to one of these four medical relief centers being set up in area schools. Volunteer doctors are standing by to help. If your emergency care is unrelated to the marathon, return home and call a private physician.”
A roar of protest rose from the wavering knot of people as the man in scrubs waded into their midst, a sheaf of papers held high. Tom grabbed one and scanned the printed lines. The closest medical station was at American University, a few blocks away. The woman beside him was weeping from frustration.
“Hey, Shep,” Casey Marlowe said. “Ever seen a war zone? Best advice I can give you: Keep moving. This is going to get ugly.”
Tom fumbled in his pocket for his FBI badge. He held it high and surged forward.
Dana Enfield was adrift in uneasy dreams. She had lost Mallory in the marathon crowd, but the little girl’s voice followed her relentlessly, high-pitched above the roar of the spectators. Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave me! Mommy!
Dana knew, with a surge of panic, that George had let go of her daughter’s hand. He was running through the tight ranks of people lining the race course, yelling something she couldn’t hear. What was he telling her? What was he trying to say? Was she in insulin shock? She tried to stop running—tried to fight against the current of the racers sweeping her forward—and failed. George slipped backward. She reached for him, panic surging— Where was Mallory? And then she saw The Man. Standing stock-still in the middle of the oddly deserted road, a cup of water in his outstretched hand.
“Dana,” George murmured in her ear. “ Dana. Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
She forced her eyelids open. Her lips were thick and parched, the animal smell of blood in her nostrils. She tried to speak. No sound came.
“Honey, these men are from the FBI. They’d like to talk to you. Steve sent them.”
Her memory returned then: She was sick. The race was over. Every fiber of her body screamed with pain and the blur of faces—how many faces?—swam above her.
“Mallory,” she croaked.
“She’s home with Marya,” George soothed. “Sleeping.” He reached for a cup of chipped ice, tipped a few fragments onto her tongue. She closed her eyes again and savored the cool and perfect presence of this one thing. For an instant she remembered the brilliance of snow. She’d skied last winter in Utah.
“Dana.”
She brought George into focus: dark hair graying at the temples, lined face, worried eyes. Too worried.
“Am . . . I going to die?”
“The FBI wants to talk to you. Will you try, honey? Can you try?”
She managed to nod. One of the blurred faces swam closer. The other stayed near the door, watchful and silent.
“Mrs. Enfield, I’m Casey Marlowe,” said the voice at her elbow. She strained to see him, but the face ballooned sickly and she squeezed her eyes shut. “You remembered a man who gave you water at Hains Point. You thought it might have been tainted. Can you describe this man for me?”
She swallowed hard and groped for George. He slipped another piece of ice between her lips. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “that I did this to you.”
“You did nothing, sweetheart. Except run your heart out. Do you remember the man?”
The Man. Of course she remembered.
“Can you tell me what he looked like, Mrs. Enfield?”
The face had a sketch pad and pencil now.
Dana gathered all the life that remained to her, and tried.
Chapter 9
GEORGETOWN, 12:03 A.M.
“Ever been to the DCI’s house?” Cuddy asked as Caroline negotiated the narrow cobbled streets of Georgetown.
“Once. Years ago. She had a party when she became division chief.” Caroline spotted a single empty space among the cars lining O Street and pulled the Volkswagen neatly into it. “She came to my wedding. And to Eric’s funeral.”
Cuddy unbuckled his seat belt. “Doesn’t mean she’s going to like your idea.”
“No. But she’ll listen to it.”
The ancient maple trees lining
A roar of protest rose from the wavering knot of people as the man in scrubs waded into their midst, a sheaf of papers held high. Tom grabbed one and scanned the printed lines. The closest medical station was at American University, a few blocks away. The woman beside him was weeping from frustration.
“Hey, Shep,” Casey Marlowe said. “Ever seen a war zone? Best advice I can give you: Keep moving. This is going to get ugly.”
Tom fumbled in his pocket for his FBI badge. He held it high and surged forward.
Dana Enfield was adrift in uneasy dreams. She had lost Mallory in the marathon crowd, but the little girl’s voice followed her relentlessly, high-pitched above the roar of the spectators. Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave me! Mommy!
Dana knew, with a surge of panic, that George had let go of her daughter’s hand. He was running through the tight ranks of people lining the race course, yelling something she couldn’t hear. What was he telling her? What was he trying to say? Was she in insulin shock? She tried to stop running—tried to fight against the current of the racers sweeping her forward—and failed. George slipped backward. She reached for him, panic surging— Where was Mallory? And then she saw The Man. Standing stock-still in the middle of the oddly deserted road, a cup of water in his outstretched hand.
“Dana,” George murmured in her ear. “ Dana. Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
She forced her eyelids open. Her lips were thick and parched, the animal smell of blood in her nostrils. She tried to speak. No sound came.
“Honey, these men are from the FBI. They’d like to talk to you. Steve sent them.”
Her memory returned then: She was sick. The race was over. Every fiber of her body screamed with pain and the blur of faces—how many faces?—swam above her.
“Mallory,” she croaked.
“She’s home with Marya,” George soothed. “Sleeping.” He reached for a cup of chipped ice, tipped a few fragments onto her tongue. She closed her eyes again and savored the cool and perfect presence of this one thing. For an instant she remembered the brilliance of snow. She’d skied last winter in Utah.
“Dana.”
She brought George into focus: dark hair graying at the temples, lined face, worried eyes. Too worried.
“Am . . . I going to die?”
“The FBI wants to talk to you. Will you try, honey? Can you try?”
She managed to nod. One of the blurred faces swam closer. The other stayed near the door, watchful and silent.
“Mrs. Enfield, I’m Casey Marlowe,” said the voice at her elbow. She strained to see him, but the face ballooned sickly and she squeezed her eyes shut. “You remembered a man who gave you water at Hains Point. You thought it might have been tainted. Can you describe this man for me?”
She swallowed hard and groped for George. He slipped another piece of ice between her lips. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “that I did this to you.”
“You did nothing, sweetheart. Except run your heart out. Do you remember the man?”
The Man. Of course she remembered.
“Can you tell me what he looked like, Mrs. Enfield?”
The face had a sketch pad and pencil now.
Dana gathered all the life that remained to her, and tried.
Chapter 9
GEORGETOWN, 12:03 A.M.
“Ever been to the DCI’s house?” Cuddy asked as Caroline negotiated the narrow cobbled streets of Georgetown.
“Once. Years ago. She had a party when she became division chief.” Caroline spotted a single empty space among the cars lining O Street and pulled the Volkswagen neatly into it. “She came to my wedding. And to Eric’s funeral.”
Cuddy unbuckled his seat belt. “Doesn’t mean she’s going to like your idea.”
“No. But she’ll listen to it.”
The ancient maple trees lining
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