Sara was the past, and the past didn’t matter. The past didn’t exist, except as a lesson for the future. Sara was gone. He did think about poor Sara as he ate at the Country Cupboard near the Talleyville exit on the turnpike. It was important to grieve. For Jill, not for President Byrnes. She was worth a dozen Thomas Byrneses. She had done a good job, a nearly perfect job, even if she had been used right from the start. And Sara Rosen had definitely been used. She had been his eyes and ears inside the White House. She had been his mistress. Poor Monkey Face.
As he approached Washington about seven that night, he made a vow: he wouldn’t sentimentalize about Sara again. He knew he could do that. He could control his own thoughts. He was better than Kevin Hawkins, who had been a very good soldier indeed.
He had been Jack.
But he was no longer Jack.
Jack no longer existed.
He was no longer Sam Harrison, either. Sam Harrison had been a facade, a necessary safeguard, a part of the complex plan. Sam Harrison no longer existed.
Now his life could be simple and mostly good again. He was almost home. He had completed his Mission: Impossible, and it was a success. Everything had gone almost perfectly.
Then he was home, pulling into the familiar rounded driveway that was filled with colorful seashells and tiny pebbles and a few children’s toys.
He saw his little girl come running out of the house, her blond hair streaming. He saw his wife close behind her, also running. Tears rolled down her cheeks and down his own. He wasn’t afraid to cry. He wasn’t afraid of anything anymore.
Jesus God, mercy, the war was finally ended. The enemy, the evil one, was dead. The good guys had won, and the most precious way of life on earth was safe for a little while longer—for the lives of his children, anyway.
No one would ever know how and why it had happened, or who was really responsible.
Just as it had been with JFK in Dallas.
And RFK in Los Angeles.
And Watergate and Whitewater and most every other significant event in our recent history. In truth, our history was not knowing; it was being carefully shielded from the truth. That was the American way.
“I love you so much,” his wife whispered breathlessly against the side of his face. “You are my hero. You did such a good, brave thing.”
He believed it, too. He knew it deep within his heart.
He wasn’t Jack anymore. Jack no longer existed.
CHAPTER
93
IT WASN’T OVER!
At a little past noon, the Secret Service received news from the NYPD of another homicide. They had strong reason to believe it was related to the shooting of President Byrnes.
Jay Grayer and I rushed to the Peninsula Hotel, which is just off Fifth Avenue in midtown. We were completely numb from the horror of the morning and still couldn’t believe the President had been shot. Even so, we had all the details of the latest murder. A chambermaid at the hotel had discovered a body in a suite on the twelfth floor. There was also a poem from Jack and Jill in the room. A final poem?
“What is the NYPD saying?” I asked Jay during the ride uptown. “What are the details?”
“According to the initial report, the dead woman might be Jill. Jill could have been murdered—or maybe she committed suicide. They’re reasonably certain the note is authentic.”
The mysteries inside horrific mysteries continued. Was this death part of the Jack and Jill scheme, too? I thought that probably it was, and that there were even more layers to unravel—layers upon layers—before getting to the core of the horror.
Grayer and I emerged from a gold-plated elevator onto the crime-scene floor. New York police were everywhere. I saw emergency medics, SWAT team members in helmets with Plexiglas face masks, uniforms, homicide detectives. The scene was instant bedlam. I was worried about evidence contamination, leaks to the press.
“The President?” one of the New York detectives asked us as we arrived. “Any word? Any hope?”
“He’s still hanging in there. Sure, there’s hope,” Jay Grayer said; then we moved on, away from the cluster of detectives.
At least a dozen New York police and FBI agents were crowded into the hotel suite. The ominous sounds of police sirens rose from the streets below. Church bells pealed loudly, probably at nearby St. Patrick’s Cathedral, just south on Fifth Avenue.
A blond woman’s body lay on the plush gray carpet next to an unmade double bed. Her face, neck, and chest were covered with blood. She was wearing a silver-and-blue jogging suit.