Hell's Corner (37 page)
This woman on the screen, though, didn’t seem to want the attention. She picked up her pace, stumbling along, her left foot dragging behind. It was only now that Stone could see a plastic bottle clutched in her hand. She reached the maple and fell down on the ground moaning and twitching.
Ashburn froze the screen. “See that?” She used a laser pointer to indicate the bottle of water. It was tipped upside down and its cap was off. In the halted video a stream of liquid was captured pouring out of the bottle and onto the base of the tree. Ashburn played the rest of the video and Stone and Chapman watched as the entire contents of the bottle emptied out and were quickly absorbed into the mulch top around the tree.
The next moment the uniformed officers were helping the woman up and escorting her away.
Stone said, “Did the cops notice a strange odor coming from the bottle?”
Ashburn shook her head. “Asked and answered. We rounded up those uniforms yesterday. They remember the woman, but let’s just say her personal aroma was strong enough to cover anything that was in that bottle. And they just figured she accidentally poured her water out on the ground. It was no big deal. And when the tree died some time later, nobody connected the dots. But we did soil samples from around the original tree and actually found pieces of its bark the Park Service had kept. Tests run on them confirm a poison was applied that effectively prevented the tree from absorbing water and nutrients. Death was inevitable.”
Stone looked over at her. “Good work, Agent Ashburn. I think you hit on exactly how the tree was sabotaged.”
“Still a long way from figuring out the rest of it, though,” she said resignedly.
They left her and walked to the park. Chapman pointed up ahead. “They’re prepping to plant another tree,” she said. The National Park Service personnel were out in force working around the crater.
“Let’s just hope they use a different supplier this time,” said Stone. “And check it for bombs.”
The grounds team was roughly the same one they had interviewed. George Sykes was directing his uniformed troops as they cleared debris and reshaped the crater, filling it with fresh soil.
“Guess the ATF is finished doing their investigation here,” noted Chapman.
“Guess so.”
“So what was your eureka moment last night?” she asked. “You just said something about white tents and left it at that.”
“I would have come down here today even if Ashburn hadn’t called.” He pointed to the north toward the office building where the shots had come from. “Gauge the sightline.”
“I already did that, thank you.”
“You remember what the colored markers in the park represented?”
“Orange for debris and white for slugs.”
“Do you recall the distribution of each?”
Chapman gazed around the grass. “Orange was everywhere, which is to be expected with a bomb. An explosive is indiscriminate in its distribution of wreckage.”
“And the white markers?”
Chapman hesitated. “As I remember it, they were uniformly on the western side of the park.”
“Uniformly—that’s the key term.”
Chapman looked back at the office building and then at the park. “But you told me the bullet distribution was the reason you had me look at that building in the first place.”
“Chicken and egg. I was looking at the wrong end of the equation.”
“What?”
“I thought they used that building, at least partially, because it
was taller than the hotel’s garden terrace and they could see over the trees. That way they wouldn’t be firing blindly. I was thinking like a sniper. That was an incorrect approach.”
Chapman looked confused, but only for a moment. “You mean since there was no actual target in the park, the PM for example, why would they care about firing blindly?”
“Right. They could fire machine-gun rounds right through that tree canopy. Who cares? But the office building allowed them to see over the trees. And in the dark that was a necessity because things look different in the dark and spatial skills deteriorate. They might have been using night optics, but there’s a lot of ambient light around here at night. And night optics can be seen by other people using night optics, and there’s a lot of that around here with the security forces in place.”
“Okay,” said Chapman slowly. “That means?”
“The shooters contained their fields of fire to the west side.”
“You were on the west side of the park. Along with our man.”
“And bullets did hit uncomfortably close to us. I believe that occurred more by accident than intent. If they’d hit us I don’t think they would have cared.”
“So why did they confine it to the west side?” wondered Chapman.
Stone was about to answer when Chapman stopped him. “Don’t look now, but one of the groundspeople is staring at us with a very strange expression.”
“Which one?”
“The young woman. Hang on, I’m going to try something.”
“What?”
“Just hang on.”
Stone pretended to examine a spot in the grass with investigative interest. Two minutes later Chapman returned to him. “Okay, we wait five minutes and then we walk north and go into the church over there.”
“Why?”
“To meet with the lady.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Let’s just say it was a bit of girl-to-girl signaling that is impervious to male capture and translation.”
F
IVE MINUTES LATER
they were in St. John’s Church admiring the embroidered kneelers in the “presidential pew” of the house of worship.
“James Madison. John Quincy Adams,” read Chapman as she glanced down at the kneelers. “Impressive list of blokes.”
Stone replied, “Your country certainly didn’t think that back then. Revolutionaries and even terrorists, they were called.”
“Well, after a couple hundred years even the thorniest differences can be overcome.”
The woman, dressed in her green-and-khaki uniform, entered the church and slipped off her hat. She spotted them and hurried over.
Chapman said, “I saw you trying to catch our eye. Thank you for meeting with us.”
“I really don’t know if it’s anything. And even though it’s our break time I can’t be gone too long.”
