A world-class traitor.
A real heartless bastard, too.
He is just about the perfect American killer, I thought as I watched him in command of his obedient troop of children and pets. He was a near-perfect assassin. He was a daddy, husband, clean-cut as could be. He looked absolutely beyond suspicion. He even had alibis, though none of them would hold up because of the film footage of his shooting Senator Fitzpatrick. A Jackal for our age, for our country, for our naive and very dangerous way of life.
I wondered if he had watched the President’s burial ceremony on TV, or maybe even attended it, as I had.
“He’s just a devil-may-care fucker, isn’t he?” Jay Grayer said. He was sitting beside me in the front seat of the unmarked car. I hadn’t heard Jay Grayer curse much before today. He wanted to take down Jack real bad, real hard.
That’s what we were going to do. This was going to be a famous morning for all of us.
r /> It was all about to go down.
“Get ready to follow Jack,” Grayer spoke into a handheld mike in our car. “You lose him, anybody, and you can just keep going. In whatever direction you’re headed.”
“We won’t lose him. I don’t think he’ll even run,” I said. “He’s a homebody, our Jack. He’s a daddy. He has roots in the community.”
What a strange country we lived in. So many murderers. So many monsters. So many decent people for them to prey on.
“I think you’re probably right, Alex. Spot on. I don’t get it yet, I don’t fully understand him, but I think you’re right. We’ve got him nailed. Only what exactly do we have here? What makes Jack run? Why did he do it?”
“Money,” I told him a theory I had about Jack. “Look for the money. It cuts through and simplifies all the other stuff. A little politics, a little cause, and a lot of money. Ideology and financial gain. Hard to beat in this venal day and age.”
“You think so?”
“I think so. Yes. I’d bet a lot on it. He has some strongly held beliefs, and one of them is that he and his family deserve to live well. So, yes, I think money is a part of this. I think he’s probably acquainted with some people with a lot of money and power, but not as much power as they would like to have.”
The Bronco took off and we followed it at a comfortable distance. Jack was a careful driver of his valuable cargo. He must have been impressive to his kids, maybe even to the dogs, undoubtedly to his neighbors.
Jack the Jackal. I wondered if that was another of Sara Rosen’s word games.
I wondered what Jill’s very last thought was when her lover betrayed her in New York. Had she expected it? Had she known he would betray her? Was that why she left the cassette in her apartment?
Jay wanted to talk, maybe he needed to keep his mind busy right now. “He’s taking them to the day school down yonder. His life is back to normal now. Nothing happened to change that. He just planned the murder and helped execute a president. That’s all. No biggie. Life goes on.”
“From what I can gather in his military records, he was a first-class soldier. He left the Army as a full colonel. Honorable discharge. Participated in Desert Storm,” I said to Jay.
“Jack’s a war hero. I’m impressed as hell. I’m so goddamn impressed with this guy that I can’t begin to tell you. Maybe I’ll tell him.”
Jack was a war hero, officially.
Jack was a patriot, unofficially.
As we rode along, I remembered the inscription on the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery. Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God. Somehow, I thought that was how Jack probably thought about himself. A soldier-hero known only to God.
He probably believed he’d gotten away with several murders—in a just war.
Well, he hadn’t. He was about to go down.
He dropped the two children off at the Bayard-Wellington School. It was a beautiful place: fieldstone walls and rolling, frost-slicked lawns; the sort of school I would have loved to send Damon and Jannie to; the kind of school where Christine Johnson ought to teach.
You could move out of D.C., you know, I told myself as I watched Jack kiss each of his children good-bye.
So why don’t you? Why don’t you take Damon and Jannie away from Fifth Street? Why don’t you do what this rotten piece of shit son of a bitch does for his kids?
Jay Grayer spoke into the hand mike again. “He’s leaving the Bayard-Wellington School now. He’s turning back onto the main road. God, it’s pretty out here in Jackville, isn’t it? We’ll take him down at the stoplight up ahead! Just one imperative: we take him alive! We’ll have four cars at the light with him. Four of us to get Jack. We take him alive.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” I said.