Double Cross

guy.”
    Then Bree’s cell went off. She listened, and her face couldn’t have been any more grim.
    Finally she looked at the two of us. “Well, he’s struck again. There’s been another murder.”

Chapter 46

    THEY WEREN’T GOING TO KNOW what hit them this time.
The killer had arrived at FedExField in Landover, Maryland, about two hours before kickoff for the first football game of the season. He grabbed a soda and a hot dog, then browsed the Hall of Fame Store, not really interested in buying—he wasn’t a Redskins fan, not his hometown—but he wanted to blend in with the rest of the sports crowd.
    For a while, anyway.
    And then—he wanted to stand out. Really stand out. Make his bones. Play his role
in the fourth story
.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some of the football players warming up—kickers booming high, long punts and making field-goal attempts. It was going to be another sellout crowd—there had never been a Redskins home game that wasn’t. There was about a thirty-year waiting list for season tickets.
    And, man, did he love sellout crowds for his stories.
    Some particularly high-spirited fans, the Hogettes, were singing “Hail to the Redskins” slightly off-key and with off-color lyrics liberally sprinkled in, which seemed weird since there were lots of kids in the crowd. The so-called superfans wore bright-colored wigs and polka-dot blouses and plastic hog snouts. Some of them were smoking extra-long cigars, which enhanced their piggy image.
    He hadn’t gone quite that far with his outfit, but he was wearing a Redskins cap and jersey, and he had his face painted red and white, the home team’s colors. His persona was that of a disgruntled fan named Al Jablonski. A good, solid role to play.
    Ninety-one thousand fans packed the stadium, all waiting for Al Jablonski. They just didn’t know it yet.
    Close to game time, the First Ladies of football scampered onto the Technicolor-green field—masses of flying hair and pom-poms, skimpy red halter tops and white short shorts.
Family entertainment at its most all-American
, the killer couldn’t help thinking.
    “Are you ready for some
foot-ball
?” he shouted from the stands. “Some foos-ball!” A few fans around him joined in or laughed at the familiar line from the
Monday Night Football
TV show. Al Jablonski knew his audience, and his game.
    The control booth for the stadium scoreboard was located underneath the huge sign. He knew the way and arrived there in time for the national anthem to be sung by a soprano marine from the base down in Quantico.
    Al Jablonski knocked on the metal door, said, “Couple of messages from Mr. Snyder’s office. Vanessa sent these down.” Vanessa was actually the name of one of the owner’s assistants. Easy enough to find out.
    The door opened. There were two guys inside—stat geeks, from the looks of them, real antiques. “Hi, I’m Al Jablonski.” He shot them both, and the sound of the gun was completely lost under loud cheering from the crowd as the national anthem ended. Sort of took away his thunder.
    So he sat at the geeks’ computer and put a message up on the big stadium screen for all to see.

    I’M BACK! AND I JUST WANTED TO MAKE THIS SUNDAY A REAL KILLER FOR EVERYBODY.
    THE GUYS WHO USUALLY SEND OUT THESE ANNOYING MESSAGES AND PLUGS ARE DEAD INSIDE THE CONTROL BOOTH. SO ENJOY THE GAME WITHOUT ANY FURTHER INTERRUPTIONS FROM MANAGEMENT OR CORPORATE SPONSORS. PLEASE WATCH YOUR BACKS, AND YOUR FRONTS TOO. I’M IN THE BUILDING, AND I COULD BE ANYWHERE, AND ANYONE.
    THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN FOOTBALL, DON’T YOU THINK? GO, SKINS!

Chapter 47

    KYLE CRAIG HAD JUST HEARD the latest good news from Washington, DC, when his mother slowly opened the twelve-foot-high front door of the vacation house near Snowmass outside Aspen. When she saw who it was, the old woman fainted like somebody had hit her “off” switch.
    Kyle managed to catch dear old Mom before she struck the stonework floor, and he smiled to himself.
It was good to be home again, wasn’t it
?
    Moments later, he was reviving the old woman in the cavernous kitchen of the twelve-thousand-square-foot house. “Are you okay? Miriam? Mother?”
    “William?” she groaned when she looked up at the face staring down at her. “Is that William?”
    “Now how could that possibly be?” Kyle asked, and he frowned deeply. “For once, just once, use the intelligence that you were given, that you
must
have been given. Your