Scott Free (31 page)

The Kevlar vest made him feel fat as he meandered through the crowd, James Alexander on his right, and his dad's hand perpetually on his left arm. Living as close to Washington, D.C. as he did, Scott found that he took for granted all things presidential. At home, POTUS was just another celebrity resident of the city. Out here, though, in the president's home state, Scott found himself genuinely impressed with all the pomp and plastic patriotism. Given the party atmosphere, it seemed impossible that anyone would try to take a shot at anybody.

“You're supposed to be watching faces,” James admonished quietly, “not the decorations.”

“How am I supposed to spot one person in all of this crowd?”

“I have no idea. But if he's here, you'll recognize him a hell of a lot sooner than I will.”

It all felt so awkward. In school, eye contact was a thing to be avoided, particularly among the more aggressive ethnic groups. To lock gazes was to show disrespect and invite violence. The question, “What are you lookin' at?” was invariably followed by a fist. Yet, here he was, deliberately looking people in the eye. It surprised him that most looked away.

As the commencement time for the speech approached, the knots of people drew tighter and tighter, each of them pressing in for a spot closer to the action. For Scott and company, it made crowd wandering all but impossible. If Scott had said “excuse me” once, he'd said it a thousand times.

“This is hopeless,” he said to his father. “There's no way I'm going to be able to find one face.”

“Hey! Scott! Brandon!” They both turned as Larry Chinn shouldered his way through the crowd. As he approached, James Alexander drew protectively close, but Scott pushed past him and the two skiing buddies exchanged a huge hug. “God, am I glad to see you!” Larry exclaimed, tears in his eyes.

“Me, too,” Scott said. “It got pretty hairy.”

“You poor thing. But you're okay. That's the important thing. I've never heard your mother so excited. I'm so sorry to hear about Cody, though.”

James Alexander conspicuously cleared his throat, breaking up the reunion. “The crowd, Scott. Watch the crowd.”

Scott shot the cop an annoyed look, then said to Larry, “We can catch up later?”

“You bet we will.” To Brandon, Larry said, “Have you seen Sherry? I got a message that a driver was picking her up to bring her to City Hall.”

“Last I heard, that driver was you,” Brandon said.

“Who told you that?”

“Can you folks do this another time?” James asked. “We've got work to do.”

“She's at the house, Larry,” Brandon said. He checked his watch. “And right about now, I'd say she's pissed as a wet hornet at you.”

Larry pressed his hand to his forehead. “Why does she do this shit to me?” He spun on his heel and headed back into the crowd. “Don't plan anything for tonight,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to hear every detail.”

Scott beamed, loving the attention. “Okay!” he shouted. “Come for dinner!” When he turned back, he caught the disapproving look in Brandon's eyes. “He's a nice guy, Dad. Good skier, too.”

“Look at the crowd!” James insisted yet again.

“I've been looking at the crowd!” Scott shouted. “I keep telling you, I can't see the crowd. There are too many people!”

Brandon put a hand on Scott's shoulder to settle him down. “What about it, James? This is seeming a little pointless. Maybe if we could move to a better vantage point?”

James shook his head. “You heard the instructions, just like I did. We keep wandering and we keep looking.”

But as the witching hour approached, and crowds continued to flood the square, the situation became unbearable. Suddenly, it was impossible for the threesome to keep together. Squirting between people was always possible, but as the human knots tightened, it definitely became a solo performance. To make it worse, Scott's feet were still sore as hell, as was every bony protuberance on his body. Soon, he was concentrating more on avoiding injury than spotting faces.

“This all hurts like hell,” Scott announced to James. “I feel like I'm getting beaten up out here.”

James finally conceded the point. Standing on tiptoe, he craned his neck to find a spot nearby that might afford a better view. “Come with me,” he said, and he led the way to a brick retaining wall in front of a women's clothing store. A family of five had been standing there since Scott and the others had arrived in the square, having staked out this prime viewing location no doubt hours in advance. “Excuse me,” James said to the father, “but I'm afraid you're going to have to get down off that wall.”

The father gave a pleasant if annoyed smile. “I talked with another officer earlier, and he said this place would be just fine. We've been here since noon.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” James said, remaining very stern. “The rules have changed. Now you're going to have to get down.”

“But we've been here since noon,” said the mother, as if maybe James hadn't heard her husband the first time.

“I understand that, ma'am, and I'm just as sorry as I can be for the confusion, but that doesn't change a thing. Now, if you don't mind—”

“But the other good spots are already taken!” the father protested. Fingers of red had begun to scale the sides of his neck.

This time, James said nothing. He merely planted his hands on his Sam Browne belt, and shifted his stance to one leg.

Furious, the father said, “Would it have killed you to let us know this three hours ago?” He jumped to the ground, then assisted his family off the wall.

James said, “Thank you very much for your cooperation.” With the wall cleared, James climbed into the spot himself and motioned for Scott to join him.

The displaced father went ballistic. “What is this?” he yelled. “You kick me and my family off so you can watch from there yourself?”

“This is official business,” James assured him.

The other man thrust a finger toward Scott. “He's not official business.”

Scott felt like every set of eyes was looking at him, and he finally found himself happy to be wearing the vest—for reasons that had nothing to do with Isaac DeHaven.

James Alexander climbed off the wall and confronted the aggrieved father eye-to-eye. “Let's understand something,” he said, barely loud enough for Scott to hear. “He
is
official, if only because I say he is. Now, is this going to be a problem,
sir?”

