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  He spoke about his goals as a Senator, hinted strongly that Thomas Conning’s actions were “far below the standard expected of a United States Senator,” without explaining himself further.

  Barnes’ preference, he reminded himself as he was speaking, was to let Conning take the hint, retire in peace, not cause a scandal that would hurt many people. He was, however, prepared to expose Conning if it looked like he might lose the race, if he could get some traction, some evidence. About something. At this point, it was a toss-up. If he could really nail down what Conning was up to, those supposed misdeeds that were being whispered all around Washington. He hated to settle for adultery, but if nothing else …

  “It’s an uphill fight,” he continued, “but I know you’re with me here in Grantwood!” Cheering.

  Barnes spoke for twenty minutes, then apologized to the wonderful people of Grantwood, but his team was just hurrying him along and he had to get over to greet those wonderful people at Monroeville Mall.

  An aide shouted “Let’s hear it for the next Senator from Pennsylvania!” The crowd cheered and waved and shook their posters up and down and right and left as Barnes turned toward the notables on the platform.

  He took his time, shaking hands with them and with an occasional asexual hug, all the while waving to the crowd with his left hand raised high. He made a special point of shaking hands with the Grantwood Chief of Police who was providing security that day, at which the crowd roared its approval. Chief Gardner glanced into Barnes’ eyes and smiled, but continued scanning the crowd. He was professionally alert, but not on high alert.

  After a few minutes, Barnes turned toward the steps. Shouldn’t look down, shouldn’t take his eyes off the people, but those steps didn’t seem very sturdy. Worst would be to take a fall, would look really dumb. So Barnes looked down at the steps, carefully descended and stepped into the crowd. He raised his arms again, like a victorious boxer, then lowered them for grip ’n’ grins.

  Slowly, Ezra Barnes approached the place where Charley Dukes was standing.

  Charley held out his left hand toward Barnes. Barnes had seen him now, and he was approaching. He seemed puzzled by being presented with the wrong hand.

  Barnes had just finished hugging an older woman whose perfume was strong enough to gag an alligator, when he noticed a middle-aged man who looked undecided. Yes, unlike the old woman with the gator odor, this man might vote for Conning. Better greet him very warmly, shake his hand especially vigorously, look into his eyes and mutter something unintelligible.

  Ezra Barnes advanced toward Charley Dukes, right hand reaching out. He gave Charley a big smile.

  Charley pulled the gun out of his pocket, aimed, fired. Fired.

  Barnes mouth came open. He staggered, reached for his shoulder.

  Charley got off two shots, three. He couldn’t tell if Barnes was dead, but blood was spurting from somewhere into the Congressman’s face. He didn’t look dead, just surprised. But that was what dead people were supposed to look like, weren’t they, for the first second or two?

  Barnes was standing, mouth open, blood beginning to bubble up on his right shoulder and spurt toward his throat. Go for another shot? But that cop was right there, looking grim and capable. Charley started turning, preparing to run. He had to leave now. Had to turn around and run. He’d shot Barnes, hadn’t he done his job? But what if Barnes wasn’t dead? Well hell, he’d done what he could.

  Just then he heard another shot, and it wasn’t his, and it wasn’t the cop’s either, since the cop seemed to have trouble getting to his weapon and the security guy was out of sight behind him.

  Charley saw Barnes hit like a sledgehammer: another blow, this one to his chest. Barnes looked up in the direction of a building on the far side of the parking lot.

  It occurred to Charley that George probably had a backup plan, and that plan was for George himself to fire that last shot. Smart of him. There might be no way a jury could know whether one of Charley’s shots had killed Barnes, or George’s had. Shots echoing on all those buildings around the parking lot, who would know how many shots had actually been fired?

  Anyway, it didn’t matter: he’d intended to kill Barnes; and if he was caught he didn’t dare speak up about a second shooter, out of concern for Darlene’s life, or his new grandson’s. He had no evidence George was the second shooter, anyway; who’d believe him? Or maybe Barnes had other enemies, who’d taken advantage of Charley’s presence to kill him themselves? Yes, a little comfort in that thought.

