Double Cross

reminded him.
    He picked something up from the sidewalk, one of the items he had brought with him for the show—a twenty-five-watt bullhorn with about a thousand-yard range.
    He pointed it at the crowd. A few of the jackasses down there
ducked
.
    “I’m baaa-acck!”
he announced.
“Did you miss me? Of course you did.”
    Several motorists who weren’t already out of their cars got out now. A woman with a bloody forehead looked up at him in a daze.
    “And you thought this was going to be an ordinary day, didn’t you? Guess again, folks. Today is real special, one you’ll never forget. You’ll tell your grandchildren—that is, if this messed-up world of ours lasts that long. Hey, speaking of the world lasting, how many of you voted for Al Gore?”
    He set down the bullhorn and took something out of his pocket, something that glared in the sunlight. Then he hunched over the girl, shielding her from view. A moment later, he stood again—with the girl in his arms.
    “Here she is! Let’s hear it for our little star, Lydia Ramirez.” Then, smiling broadly, he casually flipped her over the edge of the overpass. Just like that, like nothing.
    The girl’s legs and feet flew up into the air ahead of the rest of her. Then a metallic ringing sang out as the handcuff spun on the rail and caught hold. The audience gasped.
    The girl crashed back against the bridge, her feet dangling directly over the highway.
    “Fake out!” David Hayneswiggle said into the bullhorn. “Look closely now. At
her
, please. Not at me. I told you, she’s our star today. Pretend I’m not even here. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Look at her!”
    As the audience stared, a dark curved line appeared on the girl’s exposed throat. Then it became a sheet of red that ran down her neck and over her T-shirt. The people down below were finally beginning to realize what had happened—her throat had been cut.
    Then she was still, other than the slightest rhythmic sway of her body.
    “Okay, she’s gone. Show’s over. For today, anyway. Thank you all for coming. Thank you so much. Drive safely.”
    People started honking their horns, and there was angry screaming. A police siren finally sounded from some-where, but it was far off, unable to get through the backed-up traffic.
    David Hayneswiggle started to run in a funny duck waddle. He bobbed around the hairpin turn at the far end of the ramp and disappeared into the bushes.
    He knew that it didn’t matter how many people saw which way he went. Hell, let them search for him all they liked.
    Who were they going to look for, anyway—Richard Nixon?

Chapter 44

    THIS WAS AS SAD and disturbing a homicide scene as I’d ever worked in my years with Metro or the FBI. Two young people were dead, and the murders seemed arbitrary and just plain cruel. The kids were definitely innocents in whatever was going on here.
    The G.W. Parkway had been rerouted, but not without stranding at least a mile-long queue of cars still backed up on the roadway. They were now waiting for a flipped minivan to be cleared away by the police. That required a sign-off from Bree, who needed the medical examiner to finish with the two bodies. She had established Metro’s jurisdiction here, but not without a heavy dose of animosity from the Arlington County Police Department, which didn’t bother Bree in the least.
    Helicopters flew overhead every few minutes, police and media, the latter always coming too close for comfort. I saw them as Peeping Toms with a license to look and to shoot film.
    The crowd, many of whom had witnessed the actual murders, was a strange mixture of angry-aggressive and scared silly. They were a captive audience, though. We needed to identify some of them as our witnesses, then try to get everyone else moving again. The title of an old Broadway show popped into my head:
Stop the World—I Want to Get Off
. I really did.
    The Virginia Highway Department was there in numbers, the state police too, and they were showing their impatience and ire with body language, if nothing else. Bree, Sampson, and I had divided our part of the workload as best we could. Bree was on the immediate crime scene, checking out all the physical evidence. Sampson had the killer’s entry and exit from the scene, which had created a huge extended perimeter from the Potomac all the way into Rosslyn, Virginia. He had a team of Arlington cops working with him on-site.
    My focus was on the killer and his mind-set at the