A funeral home? Why a funeral home?
“It’s not far,” Riah tells us. “Should be less than ten minutes.”
Charlene suggests we try the Secret Service again, but Riah is against the idea. “Believe me, if law enforcement shows up, the twins will think nothing of slaughtering everyone there. These two are specialists, but they won’t move on the president without me.”
But in the end I decide there’s too much at stake.
I call the Secret Service and tell them the address on River Road, however, just like before, it doesn’t sound like they’re taking me seriously. They insist that I not hang up, but I do. They know as much as we do now and it’s up to them to take action.
I keep the cell on.
Let them track my GPS. We’ll take them right to the twins.
For the president’s visit, the Secret Service had stationed agents throughout the greater Philadelphia area and had two on the north side of the city near the Schuylkill River.
Policy dictated that they follow up on every threat, no matter how preposterous, so the district command center immediately dispatched agents to the funeral home.
President Hoult straightened his suit coat, checked his tie, then looked over the final notes and revisions he’d made to the speech.
His press secretary leaned into the room. “They’re almost ready for you outside, Mr. President.”
“Fine.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“No. How does my hair look?”
“It looks perfect, sir.”
Then she left and President Hoult took a moment to calm himself, as was his custom, before addressing the nation.
Collateral Damage
Special Agents Wendy McAuley and Tyron Harris approached the funeral home’s front door.
It was a routine check, one of dozens they’d been assigned to do in the last two weeks. Yes, you try to take every call seriously, but after a while it’s hard. Especially when 99.99 percent of them turn out to be crank calls.
Just like a paramedic who’s no longer affected by seeing severe trauma, or a homicide detective who gets numb after viewing corpses day after day, Secret Service agents eventually get so used to investigating death threats against the president that it becomes run-of-the-mill.
Agent McAuley gave the door a knock. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Psychic assassins.”
“What are you going to do?” Agent Harris yawned. “So, remember the last time we were in Philly?”
“Cheesesteaks.”
“Get this call over with, go grab some lunch?”
“Geno’s or Pat’s?” McAuley asked him.
“You know I’m a Pat’s fan.”
“No, it’s gotta be Geno’s all the way — with the onions well-done. They’re so much—”
A nondescript man in his late twenties opened the door and greeted them cordially. “Yes?” He wore a name badge that told them he was the funeral director. “May I help you?”
They showed him their Secret Service creds. “We have a few questions for you,” Harris said. “May we come inside?”
“Of course.” The man stepped back, ushered them in. And swung the door shut behind them.
Three Cars
Dr. Colette draws her car to a stop along the side of the road leading past the Faulkner-Kernel Funeral Home.
A hearse, a sedan, and an SUV with shaded windows and government tags are in the cramped parking area. Charlene gestures toward the SUV. “What do you know, the Secret Service beat us here.”
Riah identifies the sedan as that of the twins.
The morning is quiet, just the sound of the river flowing by and a few geese honking as they settle onto a small boat landing just north of us. The sunlight is warm, but the wind funneling down the river valley feels crisp and wintry.
There’s no sign of the twins or the agents.
“So?” Charlene asks. “Plan of attack?”
Riah retrieves the bag of medical instruments she’d brought with her from the research facility. I’m not certain why she brought them along, unless it was somehow to convince the twins she was going to help them after all, to buy time. She turns toward the front door. “I need to talk with them.”
But something’s not right. It’s too quiet. “Hang on.”
“What?”
“If the agents have the twins in custody, why haven’t they brought them back to their car?”
She stops.
The twins got to them already.
“Wait here,” I tell the women. “I’ll go.”
“They’ll be expecting me,” Dr. Colette reiterates. “Even if they’ve done something to the agents, they won’t harm you if you’re with me.”
“She has a good point,” Charlene agrees.
A quick internal debate. “Alright. But I go first.”
I lead the way to the door. When I knock, no one responds. I try the doorknob and find it locked.
“If the twins are expecting you, Riah,” I’m thinking aloud, “why don’t they open the door, and if the agents are safe, they’d answer the door too, wouldn’t they? To see if we might be coconspirators?”
“I’m not sure.”
I stare at the keyed lock. It looks manageable. I don’t have my lock-pick set with me or the belt buckle prong of the belt Banner severed yesterday, but I can use something else.
“Charlene, can I borrow one of your earrings.” She hands it to me and I kneel to work at the lock. “This’ll only take a second.”
The Empty Holster
“Dr. Arlington.”
Cyrus immediately recognized the voice. Akinsanya. His heart almost stopped.
He turned and saw a dark-haired, stocky man close the office door behind him.
“How did you get in here?”
“Your receptionist was kind enough to grant me entrance. I convinced her that I was an old friend. Cyrus, you’ve been compromised.”
“No, I—”
“Those who’ve been compromised”—Akinsanya approached him—“have become liabilities. And you know what I do with those who’ve become liabilities.”
“No.” Cyrus was backing toward the window. “You have to listen to me, there’s nothing to—”
But then Akinsanya was on him, a choke hold to knock him out so the young redheaded receptionist in the next room wouldn’t hear what was going on.
Then Akinsanya began to do to him what he did best, working quickly and proficiently with the needle and thick thread he had brought along. Today he tried something unique, something he’d never done to anyone else before, but he was a creative man and always ready to expand his horizons. Especially when it came to utilizing the items that his immediate environment provided him.
In this case, the contents of two aquariums.
A crowd of more than a thousand people had gathered in Independence Park. At first they were focused on the stage and the much-anticipated arrival of the president, but then a woman and her four children pointed to the top of the Franklin Grand Hotel. “There’s a man!” they cried. “He’s gonna jump!”
The attention of the crowd immediately shifted to the man standing on the edge of the hotel’s roof.
I ease the door open. I think about calling out for the agents or the twins but then think better of it.
The lights in the foyer are off, but a shaft of light escapes from the cracked-open chapel doors on our left and from a hallway twenty feet beyond them. Before us, elegant cushioned chairs sit next to a guest book on a lectern. Thick carpet. Heavy shades keep out the sunlight. A quiet, reverent mood.