  Charley turned and pushed people out of his way and ran as fast as he could. Everyone in the crowd was too shocked to try to stop him, except one old man he easily pushed aside. There was a corner of a building ahead, the Morton Building. If he could just get around that corner and go for the car, he’d have a chance.

  Less than a minute before, on the roof of that very building, George was looking through his scope sight and cursing that damned Charley Dukes. Twelve feet away, and all that bastard could do was hit Barnes’ shoulder, and another shot had got that cop in the hand! Now Barnes would be a hero, and was sure to be elected. Couldn’t let that happen. George took careful aim and fired into Barnes’ chest. He saw the effect immediately. Unless Barnes had been wearing a vest, which George thought unlikely, he was dead.

  But that was the bullet he’d intended for Charley. He swiveled, saw Charley pushing through the edge of the crowd, running, dodging. He was almost at the base of the very building George was shooting from. George knew he had only two or three seconds to hit Charley before he was beside the building and George wouldn’t have an angle.

  No time to aim carefully. George pulled the trigger. Close, considering the circumstances; but Charley hadn’t been hit. A small gouge appeared in the sidewalk. Charley was gone.

  Charley was almost to the corner of the building when a chunk of pavement was kicked up immediately to his right, and almost instantly he heard the sound of another shot. Damn! George said Barnes’ security wouldn’t fire into a crowd. Well, he’d left the crowd behind so he guessed they’d taken a shot anyway. But with a pistol, from that distance… Still, it had almost hit him.

  George had intended to drive back to the motel immediately after Charley was dead. But now, with Charley on the run, George had some unfinished business. Would the police suspect that there was a second shooter? They might find out sometime, he thought, but not in all this confusion. He’d have to take the chance, stay in Grantwood a little longer.

  George knew where Charley was going: the street where there wasn’t a getaway car, never had been. Charley had a head start and would be there first. George had to get there before Charley discovered his key wouldn’t unlock any car doors, or perhaps there was no car on the block at all. How long would it take Charley to continue on from there, try to get away on foot? If he did, he was pretty sure to be quickly picked up by the police. It would be a shame if that happened. Sybille Haskin wouldn’t like that. When Haskin didn’t like something, bad things happened.

  But George hoped Charley would stand around in confusion instead, clicking that key long enough for George to catch up with him and finish the job. Too bad if he had to do that: the police would know there was more than one gunman.

  Charley was armed, so George had to be cautious. Wasting Charley would be easy enough if he hadn’t concluded there had never been a getaway car. George could just smile, wave and say ‘Hi, Charley,’ and shoot him down where he stood. But if Charley had already discovered the truth about the “getaway car,” well then …

  But enough thinking; he had to get going. Stashing the rifle in its bag in an inconspicuous place on the roof where no one was apt to find it right away, George removed a small pistol from the bag and put in his jacket pocket, then left the building, this time through the garage exit. He’d need to come back for that rifle once the town had returned to its normal lassitude. He forced himself to walk slowly up to street level. Then he quickened his pace.

  Charley tu
rned left in front of the Morton Building at a dead run. He dodged in one direction and then another, right, left, right…or was it left, right, left? Where was that car? Right, then left, then right. OK?

  With relief, five minutes later he turned a corner and knew he was on the right block. He started to pull the clicker-key out of his pocket. Between him and the corner were three cars – and two cops. They were both on their radios, bodies tensing. Looked like they were just getting the word, were sure to have Charley’s description. Shit! They could look his way any second.

  Quickly, Charley changed course, continued up the street he should have turned left from. He made a right, and then a left. Behind him, sirens wailed their song of fear. Where the hell was he? Maybe he should slow down now, not to look suspicious. But other people were beginning to run too, probably having heard there was a gunman on the loose.

