Page 46 of Cross Down
Then he joins his three companions, and they fade into the darkness.
And with horror I think,I know that guy.
Chapter
56
Laurie Pierce iswaiting outside George Washington University’s Aston residence hall—reserved for grad students like herself—looking for the Uber that’s bringing her boyfriend down New Hampshire Avenue. He’s going to pick her up for a late dinner and—hopefully—a status change for both of them.
Instead of boyfriend and girlfriend, they’ll be fiancé and fiancée.
It’s a warm pleasant night, lots of traffic zooming by, and she feels slightly embarrassed at what she knows. Because she shouldn’t know.
Her boyfriend, Arthur Foss, goes to GWU’s Graduate School of Political Management; she’s a grad student at GWU’s School of Media and Public Affairs. On their second date, Arthur said, “I can see a future when I’m a congressman from Connecticut, and you’re a reporter at thePostwho’s coming at me.”
She smiled and said, “And if you do anything illegal, I’ll burn your ass and put it on the front page.”
With mock disappointment, Arthur said, “Even though I’m a fellow GWU grad?”
“Especiallybecause you’re a fellow GWU grad.”
That led to lots more laughs, another bottle of wine, and an overnight in Georgetown at the condo his father owned. Arthur comes from a wealthy family in Greenwich, Connecticut; Laurie is from a small town in a depressed logging county in Oregon. She gets by on scholarships, grants, part-time work at Starbucks, and lots of ramen noodles.
There. That must be him.
A dark blue Honda with an Uber sticker in the window passes the nearby Yours Truly DC, a four-star hotel. He’s right on time, and someday soon, Laurie knows there’ll be no more ramen noodles for her, because dear Arthur made a mistake last night. He has a habit of e-mailing funny cartoons and memes to their parents and his two sisters, and last night, he sent out an e-mail that mistakenly included Laurie in the address field.
The message said:Tomorrow night I give this! Wish me luck!Attached was a photo of a blue box from Tiffany, open and displaying a diamond ring in a gold setting.
So she knows, and she smiles when the Uber stops and Arthur steps out and holds the door open for her.
She gives him a quick kiss, climbs in, and fastens the seat belt. Arthur, always well dressed and well groomed, looking more like a successful trial attorney than a grad student, sits beside Laurie and grabs her hand as the car starts moving.
“Hon,” he says, “tonight…it’s going to be special.”
“Special how?” she asks as the Uber comes to a halt at the intersection with L Street.
He pauses, smiling, his brown eyes dancing with laughter, then says, “Oh, I can’t wait. Hold on.”
He reaches into a side pocket of his dark blue suit coat. Laurie hears a noise and looks up, and it seems like the sun is glaring right next to them.
Chapter
57
Even from twoblocks away, Ned Mahoney can smell what’s ahead for him at the latest bombing site: gasoline, burned rubber, charred vehicle upholstery, and the sickly sweet scent of seared flesh from the most recent victims to die on the streets of the nation’s capital.
His ID gets him through the police perimeter on L Street, and he parks his FBI-issue black Impala as close as he can to where the car bomb went off. The street is crowded with police cruisers, fire department vehicles, and even trucks from the local utility, Washington Gas, there to switch off gas mains in case something else blows up. High-intensity floodlights shine down from tall metal stands, and the roar of the generators sets his teeth on edge.
He walks up to a stretch of yellow tape, flashes his FBI ID one more time, and makes the latest in a series of sad, tired walks, surveying the scene.
The car exploded at the intersection of L Street and New Hampshire Avenue NW. Windows in the surrounding businesses were shattered. One overhead traffic light is dangling from wires. A fire truck is still hosing down the suspected car bomb, which is now just a twisted frame and four shredded and melted tires.
A DC ambulance roars out, and Mahoney steps closer, notes five shapes under five yellow blankets on the street.
At least five dead, then.
Damn it.
