like the minivan, was as big as he was going to find. The van stuck to its lane, possibly hemmed in by other cars.
    He scootched over to the right a bit, lining himself up as best he could.
    When the van was about a hundred yards off, he secured his grip on the boy.
    At fifty yards, he rose. In one powerful motion, he came to his full height. And then he chucked the body over the rail, watching it tumble like a heavy sack. It hit the minivan’s hood and windshield with a smash of glass, followed by a fast squealing of tires.
Holy shit
!
    The van swerved and skidded underneath the narrow bridge and back out the other side—then it tipped over. Steel groaned against concrete, and two more crashes sounded from behind the minivan as other daydreaming drivers failed to stop in time.
    Traffic was backed up almost instantly.
    The northbound parkway would soon be the northbound parking lot; southbound cars would be stopped too, as the rubbernecking set in.
    He had their attention now.
    Finally someone was noticing David Hayneswiggle.
    Hell, it was about time.

Chapter 43

    DAVID HAYNESWIGGLE addressed the girl now, and he had to speak loudly over the thrum of traffic still headed south on the parkway. He actually had to shout to be heard. “Ready? Are you ready? Hey, I’m talking to you. Don’t act like I’m not here!”
    The girl’s boot heels scraped concrete as she tried to get farther away from him—from this madman who had already killed her boyfriend. The handcuff on her wrist cut deeply into her skin, but the pain didn’t seem to matter. She was focused only on getting away from the weirdo in the Richard Nixon mask, that being him.
    She was pretty enough, in a suburban-cheerleader kind of way. Lydia Ramirez, according to her driver’s permit. Seventeen years old, but he took no pity on her. Adolescents were the most wretched humans of all. “Okay, now don’t move. I’ll be right back for you. Hold that deer-in-the-headlights look.”
    Hayneswiggle stood up again and checked out the scene below. The audience was assembled, and they seemed impatient for the show to continue. The highway was complete chaos now. Northbound traffic was already backed up along the Potomac.
    The tipped van at the head of the line ensured that nearly all the stopped cars were on the south side of the walkway, facing him. A smashed Volvo directly below let out a hissing cloud of steam. A few of the onlookers were yelling up at him, but he couldn’t tell what the hell they were saying. Probably just pissed because they’d been inconvenienced.
Well, screw them
.
    “Can’t hear you!” he shouted back. And that