Джеймс Паттерсон - Cross the Line

As we returned to the unmarked car, Sampson said, “I keep going back to his amplified voice.”

Rutledge had said that when the shooter told her never to text and drive, his voice had been very loud, as if he were talking through a loudspeaker on the motorcycle.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said, getting into the passenger side. “Highway patrolmen use those kinds of built-in bullhorns, but I’m pretty sure you can get them for just about any touring motorcycle these days.”

“Well, whoever he is and whatever modifications he’s made to his motorcycle, he’s killing people for traffic violations,” Sampson said as he started the car. “Three were speeding. And that girl last week, I’ll bet she was texting too.”

“Possible,” I agreed. “All of a sudden, though, I’m starving.”

“All of a sudden, me too.”

We drove west toward Willow Grove, and I caught sight of something shiny in the sky far away.

“There’s those blimps again,” I said. “What the hell are those things for?”

“One of the great mysteries of life,” Sampson said, pulling into the Brick House Tavern and Tap for lunch. I brought a road map into the tavern with me, and after ordering a chicken salad sandwich with kettle-fried potato chips, I used a pen to note where the five shootings had occurred and when.

The first was west of Fredericksburg, Virginia, months ago. The second was in southern Pennsylvania a few weeks later. Rock Creek Park was two weeks ago. Southwest of Millersville, Maryland, four days later. Willow Grove, three days ago.

“His time between attacks is shrinking fast,” I said, drawing a circle. “He could kill anytime now, and he likes it here, in this general area. He feels comfortable hunting from DC east.”

The waitress brought our food. Sampson took the map and bit into a tuna melt while looking it over.

After a few minutes, he laughed, shook his head, and said, “It was staring us right in the face, and we were too close to see it.”

I swallowed a gulp of Coke and said, “See what?”

He turned the map for me, picked up my pen, and traced short lines from each of the crash scenes to Denton, Maryland. The Rutledge scene was closest, no more than twenty miles away. The tavern we were eating in was closer still.

A half an hour later, as we drove down a dirt road south of Willow Grove, Sampson said, “I don’t think popping in again to say hi is the smart way to go.”

“Surprise is always good, though,” I said.

“Unless you’re surprising a lunatic-in-the-grass world-class sniper with a chip on his shoulder,” Sampson said.

“If we see orange flags, we’ll turn around.”

“How about we call in first?”

We rounded a curve onto a straightaway about three hundred yards long, and our options narrowed. The gate to Nicholas Condon’s farm was at the end of the straight, and it appeared to be opening, swinging out toward the road.

We were about one hundred and fifty feet from the gate when a Harley-Davidson appeared from the farm lane. Even though the rider wore dark leathers, a helmet, and goggles, I could tell by the beard that it was Condon.

He looked left toward us. Maybe his mercenary instincts kicked in, I don’t know, but the sniper saw something he didn’t like, popped the clutch, and buried the throttle. His back tire spun on the hard gravel, sliding side to side and throwing up a cloud of thick dust that curtained off the road behind him.

“Crazy sonofabitch,” Sampson said, and he stomped on the gas.

Stones and gravel hit the squad-car windshield and we had to slow down for fear of crashing. Luckily the dirt road soon met asphalt at County Road 384. By the loose soil his tires had shed on the road, we knew Condon had headed north. Sampson accelerated after him.

“Stay near the speed limit,” I said. “We have no jurisdiction here.”

“I don’t think Condon cares.”

“I imagine he doesn’t, but — there he is.”

The sniper was weaving through the light traffic ahead and headed toward a stoplight at the intersection with Maryland Route 404. It turned red and Condon stopped, first in line. We were four cars behind him when I jumped out and started running toward him.

Condon looked over his shoulder, saw me coming two cars back, waved, and then goosed the accelerator on the Harley a split second before the light turned green again. He squealed out onto 404 heading west.

Sampson slowed as he came past and I jumped in.

“I’ve got to run more,” I said, gasping, as the squad car swung after Condon.

“We all do,” Sampson said. “Desk jockeys can’t move.”

Traffic heading east was heavier, but Condon was driving the Harley like a professional, roaring out and passing cars whenever he got the chance as we tried to follow him through Hillsboro and Queen Anne.

He was ten cars ahead of us when he took the ramp onto U.S. 50, a four-lane. He seemed fully aware of us, and every time we’d close the gap he’d make some crazy-ass move and put more space between us.

Condon got off at the 301, heading west again across the bay bridge. We lost him for a minute but then spotted him getting off the exit to 450 South toward the Severn River. Ahead of us entering Annapolis, he cruised down the middle of the street while we sat stalled in traffic. But by opening the door and standing up on the car frame, I was able to see him take a left on Decatur Avenue. Three minutes passed until we could do the same.

“He’s heading toward the Naval Academy,” Sampson said. “It’s straight ahead there.”

“Academy alumnus,” I said. “He’s going home.”

“Yeah, but where, exactly?”

I scanned the street, looking for Condon or his Harley. I wasn’t spotting—

“Got him,” Sampson said, pointing into a triangular parking lot at the corner of Decatur and McNair, right next to College Creek. “That’s his ride, sitting there with the other motorcycles.”

We pulled into the lot. A Marine Corps officer was just getting onto his bike, a midnight-blue Honda Blackbird with a partial windshield. We stopped beside him. I got out.

“Excuse me?” I said.

The officer turned, helmet in hand. He appeared to be in his late forties with the rugged build of a lifelong member of the Corps. I glanced at the nameplate: Colonel Jeb Whitaker.

“Colonel Whitaker, I’m Detective Alex Cross with DC Metro.”

“Yes?” he said, frowning and looking at my identification and badge. “How can I help?”

“Did you see the man on that Harley-Davidson come in?”

Colonel Whitaker blinked and then nodded in exasperation. “Nick Condon. What’s he done now beyond parking where he’s not supposed to again?”

“Nothing that we’re aware of,” Sampson said. “But he’s been avoiding having a conversation with us.”

“Regarding?”

“An investigation that we are not at liberty to talk about, sir,” I said.

The colonel thought about that. “This isn’t going to reflect badly on the Naval Academy, is it?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “What’s Condon to the academy these days?”

“He teaches shooting. On a contract basis, which means he’s supposed to park in a visitors’ lot, not here where you need an academy parking sticker.”

He gestured to a light blue sticker with an anchor and rope on it stuck to the lower right corner of his windshield.

“So we can’t park here?”

Whitaker said, “I suppose if you put something on the dash that said Police, you could get around it.”

I glanced at Sampson, who shrugged and pulled into a space.

“Where would we go to find Mr. Condon?” I asked.

“The indoor range?” Whitaker said, and he told me how to get there.