  He continued on up the block. He’d go left and left and left, get to the car the long way around. But shit, in all that time, he’d be spotted for sure. If only he could put on a jacket or a hat or something, that would help. But there wasn’t a clothing store or anything like it nearby. Well, there was nothing to do but run.

  But left at the next block led to a dead end. And then left at the block after that led to a U that put him back where he came from. He was getting really desperate now. Sweat poured into his eyes faster than he could mop it away.

  George arrived at the getaway car block. Charley wasn’t there. He waited a minute. Waited another minute. Had Charley been picked up? Or had he just kept on going when he discovered the car key didn’t work?

  Well hell, he said to himself, I’m being pretty obvious just standing around. If Charley’s not here by now then he’s not going to be here, or he’s been here and left. He’s hiding someplace, or running. Or maybe arrested. That last thought sent a shiver down George’s neck. Whatever, I won’t find him now. And he’s going to call that damn Harrisburg number, the number he never expected Charley to live long enough to call. Shit!

  Charley must have been confused, got lost. If George were Charley, what would he do? God only knows what Charley would do. Wander around hoping for a magic wand or something. Well, screw it. He’d just have to hope for the best. George walked back to his own car.

  One block from where George was standing at that time, Charley knew he needed to make a decision: he was lost, could maybe find his way to the getaway car block again, but that would take time. And he might not find the right block. Then he’d be lost even more. And those cops could still be there. He’d never make it to the getaway car.

  OK, what to do? There was no place to hide here; he didn’t know the town, didn’t know anyone here, didn’t know which way he was headed. But he still had the gun. Better ditch it, pretend he was just out for a walk. A walk to where? No, he needed a car, so he’d keep the gun for now. North on Main Street, left to Harrisburg. George had said that. OK. Find a car. Hijack it.

  Natalie Jameson was getting into her Chevy Nova. She had bought it new in 1988 and kept it running faithfully with the help of the nice man at the repair shop, who she was sure had been overcharging her, but what could she do?

  Just then she saw a man running toward her; middle-aged, looked really panicked. Did that have something to do with all those sirens she was hearing? Maybe he was being chased by a wicked gang of terrorists and she was his only hope of surviving, and turning them in to the FBI where both he and she would get medals, and get to kiss the President. Well, she would like to do that anyway, he was such a nice-looking young man. Looked something like her late husband William. Only better looking than William; and probably cleaner, too.

  She turned toward the middle-aged man just as he pushed her to the pavement, tore the car keys from her hand and got into her car, ground the gears and lurched forward in her beautiful loving car (that she had so patiently cared for!) and drove off. Natalie lay in the street, wondering if she’d broken anything, crying for her lost love.

  Now she’d have to buy another car, but where could she find another Chevy Nova nowadays? She’d just have to buy something else, she sighed, maybe one of those Hummers her annoying car dealer neighbor had been trying to get her to buy. Oh, well, William had left her more money than she could ever use up, so maybe that’s what she’d do. A Hummer was a nice car, she was sure; but nothing like her Chevy Nova.

  But right now, she had to “call the heat,” remembering several webV shows. She’d never figured out how to use a smartphone, but her ancient clamshell worked fine. Two minutes later, Natalie Jameson’s plate numbers had been BOLOed to all points within a hundred miles.

  George walked back to his car and drove out of town, back to the motel. He wiped all the surfaces clean that could hold a fingerprint, just in case. Then he got on the Interstate and headed back toward D.C., George was depressed and annoyed. How had that God-damned Charley missed a kill shot from so close?

  After wasting a few minutes turning corners at random, Charley found himself on a wide street and drove in a direction the sign said was north. Once out of town, he picked a small side road near a creek with no houses in sight, pulled off, and tossed his gun into a swampy thicket that looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

  Just after he threw it, it occurred to him he should have taken the clip out and hide it where no one would find it. That way, the difference in the number of shots would never be noticed, if anyone could figure out how many shots there really had been, and George would be safe – his daughter Darlene would be safe.

