CHAPTER 4
AS SOON AS ANNABELLE stepped on the front porch she saw it. Alex Ford did too. They’d just gotten back from dinner at Nathan’s in Georgetown. It had become a favorite haunt of theirs.
She pulled the knife free, unfolded the letter and then glanced around, as though she expected the person who’d delivered it to still be nearby.
She and Alex sat in front of the empty fireplace while she read it. She finished and passed it across to him, waiting in silence while he read it through.
“He says for you to pack up and move. That people would be coming to ask questions. You can stay at my place, if you want.”
“I guess we knew it was him, didn’t we?” she added.
Alex looked at the letter. “‘I’ve had many regrets in my life,’” he said, reading from it. “‘And I’ve lived with them all. But Milton’s death was my fault alone. I did what I had to do. To punish those who needed to be. But I will never be able to punish myself enough. At least John Carr is finally dead. And good riddance.’” He looked up. “Sounds like a man who did what he believed needed to be done.”
“He asked us to tell Reuben and Caleb.”
“I’ll do it.”
“They deserved it, you know. From all that Finn told us that happened that night.”
“Nothing gives someone the right to murder someone, Annabelle,” he said firmly. “That’s vigilantism. That’s wrong.”
“Under any circumstances?”
“One exception destroys that rule for good.”
“So you say.”
“Burn the letter, Annabelle,” Alex said suddenly.
“What?”
“Burn it now, before I change my mind.”
“Why?”
“It’s not a confession but it’s still evidence. And I can’t believe I’m saying this. Burn it. Now!”
She grabbed a match, lit the paper and tossed it into the fireplace. They watched the letter curl and blacken.
“Oliver saved my life, more than once,” he said. “He was the most decent, reliable person I’ve ever met.”
“I wish he’d stayed to talk to us.”
“I’m glad he didn’t.”
“Why?” Annabelle said brusquely.
“Because I might have had to arrest him.”
“You’re kidding. You just said he was the most decent person you’d ever met.”
“I’m a lawman, Annabelle. I swore an oath, friend or not.”
“But you knew he killed people before. And you didn’t seem to have a problem with it then.”
“Right, but he did that on orders from the U.S. government.”
“So that makes it okay in your eyes? Because some politician said it was?”
“Oliver was a soldier. He was trained to follow orders.”
“But even he felt guilt for that. Because some of the people he was ‘ordered’ to kill were innocent. You saw how that crushed him.”
“I respect his morals. But that wasn’t his call.”
Annabelle rose and looked down at him.
And why through the newspaper?
That had really bothered Knox. Not that having to penetrate the few pages would’ve screwed the shot, but the shooter would’ve had to more or less guess where his round would impact. And what if Simpson had had a thick book on his chest, or a
cigarette lighter in his breast pocket that the paper had concealed? That could’ve fouled the shot. Most snipers Knox had known didn’t like to guess about anything other than who they’d kill next.
Yet when he’d examined the paper he understood quite clearly why the chest shot had been used. A snapshot of someone had been taped to the inside of the newspaper. The shot had taken the person’s head in the photo right off. As Knox looked more closely, the remaining part of the picture showed the torso to be that of a woman. There were no marks or writing on what was left of the photo to help him figure out who it was. He’d talked to the paper carrier to see if he’d seen anything suspicious, but he hadn’t. And Simpson’s building didn’t have a doorman. Yet the killer had put that photo in the paper, Knox was certain of it.
And that meant only one thing. This hit had been personal. And the killer had wanted Simpson to know exactly why he was going to die and also who was doing the deed. Just like the flag and grave marker with Gray. His grudging admiration for the assassin increased even more. Gauging the shot accurately enough to take out that picture required remarkable skill, planning and simply a level of confidence that not even