Chapman asked, “What’s your name?”
“Judy Donohue.”
“Okay, Ms. Donohue, what’s troubling you?” asked Stone.
“Something that was said when you came to interview Mr. Sykes.”
“How do you know we did?” asked Chapman. “He was alone.”
Donohue looked embarrassed and uneasy.
Sensing this, Stone said, “How long have you been with the Park Service?”
“Ten years. Really love it.”
“Are you from the area?” Stone asked.
She smiled wryly. “Nope. About as far from it as you can get from a place like this.”
“Where’s that?” asked Chapman.
“Grew up in the middle of nowhere Montana. God’s country. I’ve been an outdoor girl all my life.” She held up her hand. On the back of it was a tattoo of a bird. “That’s the
Sturnella neglecta,
otherwise known as the western meadowlark. It’s Montana’s state bird. Got that when I was sixteen. My friends were getting hearts and guys’ names. I opted for wildlife.”
“And about what Mr. Sykes said? I guess you were nearby?”
Donohue dropped her wry look. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said quickly. “I was just nearby working on a project and…”
“And you just heard things,” Chapman said pleasantly. “Perfectly understandable.”
“So what did you hear that raised questions in your mind?” asked Stone.
“He said we were waiting on an arborist to check the tree. And that we were putting together special soil and nutrients and such.”
“That’s correct,” said Stone. “You mean you weren’t?”
“No, we do.”
“All right,” said Stone slowly. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I know I’m not explaining this very well. Why I work with my hands and not at a desk, I guess.”
“Just take your time, Judy,” Chapman said helpfully.
“Well, you see, the arborist had already checked the tree and given it a clean bill of health. He took another look at it again when it went in the hole, but only to make sure the stress of being craned in hadn’t injured it. The soil and nutrient plan was all ready to go.”
“So you’re saying that there was no need to leave the hole unfilled?” said Stone.
“Not really, no. I remember putting up the poles and tape and thinking it was pretty silly to leave the hole that way. I mean, what if someone fell in it?”
“And someone did,” said Chapman.
“Well, anyway, I still thought it was weird.”
“What explanation did Sykes give you for leaving the hole open?” asked Stone.
“He didn’t give us an explanation. He’s the crew chief. We do as we’re told.”
“When Agent Gross came by were you all present when he asked his questions?”
“For part of the time, but then he went off with Mr. Sykes.”
“And I take it the question about the uncovered hole didn’t come up while you were all there?”
“I recall the FBI agent getting to that issue, but then Mr. Sykes said it was time to get back to work and he’d finish the rest of the answers.”
“Did any of the other crew members have the same questions about the hole being uncovered?” asked Chapman.
“They’re a good bunch, real dedicated. But they also follow orders and don’t think too much about it. I guess I’m a little more independent. And after overhearing what Mr. Sykes told you, I just thought you ought to know.”
“You did the right thing, Judy,” said Chapman.
“I have to get back.”
“Right,” said Stone. “This was very helpful. But don’t mention it to anyone.”
Donohue nodded, a nervous expression on her face. “Do you think Mr. Sykes did something wrong?”
“We’re sure going to find out,” said Stone.
T
HEY LEFT THE CHURCH
and walked back to the park.
“So now George Sykes is a suspect,” said Chapman. “Is there anyone who’s
not
involved in this thing?”
“A conspiracy does require more than one person,” observed Stone.
“Oliver?”
They turned to see Alex Ford striding toward them.
“Let me do the talking,” said Stone quickly to Chapman. “Hello, Alex,” he said, turning to his friend.
“So are you going to tell me anything remotely close to the truth about what’s going on?” Alex asked, his voice strident.
“I know I’m being secretive and cryptic, but the fact is I’m not sure it’s a good idea you knowing about any of this.”
“So that’s how it stands? A member of the Camel Club in name only?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. But I have a commission and a shield now and—”
“That didn’t stop you from involving Annabelle, Harry and Reuben, did it? They don’t have a badge or a commission but I do.”
“I know none of this is simple.”
“Oh, it’s completely simple. You’ve cut me completely out of the loop. I thought we were friends. And I thought our friendship would rise above everything else.”
Stone started to say something but then stopped. He glanced at Chapman and then back at Alex.
“You’re right.”
This frank admission seemed to drain the anger from the Secret Service agent. “Okay.”
“We’ve made some progress,” said Stone. “But not enough, and my sense is that we’re running out of time. And if I’ve been less than candid with you, it’s partly due to your being in a very delicate position.”
“Partly?”
“Yes, the rest is due entirely to my clumsy handling of our friendship. I’m sorry.”
“Can you tell me this? Should I be worried? I mean for the president?”
“I know of no specific threats against him, if that’s what you mean. And if I did, you and the president would know too. That I swear.”
“I heard you met with him at Camp David.”
“I did. I needed to speak with him frankly.”
“And did he respond in kind?”
“He did. To a surprising degree, in fact.”
“I understand Reuben is still in the hospital.”
“Yes, that was close, Alex, too close.”
“We pushed you to let us help, Oliver. We’re all big boys and girls.”
