The Liar's Lullaby (40 page)

Jo said good-bye, and kept running. They passed bright awnings, tight Chinese script, and stores where silk dresses lent an aura of glory, of past empires. They ran by elderly Chinese San Franciscans in Reeboks, chinos, and Giants sweatshirts. When they came out on Clay Street, pedestrians eyed them with more-than-idle curiosity. Jo’s suit was filthy, covered with dust and teak splinters. Her hair was snarled. Her bare feet slapped the hot sidewalk. She winced against grit on the concrete.

Without warning, Gabe veered into a corner shop. “Keep going. I’ll catch up.”

Winded, Jo ran. Two minutes later, he caught up and shoved a cheap pair of ballet shoes into her hands. They were lime green with orange plastic daisies, ugly-ass, and brilliant. She jammed her feet into them.

“Thank you.”

A police car roared over the lip of Nob Hill toward them, lights whirling. They ducked into an alley. Jo leaned back against a brick wall. The car raced past.

She tried to catch her breath. “They think I’m a killer. A president-hunting killer. And now they think you’re in it with me. Jesus God.” Her voice skipped. “If they take us down, they’ll never believe my story in time.”

“Then let’s hope Tang can call off the hounds. She’s the only one who can protect us.”

The street was clear. They ran uphill, breathing hard.

“Jo, we’re running
toward
the president. How’s that going to look?”

She didn’t answer. They reached the top of the hill and saw the Gothic towers and rose window of Grace Cathedral.

I
N FRONT OF GRACE CATHEDRAL, HUNTINGTON PARK WAS BLOCKED off by police. Barricades were set up around the gray stone, fake- Notre Dame façade of the church. Police were checking everybody who sought to get inside the cordon. Chennault adopted a pleasant face, laced with sadness, and walked toward the entry checkpoint.

A mob had gathered, thousands of sheeple. Ahead, he saw tables set up where guests going into the church were placing their purses and coats for search. At the top of the cathedral steps, near the doors, the Secret Service was checking invitations.

Distrustful black shirts, turning the nation into a police state. His blood frothed.

He had to decide where to make his stand. He had little time. News of the attack on Waymire & Fong was bound to reach the Secret Service, and when they learned that a White House apparatchik had been there, they would yank the president out of the church behind a bristle of automatic weapons.

Reverent and eager, he pushed through the crowd toward the barricade.

 

 

J
O AND GABE emerged onto the plaza in front of the Fairmont. Behind barricades, a thick crowd had gathered around the perimeter of Huntington Park. On the far side of the park, across Taylor Street, the cathedral doors stood open. People in sober clothing climbed the stairs toward the entrance.

Jo and Gabe jogged toward the park, past the chocolate brownstone building that housed the Pacific-Union Club. Television news vans were lined up in front of it on Sproule Lane. Cameras on platforms pointed over the tops of bonsai-styled trees and playground equipment, toward the steps of the cathedral.

The skies overhead were empty. The airspace above San Francisco was closed.

She couldn’t see snipers on the rooftops, but knew they were there. She was sure explosive sniffer dogs had combed the park and church earlier. But the security presence was meant to be discreet. This was not a state occasion. The president and First Lady were mourners at a private funeral.

She glanced around. Thousands of people. “How are we going to find Chennault?”

The phone rang. It was Tang. “I sent a warning up the chain of command but it’ll take a couple of minutes to reach the Secret Service. I’m a block from—”

The call cut out. Jo tried to redial but could get no reception.

Her skin prickled. “Does the Secret Service screw with cell phone reception when the president’s near?”

“They monitor all calls within a sixty-mile radius,” Gabe said.

“But they don’t shut down cell towers?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

Her skin goose-bumped. “Right before the attack at the law firm, cell phones went out. And yours just did.”

They looked at each other. Jo said, “He’s here.”

“Come on.” Gabe grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd toward the barricades.

The cop appeared in front of them with the suddenness of a falling hammer. His weapon was gripped in both hands, aimed at Jo’s chest.

“Freeze, right there,” he said.

 

 

T
HE CHECKPOINT WHERE invited guests were vetted by the cops, and let through the barricades, was set up near the cathedral steps. Chennault worked his way toward it. Getting inside the church before the service started was vital. The heavy crowd jostled his broken arm as he struggled past. He pressed the cast against his chest, protecting the sling.

 

 

T
HE COP’S HANDS were steady, the gun aimed solidly at Jo’s center of mass. Behind his freckles, his eyes looked dead certain. Jo and Gabe raised their hands.

“On the ground, facedown. Now. Do it.”

Jo and Gabe dropped immediately to the asphalt. The crowd shied back and a bubble of silence enveloped them.

“Lace your hands behind your head.”

Jo did it, keeping the cop in the corner of her eye. He leaned into the radio clipped to his navy blue shirt and called for backup. His weapon never deviated from Jo’s body. He was a gap-toothed redhead, a virtual Cub Scout with his finger on the trigger.

“Officer, listen to me,” Jo said.

“Shut up.”

Another cop jogged through the crowd. “McNamara?”

The Cub Scout looked up. “Report over the radio—gun attack on a law firm in the Financial District. These two match the description of suspects seen fleeing the scene.”

The second cop, a trim Filipino, reached for his handcuffs. Then he stopped, and stared hard at Jo. “I saw you on the news this morning.”

“With Edie Wilson,” Jo said.

He pointed, and smiled. “You guys got her to climb in a trash can.”

“That was me.”

His smile expanded in Gabe’s direction. “You’re the Air National Guard guy.”

“Yeah,” Gabe said.

Full-fledged grin. “She got a monkey to ride Edie Wilson’s head like a rodeo cowboy. She’s a department consultant—friend of the lieutenant’s. They’re on our side.”

