several deep breaths as they passed Martin Luther King, Jr., High School, the destination she’d never reached. Wooden barricades and yellow police tape blocked access to Seventeenth Avenue, her usual route.
“Stop here,” said Howe.
The limo stopped in the intersection, perpendicular to the temporarily closed Seventeenth Avenue. The lighting was poor, but with some effort the general could still see all the way down the street, clear to Fisk University. The FBI and other law enforcement officers were slowly walking the area, searching for evidence. Flashlightsdotted the neighborhood like flittering fireflies. Scent dogs from K-9 patrol zigzagged down both sides of the street. The steady whump of helicopters beat overhead, scanning the fields with infrared sensors, picking up body heat in the darkness. To the general, it seemed about as futile as the “urine sniffers” used in Vietnam, high-tech sensors that detected concentrations of excrement so that American bombers could pinpoint the enemy—or obliterate hapless groups of wandering peasants and smelly herds of water buffalo.
Anxiety set in as he watched from the back of his limo, the image of twelve-year-old Kristen burning in his mind. Who would do such a thing? he wondered. To be sure, a man didn’t reach his stature without making enemies. Some of his decisions had ended promising military careers. Many of his orders had gotten soldiers killed. Too, he couldn’t rule out the lunatic who simply didn’t like the way he looked.
An FBI agent tapped on the windshield. The driver opened the window.
“You can’t park here,” said the agent.
The driver was about to protest, but Howe intervened. “It’s okay,” he told his driver. “Let’s be on our way.”
A traffic cop rerouted them to a side street. They rode in silence for several short blocks, until they reached Fisk University.
“Stop here,” said Howe.
The driver stopped beside Fisk Memorial Chapel. Howe peered out the window. The old brick building was impressive in the moonlight, with a tall center bell tower and Gothic stone windows.
“I want to get out.”
The Secret Service agent did a double take. “Here?”
Howe nodded. “I want to say a prayer,” he said with a lump in his throat. “For my granddaughter.”
The agent sighed, but he couldn’t argue. He spoke into his hand-held radio. “This is Bravo-one. Short stop at Fisk campus. Must leave the vehicle.” After a brief pause, a clipped confirmation crackled over the radio. He glanced back at the general. “Let’s go.”
The agent led him up the steps to the double doors beneath the arched Romanesque entrance. He pulled on one door. Locked. He tried the other. Also locked.
“Sorry, sir. But it is late.”
His heart sank with disappointment. He turned slowly and walked back to the car. A sadness washed over him that bordered on despair. Being turned away by his daughter was bad enough. But had God shut His doors?
They walked side by side down the chapel’s front steps, until the agent stopped short. His expression turned very serious as he adjusted the ear piece on his radio.
The general watched with concern. “What is it?”
The agent paused, then looked him in the eye. “Divers found a body in the river, sir. No positive ID yet. They’re pulling it out now.”
His mouth went dry. “Where?”
“South of the Jefferson Street Bridge.”
He looked away, suddenly in a daze. “Let’s go there.”
The agent helped him into the backseat, then walked around to the front of the car.
As the engine started, the general’s hands beganto tremble. A tightness gripped his chest. He suddenly needed air. He’d felt this way only once before in his life, some thirty years ago, after getting word that his best friend had stepped on a powerful land mine off the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He reached forward and closed the partition between the back and front seat, so the driver and the agent wouldn’t be able to see him. Then his
“Stop here,” said Howe.
The limo stopped in the intersection, perpendicular to the temporarily closed Seventeenth Avenue. The lighting was poor, but with some effort the general could still see all the way down the street, clear to Fisk University. The FBI and other law enforcement officers were slowly walking the area, searching for evidence. Flashlightsdotted the neighborhood like flittering fireflies. Scent dogs from K-9 patrol zigzagged down both sides of the street. The steady whump of helicopters beat overhead, scanning the fields with infrared sensors, picking up body heat in the darkness. To the general, it seemed about as futile as the “urine sniffers” used in Vietnam, high-tech sensors that detected concentrations of excrement so that American bombers could pinpoint the enemy—or obliterate hapless groups of wandering peasants and smelly herds of water buffalo.
Anxiety set in as he watched from the back of his limo, the image of twelve-year-old Kristen burning in his mind. Who would do such a thing? he wondered. To be sure, a man didn’t reach his stature without making enemies. Some of his decisions had ended promising military careers. Many of his orders had gotten soldiers killed. Too, he couldn’t rule out the lunatic who simply didn’t like the way he looked.
An FBI agent tapped on the windshield. The driver opened the window.
“You can’t park here,” said the agent.
The driver was about to protest, but Howe intervened. “It’s okay,” he told his driver. “Let’s be on our way.”
A traffic cop rerouted them to a side street. They rode in silence for several short blocks, until they reached Fisk University.
“Stop here,” said Howe.
The driver stopped beside Fisk Memorial Chapel. Howe peered out the window. The old brick building was impressive in the moonlight, with a tall center bell tower and Gothic stone windows.
“I want to get out.”
The Secret Service agent did a double take. “Here?”
Howe nodded. “I want to say a prayer,” he said with a lump in his throat. “For my granddaughter.”
The agent sighed, but he couldn’t argue. He spoke into his hand-held radio. “This is Bravo-one. Short stop at Fisk campus. Must leave the vehicle.” After a brief pause, a clipped confirmation crackled over the radio. He glanced back at the general. “Let’s go.”
The agent led him up the steps to the double doors beneath the arched Romanesque entrance. He pulled on one door. Locked. He tried the other. Also locked.
“Sorry, sir. But it is late.”
His heart sank with disappointment. He turned slowly and walked back to the car. A sadness washed over him that bordered on despair. Being turned away by his daughter was bad enough. But had God shut His doors?
They walked side by side down the chapel’s front steps, until the agent stopped short. His expression turned very serious as he adjusted the ear piece on his radio.
The general watched with concern. “What is it?”
The agent paused, then looked him in the eye. “Divers found a body in the river, sir. No positive ID yet. They’re pulling it out now.”
His mouth went dry. “Where?”
“South of the Jefferson Street Bridge.”
He looked away, suddenly in a daze. “Let’s go there.”
The agent helped him into the backseat, then walked around to the front of the car.
As the engine started, the general’s hands beganto tremble. A tightness gripped his chest. He suddenly needed air. He’d felt this way only once before in his life, some thirty years ago, after getting word that his best friend had stepped on a powerful land mine off the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He reached forward and closed the partition between the back and front seat, so the driver and the agent wouldn’t be able to see him. Then his
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