Dawkins was also, after Purdy, the best creeper Butler had. Despite his six-foot-six frame and the two hundred and eighty pounds of muscle packed onto it, Big DD was surprisingly quiet when he moved.
Purdy pushed the door open and entered with Dawkins following, both of them peering through infrared monoculars. Butler put his to his right eye, drew his .45, held it in his left hand, and went inside, with Cortland and Vincente covering their six.
They crossed through a great room, kitchen on the right, and went down the hallway to a staircase. Purdy began climbing it, gun held before her, green tritium sight glowing. Dawkins was right on her heels, shotgun at port arms, with Butler bringing up the rear. Upstairs, they took positions flanking the doors to the master suite. Purdy lowered and stowed her monocular.
Butler kept his infrared optic up, along with the .45. He nodded at the burglar; she ever so slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Butler could see the target sleeping, glowing there on the king bed, not ten feet in front of him. He followed Purdy inside, and Big DD went to the main light switch.
Butler aimed at the center of the sleeping man’s mass. “Your show, Purds.”
“Go,” Purdy said.
Butler lowered the monocular, squinted. The lights came on.
The man on the bed stopped breathing, then erupted like a snake in full strike, hurling himself to his right and off the side of the bed, buck naked. He was Caucasian and almost as big as Dawkins.
“Going for his gun,” Butler said.
“Got him,” Purdy said, leaping onto the bed and aiming her gun at the naked guy on the floor frantically trying to open his pistol vault.
The vault opened. She fired.
The air gun drove a drug dart into the man’s upper back; Dawkins leaped over the bed and pinned the man’s arm to the carpet with one massive foot, his head to the floor with the shotgun muzzle.
“Don’t move, Special Agent White,” Big DD growled. “You’ll feel better in ten seconds or so.”
“Who sent you?” White said, the drug starting to hit him. “What do you want?”
“The truth, Agent White,” Butler said. “The truth will set you free.”
Chapter 13
Washington, DC
My youngest child, Ali, was toying with his breakfast at our kitchen counter. I’d gotten up to make pancakes and sausage links, special for him. He usually wolfed them down with maple syrup.
“Thinking about camp?” I asked.
Ali didn’t reply. I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. He startled and spun around, wide-eyed.
“Gosh, Dad!” he cried. “Why’d you do that? You scared me!”
“Sorry,” I said, holding up my palms. “I asked if you were thinking about camp. And you didn’t answer me.”
“Oh,” he said. “I... I was just thinking about stuff.”
I was about to ask what stuff when Jannie came into the kitchen, looked at Ali’s plate, and said, “Where’s Nana Mama?”
“Sleeping in. I’m short-order cook this morning.”
“Can I have more protein with the pancakes? Eggs?”
“Coming right up,” I said. “Two? Scrambled?”
“Yes, please,” she said and rummaged in a kitchen drawer for the remote.
Ali took a few bites of his pancakes, then began to eat in earnest while I cracked Jannie’s eggs and she turned on the local news. I was whisking them when the weather forecast ended.
Joanne Weld, the anchor, said, “Our own Bob Dickerson has more on last week’s attempted arson at Maury Elementary School in Southeast. Bob?”
Ali looked up and stared at the screen, which cut to a bald man in his forties standing outside a schoolyard and nodding seriously at the camera.
“Joanne, it turns out that police, fire investigators, and DC educational authorities believe the arson was the work of the same hooded figure who vandalized three other elementary schools in Southeast — Brent, Ludlow-Taylor, and Ketcham — over the past few months.”
The reporter gestured to a burned structure visible behind him. “Security cams at Maury caught the arsonist on the way to splash gas over a temporary classroom annex built at the back of the school last year. The annex, which was constructed of wood rather than brick, housed four classrooms, and the entire structure was lost in the blaze.”
The shot jumped to a still from security video that showed a slight, bent-over person wearing dark clothes, a camo hood, and a face mask and carrying a gas can.
In a voice-over, Dickerson said, “The same individual has shown up on several security cameras. Still, authorities say they have not been able to identify the suspect and are asking for the public’s help in finding this person before another school in Southeast is vandalized or burned or both.”
Jannie said, “Ali, was your school vandalized?”
My young son stopped staring at the screen and looked at his sister. “Not that I know of. I mean, it gets tagged sometimes, but they clean it off. Hey, Dad?”
I looked up from the frying pan. “Ali?”
“How come he didn’t say what kind of vandalism it was at the other schools?”
“Not enough time, probably. And they figured the arson was worse than the vandalism.”
“Oh,” he said, returning to his breakfast while I spooned Jannie’s eggs onto her plate.
“Five minutes, Ali?”
He chewed and swallowed. “You don’t have to take me, Dad. I know the way.”
“I like taking you,” I said. “It’s more for me than you.”
Ali shrugged and quietly went back to eating. And he stayed quiet even as he put his plate and fork in the dishwasher and retrieved his knapsack.
“You got everything for swimming? Soccer?”
He nodded with little enthusiasm. “Everything they said I needed.”
“You were the one who asked to go to sports camp,” I reminded him. “And now you sound like you’d rather go lie on a bed of nails.”
“No,” he said, forcing a smile. “I really do want to go. It’ll be fun.”
“You said a lot of your friends will be there,” Jannie said.
“That’s true. Can we go now, Dad?”
I followed my boy outside and up the sidewalk in silence. It was hot but relatively dry for late June, a rare blessing in Washington, DC, and I was regretting not going for an early run as we walked toward the parking lot where the camp bus would pick up Ali and other kids from the neighborhood.
“Dad?” Ali said as the parking lot came in sight. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“When you investigate, you put together a timeline, right?”
“Usually. Especially if there’s a team of detectives involved, because you want everyone on the same page, acting on the same shared set of proven facts. That’s how investigations are run and how mysteries are solved.”
“But you look for the things that are in common, right? I mean, like, if the vandalism was the same kind of vandalism?”
“Sure,” I said. “And you try to keep track of what’s different.”
He nodded and fell quiet. Ali’s mind had always whirled with obsessions. He found something he was interested in and then learned everything he could about it until his attention waned and a new, more powerful curiosity took over.
I had the feeling he was becoming obsessed with the arsonist and vandal who was targeting elementary schools in Southeast.
Ali stayed quiet until we reached the lot and he saw several of his buddies already there, talking and laughing. Then he brightened, hugged me goodbye, and ran over to them, his cares gone, one of the jokers again. I watched them horse around for several moments, knowing that these times were precious and that I needed to remember Ali like this, at this age. He would not always be my baby boy, my—