If ever in the history of mankind there was a question asked for which there clearly was a right and wrong answer, this was it. The father backed down, turned and ushered his family into the crowd.

When James turned back toward the wall, he actually looked a little embarrassed.

“Have you considered State Department work, James?” Brandon asked. “We can never have too many diplomats in the world.”

James gave him a look that was closer to a snarl than a smile and climbed back on the wall to stand next to Scott.

“Remember,” he said. “Watch the crowd, not the show.”

Scott hadn't been noticing the band much, but when they stopped playing abruptly in the middle of yet another march, the silence startled him. He looked that way in time to see the conductor raise his baton. Two seconds later, two dozen loudspeakers throughout the square announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

On cue, the band played ruffles and flourishes, followed immediately by the familiar strains of “Hail to the Chief.” As the music played, Scott watched, oddly mesmerized, as the president and first lady entered from the right and wandered across the stage, huge smiles on their faces as they waved to the packed square. Other familiar faces trailed them, though Scott couldn't quite place where he'd seen them. One might well have been a senator, he thought, and the others, by process of elimination, must have been the mayor of Eagle Feather and the governor of Utah.

The president stopped short of the podium, and stood at the edge of the stage until the music stopped, at which point the crowd erupted in cheers and enthusiastic applause that was nonetheless muted by gloved hands. About five steps behind and to the president's right, Scott recognized the face of Agent Sanders. At the far edge of stage left, barely visible to the crowd, he could see Chief Whitestone standing in an uncomfortable posture that told Scott he didn't know what to do with his hands.

“The
crowd,
Scott,” James whispered.

It took more concentration than he would have thought, trying to recognize one face. At least from up here, he could see the proverbial forest and not just the trees. And what a huge forest of humanity it was, splashes of brilliant colors against a sparkling white backdrop. Above the crowd hung a misty cloud of condensed breath, and somehow, through all of that, Scott was supposed to find one—

Something on the near side caught his eye and his back stiffened.

“See something?” James asked, alerted by the body language.

Below and in front, Brandon came to full alert. “What is it, Scott?”

He didn't answer because he didn't really know. It was a flash of something familiar in the midst of so much that was strange, over there just this side of the bandstand. “There!” he said, pointing. “That hat. The fur hat.”

“Where? I don't see it.”

Scott didn't either, anymore. But it had been there. The plush fur hat that looked like something out of a Russian movie. Following one person in this crowd was like trying to follow one drop of water in a rushing stream. Then, he saw it again. “There! See it? The big fur hat.”

James craned his neck, but still saw nothing.

“Does he have something?” Whitestone's voice asked over the radio.

From all the way at the back of the stage, he'd read their movements for what they were. James brought his portable radio to his lips and keyed the mike. “Stand by, Chief. I don't know yet.” Then, to Scott: “Say something, son.”

“Give me a second,” Scott snapped. How could he be sure? A hat was a hat, after all. How could he tell one from the other? Then he saw a flash of green, and he remembered Isaac's coat. Navy blue ski jacket with green shoulders. “Holy, shit! That's him! That's Isaac!”

“Where?” James insisted.

“There! Right there!” How could he make it any plainer? “The fur hat. Blue and green jacket.”

James said into his radio, “The boy sees him, Chief. Fur hat, blue and green coat.” With those words, he'd just described no fewer than three dozen people in the crowd. “I still don't see him, Scott.”

Aw, screw it.
“Follow me,” Scott said, and before anyone could stop him, he'd jumped off the wall and was running into the crowd.

“Move in!” James shouted into his radio. “Follow the boy and move in.”

Scott didn't care about excuse me's anymore. He plowed head-long into the crowd, doing his best to avoid people, but pushing anyone who got in his way. Problem was, through the sea of bodies and heads he couldn't see a damned thing. All the more reason to move quickly. Get to the spot where he'd seen DeHaven before the killer had a chance to move on.

Everywhere, throughout the square, dozens of police officers and Secret Service agents moved in for the capture, and within seconds, the assembled crowd knew that something was terribly wrong. The concerned murmur turned to pandemonium as officers converged on a spot none of them had seen.

Up on the stage, Sanders spoke two words into his wrist mike, and seconds later, Secret Service agents swarmed onto the stage from all directions, first surrounding the president, and then whisking him to safety in the wings. One agent, in an image that would make the front page of virtually every newspaper in the Western world, ostentatiously brandished a submachine gun, and then the panic was complete.

“Scott! Wait!” Brandon shouted over the noise. “Wait for the others!”

But Scott couldn't stop. He was the only one who knew what he was looking for: the hat and the jacket. And now, he was trying to find them in the midst of panic. Where did he go? Where the
hell
did he go?

Oh, shit! There! The killer was running. Isaac knew he'd screwed up, and now he was getting the hell out. “Isaac!” Scott shouted. “Stop!”

But the other man had no intention of stopping. He joined the surge of running spectators, trying his best to blend in with the others.

Then he disappeared entirely.
Poof,
just like that, he was gone. Scott slowed to a jog, then stopped altogether, his arms outstretched, baffled.

“Where?” James said when he caught up, his weapon drawn. “Where is he?”

“I don't know!” Scott said. “He was right here.” He emphasized the words with a chopping motion of his hand. “Right. Here.”

“Well, where is he now?”