McNamara waited a long second, then lowered and holstered his weapon. Jo and Gabe stood up, nerves chiming.

The Filipino cop, Dandoy, said, “What’s going on?”

Jo pointed at the cathedral. “A man named Ace Chennault is planning to attack the president. He has an invitation to the memorial. Lieutenant Tang’s on her way. She and I can identify him.”

A buzz went through the crowd. Television cameras swiveled in unison. Through the throng Jo saw a motorcade draw up in front of the cathedral.

The bishop, attired in embroidered vestments, wearing a miter and carrying his shepherd’s staff, came out the cathedral doors. From an armored vehicle, a man and woman dressed in black emerged and climbed the steps. Secret Service agents followed a step behind, looking exceptionally alert.

“Get the president out of here,” Jo said.

“You got it,” said the Cub Scout cop.

Jo heard her voice being called. She turned and saw Tang burrow through the crowd toward them.

“Chennault’s here,” Jo said. “Gabe’s phone won’t work. I think Chennault’s got a jamming device.”

Tang stretched on tiptoe, attempting to see the church over the heads of the crowd.

Gabe said, “President and First Lady are walking up the steps. They’re surrounded by Secret Service. Bishop just came out the doors to greet them.”

Tang snapped her fingers at McNamara and Dandoy. “White man, blond hair, blue eyes, five-nine. Beer belly. Arm in a blue cast.” She nodded toward the church steps. “I’ll go that way. Officer McNamara, come with me.” To Dandoy, she said, “Doctor Beckett knows what he looks like. Stay with her.”

“I saw him too,” Gabe said.

“Let’s go.”

Tang flashed her badge and got inside the barricades. She, Gabe, and the Cub Scout worked their way toward the church. Jo eyed the park and packed plaza. High-rise apartments and the Mark Hopkins Hotel bordered the square. An assassin could hide in any of a hundred windows with a shot at the church steps. How was she going to spot Chennault?

McNamara’s patrol car was parked nearby. She climbed onto the hood and scrambled atop its roof.

She turned three-hundred-sixty degrees. Tang, Gabe, and McNamara were walking across the park toward the cathedral, scanning the crowd. Outside the cathedral doors, President Robert McFarland and his wife, Sandy, stood speaking to the bishop. The Secret Service faced the park, silent and watchful.

Another murmur swept the throng. A black limousine pulled up in front of the cathedral. Television cameras swiveled. The limo driver opened the back door for Vienna Hicks. She climbed the cathedral steps, her duster swirling in the wind, dignified and solitary. The bishop excused himself from the president and descended the steps to greet her.

Behind the limo came the hearse. Stately, gleaming, it stopped directly in front of the cathedral. Vienna paused in the middle of the steps, with the bishop at her side.

And, from the crowd, near the checkpoint, Jo saw movement. A blue rectangle.

“Is that . . .”

It was a blue swatch of fabric, a semaphore flag in a sea of colors against the barricades near the church steps. It swam in and out of sight. Tang and McNamara walked right past it.

Was it Chennault? A gust of wind swirled around Jo. Her hair lifted from her neck. Music carried on the breeze, a melody flowing from the cathedral’s pipe organ.

 

 

C
HENNAULT WAS BLOCKED. Twenty feet from the checkpoint that would allow him access to the church, the crowd crammed against the barricades. He couldn’t get past. Plan B was turning to dust in front of his eyes.

And on the steps of the church, he saw him. Legion. Surrounded by his goons, right there in front of him.

He reached into the sling.

T
HE FUNERAL DIRECTOR walked solemnly to the back of the hearse and opened the door.

Outside the cathedral doors stood five somber men. Jo realized that they were the pallbearers. She thought briefly of K. T. Lewicki, and her throat caught. Then she saw Vienna speak to the bishop. In the church doorway, the president had lingered to greet her. Vienna moved toward him.

Christ, was she going to ask him to be the sixth pallbearer?

Again Jo saw a flash of blue. She tented a hand over her eyes to block the sun, like Sacajawea scanning the horizon. A burst of light caught her peripheral vision. Beyond the cathedral, beyond the crowd, sunlight reflected off a silver surface.

Parked on a side street was the Blue Eagle Security armored car.

Nearer, pressed against the barricades, the blue rectangle flashed again. And stayed visible. It was a sling on the arm of a man struggling to reach the checkpoint.

“It’s him,” Jo said.

“Where?” said Dandoy.

She pointed. “By the barrier. Ten feet this side of Lieutenant Tang.”

The Filipino cop ducked under the barricade, face to his radio.

Jesus.
Jo put her hands to her face like a megaphone.
“Tang
.” Tang, the Cub Scout cop, and Gabe had spread out. They didn’t hear her. Vienna and the bishop kept walking down the steps.

Jo heard a beep. She looked down. Gabe’s phone had just activated.

Did that mean Chennault had just moved beyond the range to jam it?

No. Chennault hadn’t moved. It meant something else.

The wind whispered again. The sounds of the church organ swirled over Jo. The melody was “Amazing Grace.”

Chennault was staring across the plaza. Was he looking at the armored car?

He was a hundred yards away from her. She’d never get through the thick crowd to him. She’d never even get close enough to shout to Tang in time.

“Gabe,”
she screamed.

He turned.

Behind him, against the barricade in the crowd, Chennault was staring across the plaza. But he wasn’t staring at the armored car. He was staring at the hearse. The funeral director was arranging a huge floral display on top of Tasia’s casket—white roses and lilies piled two feet high. It looked like a wedding dress of flowers heaped on the coffin.

Chennault had gone to the mortuary to pay Tasia his respects. Vienna had said,
Bless dumb old Ace Chennault, he spent an hour at the funeral home helping with the floral arrangements.

“Oh my God,” Jo said.

The armored car was a decoy.