  Annoyed at himself, he waded into the swamp, conscious at every moment a car could come by, a passerby gets suspicious, what the hell you are doing there, police informed… After a few minutes he found the gun, pulled it out of the water, extracted the clip which he put in his pocket, and threw the gun back.

  Now what? The Nova must be very hot by now. He looked around. He could make off through the swampy area, hide in some bushes downstream, but then what? Hitchhike? But too many people had seen what he looked like, and he still didn’t have a change of clothes.

  He had to have another car, or maybe a change of license plates; plates would be easier. He had to risk driving farther, find a place with cars where he could snatch a plate. Not a house – the owner might be home. He drove in no particular direction, making turns at random. A mall might be OK – far out in the lot where the mall workers parked and wouldn’t be back to their cars until evening – he hoped.

  How to find a mall? Did Grantwood County even have malls? He drove on, more jittery every mile.

  But there – was that a cemetery? A big area with lots of trees, these places usually had a few cars parked and the people off finding a stone. Yes. If he were observed he’d just find a stone and kneel down and pray for the late person’s soul. OK, that wasn’t a great plan, but it was better than any other idea he had at the moment.

  He pulled into the cemetery, drove to a lonely spot by a grove of trees, fished in his pocket for a penny, his “Lincoln screwdriver” as he called it. Wouldn’t work on everything, but might work on something. He strolled through the cemetery looking very sad and disturbed, which he actually was.

  Finally spotting a car with no people in sight, a Honda, he approached it, but just then he saw a couple coming his way, and hid behind a tree. They were arguing and not looking around, and didn’t spot him.

  “I need you to stop talking like that,” the woman was saying. “Don't talk like that. Not here. Not in the middle of ...”

  “Of what?” said the man, in a challenging voice.

  “Show some respect.”

  “You really are afraid of this place.”

  “God, you never stop.”

  “Let's just get through this. Just get it over with.”

  Charley was afraid the Honda was theirs, and they’d drive away before he could swipe their plates; but they walked on and over a rise.

  He finally managed to get the front plate off, losing most of a fingernail and some ski
n in the process. He didn’t want to risk being there any longer to swipe the rear plate too. He’d just put the stolen front plate on the rear of his own car. That should be OK unless he hit a traffic stop.

  Charley got away from the cemetery without being discovered or questioned, his new rear plate in place – a little shakily – in his old car new car. Harrisburg, that’s where he needed to be, he remembered. People there will hide him. Who? Didn’t matter. Maybe he could do favors for them, like hold up another 7-11, a bank? He shivered. He remembered that time he’d chickened out on a bank job and the others had been caught. Would they have not been caught if he’d been along to help? Never. No way. The job was a bad idea, bad planning. Never could have worked. Wrong time of the week for lots of cash to be on hand, anyway. Charley breathed a little easier. There was a trace of a smile. Sure had been smart to back out of that job, he concluded. Wisdom of the fucking ages.

  Just when he saw a sign for the Harrisburg exit in the distance, he spotted a construction site. Slowly and carefully, he parked and walked over to it. No one was around. He found a deep gouge in the ground, tossed the gun clip into it, and kicked dirt over it. And more dirt, and more dirt. Satisfied, he went back to his car, pulled out, turned left.

  He was now some twenty miles north of Grantwood, and headed west toward Harrisburg. That’s what the road signs said, anyway. Better find a gas station and call that number now, he thought. George should have bought him a burn phone. Too late now.

  He saw the trooper cars too late to do anything but pull over and try to run for it. He didn’t get far when he heard a shot and felt a sharp pain in his left leg.

  Chapter 11: The Day After the Assassination

  In the world at large, only Sebastian George was worried, not relieved, the news reported the next day that Charley had been caught. He’d expected to shoot Charley himself, had missed. And then, he hadn’t provided the promised getaway car, then he hoped for a shootout with police, and Charley wouldn’t survive. Charley had tried to run, had to give him that; but a 9mm-wound to his leg had ended that. And there he was, on the webV, hobbling along, a look of pain and desperation on his face, being escorted to the Grantwood City-County lockup.