headed out.
Burton started up the small vacuum, completed the room and then left,
closing the door and turning off the light.
Lun4ER’s WORLD RETURNED TO INKY DARKNESS.
This was the first time he had been alone in the room with the dead
woman. The rest of them had apparently grown used to the bloody figure
lying on the floor, unconsciously stepping over or around the now
inanimate object. But Luther had not grown accustomed to the death
barely eight feet away.
He could no longer see the pile of stained clothing and the lifeless
body inside of them, but he knew it was there.
“Sleazy rich bitch” would probably be her informal epitaph.
And, yes, she had cheated on her husband, not that he seemed to care
about that. But she hadn’t deserved to die like that. He would’ve killed
her, there was no question about that. Except for her swift
counterattack, the President would’ve committed murder.
The Secret Service men he could not really fault. That was He didn’t
need to say their job and they did it. She had picked the wrong man to
attempt to kill in the heat of whatever she had been feeling.
Maybe it was better. If her hand had been a little faster or the agents’
response a little slower, she might be spending the rest of her life in
jail. Or she’d probably get death for killing a President.
Luther sat down in the chair. His legs were almost numb.
He forced himself to relax. Soon he would be getting the hell out of
there. He needed to be ready to run.
He had a lot to think through, considering that they were unwittingly
setting up Luther Whitney to be the number-one suspect in what would no
doubt be deemed a heinous and gruesome crime. The wealth of the victim
would demand that enormous law enforcement resources be expended in
finding the perpetrator. But there was no way they would be looking to
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for the answer. They would search elsewhere,
and despite Luther’s intense preparations, they might very well find
him. He was good, very good, but then he had never faced the types of
forces that would be unleashed to solve this crime.
He quickly thought back through his entire plan leading up to tonight.
He could think of no obvious holes, but it was the not-so-obvious ones
that usually did you in. He swallowed, curled and uncurled his fingers,
stretched his legs to calm himself. One thing at a time. He still wasn’t
out of here. Many things could go wrong, and one or two undoubtedly
would.
He would wait two more minutes. He ticked off the seconds in his head,
visualized them loading the car. They would probably wait for any
further sight or sound of the patrol car before heading out.
He carefully opened his bag. Inside were much of the contents of this
room. He had almost forgotten that he had come here to steal and in fact
had stolen. His car was a good quarter mile away. He thanked God he had
quit smoking all those years ago. He would need every ounce of lung
capacity he could muster. How many Secret Service Agents was he
confronted with? At least four. Shit!
The mirrored door slowly opened and Luther stepped out into the room. He
hit the remote one more time and then tossed it back onto the chair as
the door swung closed.
He eyed the window. He had already planned an alternate escape through
that aperture. A hundred-foot coil of extremely strong nylon rope,
knotted every six inches, was in his bag.
He made a wide berth around the body, careful not to step in any of the
crimson, the position of which he had programmed into his memory. He
glanced only once at the remains of Christine Sullivan. Her life could
not be brought back. Luther was now faced with keeping his own intact.
It took him a few seconds to reach the nightstand, and probe down behind
it.
Luther’s fingers clutched the plastic bag. The President’s collision
with the furniture had toppled Gloria Russell’s purse on its side. The