national politicians . . .”
He went on for a while, but Dunn thought: my letter.
His letter had been turned into a chain letter, completely out of his control. If the feds managed to trace that letter back to a sender, if somebody hadn’t been as careful as Dunn had been, then it was possible that Dunn’s name might come up.
He stood up, holding an empty beer bottle, and watched as the anchorwoman repeated what everybody had already said three times. He was in danger, no question of it.
But.
It hadn’t really occurred to him earlier: the cemetery was a perfect perch from which to shoot a kid at the Stillwater School. And nobody had come to look, because he was too far away, and the hospital seemed to be a perfect shooting platform, and much closer.
He could, he thought, go back.
The cops might or might not continue staking out the place, but given the media uproar, any other potential shooters would be scared away.
That’s what the cops would think. And Thomas McGovern’s parents.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Jane Chase got Lucas up at 8:30 and said, in a preternaturally calm voice, “There’s been an arrest outside a school where Senator McGovern’s kid goes. No shooting, but the guy who was arrested had a high-end scoped .223 and was apparently planning to use it. He set up a spotting scope inside his car and had it focused on the school’s playground.”
“Who’s got him?” Lucas asked, as he got out of bed.
“He was arrested by a joint Secret Service, FBI, and Arlington police team, and we’re holding him at the federal building in Arlington.”
“Is there anything for me to do?” Lucas asked.
“You could find the people who set up the fuckin’ site.” She sounded angry.
“Working on it, without a lot of help,” Lucas snapped back. “So far, nothing’s panned out but one crappy drug bust. We’re talking to Patriotus today, if we can run down the leader, this Roland Carr guy. That could be something.”
“Make something happen, Lucas, goddamnit,” she said. “That’s what you’re here for.”
“I’d be happy to hear a specific suggestion,” Lucas said, still in a prickly voice. “Why don’t you get one of your HVE people to tell me exactly where Carr might be found. That would help.”
“I’m going over to the federal building. Maybe there’ll be something. I’ll check on the Patriotus guy,” she said. Then: “I’m actually running down a hallway. Sorry about the attitude . . . there’s a lot of stress right now. I’ll call you back.”
* * *
—
LUCAS CALLED BOB, who was working out with Rae: “You guys get ready to move,” Lucas said. He told Bob about the arrest, and Bob said, “Waterboard the motherfucker.”
* * *
—
LUCAS WAS IN THE SHOWER when his phone rang again. He’d put it on the bathroom sink and he stepped out, dried his hand, and picked it up. Not Chase.
“Davenport.”
“Davenport! This is Charles Lang! Somebody’s murdered Stephen! He’s dead! Shot in the head! There’s a lot of blood, I just, I just . . .”
“Where are you, Charlie?” Lucas asked.
“I’m at home. When Stephen didn’t come down from his apartment—he lives over the garage—I went looking for him. He’s in the garage, on the floor. He has a bullet hole in his forehead and there’s this red . . . halo . . . around his head, it smells bad, like . . . I dunno.”
“Where are you in the house?”
“In the den, I ran to get my phone . . .”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, I called you . . .”
“Okay. Don’t go back to the garage. Sit down in the den. Don’t do anything. The cops will be there in five minutes. Tell them the FBI and the Marshals Service will be working the case and are on the way. Just sit there, okay? Sit there.”
“I’m afraid there might be somebody here in the house. What if he’s still here, the killer?”
“Do you have a