Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(29)

“Do that,” Lucas said. “We don’t need any kids killed by nutcases. They might help prevent that.”

She nodded and walked away.



* * *



—

LUCAS FINISHED HIS BEER, paid for both of them, and carried the ANM material up to his room. He spent a half hour reading it—and it was more interesting that he’d expected. The ANM was apparently a radical libertarian organization, unlike the usual race-based whack jobs. They didn’t like taxes and didn’t think there should be any, or very few.

They didn’t like a big military, they didn’t like authority, they didn’t like cops or social workers or any kind of welfare, in which they included Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, and school lunch programs. They did like private property and self-reliance. They apparently didn’t care about a lot of stuff. They didn’t care about race, they didn’t care about gay marriage, they didn’t care about feminism, they didn’t care about prostitution or gambling or drugs.

“We don’t care what people inject in their arm. That’s their business. If they overdose, it’s not our business to take care of them—it’s theirs.”

They did like guns. Guns, the papers said, were a practical symbol of self-reliance. Their media list of recommended titles, contained in the shortest of the white papers, included both Henry David Thoreau and the movie Fight Club.

None of the papers were signed.



* * *



—

JANE CHASE CALLED AS LUCAS was about to turn out the lights and go to bed, and he filled her in on the meeting with Miller. “We’ll look her up,” Chase said. “We should have done it before now, but I guess we didn’t know about her. Should have.”

“Don’t disturb her,” Lucas said. “If she’s telling the truth, the thread that goes to the leadership is pretty thin. As far as we know, she could have some way of signaling that she’s been approached . . . or might be monitored. I need her to get to Old John for me.”

“What are you going to ask him?”

“It seems to me that he’s got an interesting organization and they’re sort of right-wing, in an unusual way. They’re not really alt-right, the way TV talks about alt-right. If Charlie Lang is correct, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they have a lot of . . . intelligence . . . on these other right-wing groups. That would be their natural recruiting grounds, picking out certain people who might tend to agree with them more than they would the crazier alt-rights. If they sent feelers out to all their cells . . . if they really have cells, like Charlie thinks they do . . . then they might come up with something.”

“All right, but, Lucas—no midnight meetings with Old John down in Whiskey Holler. Talk to me.”

“I will. I gotta have somebody calling me, because right now, I’m fresh out of things to do.”



* * *



—

SOMEBODY CALLED AT NINE O’CLOCK the next morning, about the time Lucas was thinking of getting out of bed. A man’s voice: “I’m a member of the ANM. I understand you would like to talk with one of us. I won’t talk on the telephone because of your surveillance techniques. In fact, I’m about to throw this phone into a trash basket. If you do want to talk, walk out under the front canopy of your hotel at exactly ten o’clock, turn right toward the Washington Monument, and start walking. Don’t cross Virginia, stay on the Watergate side of the street. You might have to walk quite a way, so wear good shoes. We checked the internet and we know what you look like. Come alone. If you’re not alone, we won’t talk. If you don’t like these terms, don’t come.”

Click.

That was clear enough, Lucas thought.

He got cleaned up, decided on jeans, a golf shirt, and a sport coat, with trail-runners, along with his Walther PPQ. He thought about calling Jane Chase. FBI surveillance teams were good, but the caller warned him about a long walk and the only reason for that would be counter-surveillance. There was a lot of security on a weekday in downtown DC, so he wasn’t concerned about being shot or kidnapped.

Still: Ten minutes before he left the room, he sat down and wrote a note to Jane Chase, explaining what he was doing and about the ANM contact. He sealed the note in an envelope with her name on it and left it on the hotel room desk. If he got shot or disappeared, she’d find it soon enough.

At ten o’clock, he walked out from under the canopy into the bright sunlight, took a right, and started walking toward the Washington Monument.

And he walked. And walked. He didn’t try to hurry, but ambled along, for twenty-five minutes, when he could see what appeared to be the end of the street. The Washington Monument was obscured by overhanging trees, but when he could see it, he knew it wasn’t far away, and there was a sprawling park around it. That’s where he’d be picked up, he decided.

He crossed the last small street before he’d come to a much larger one, and started past the small triangular green space on the other side. He passed a bronze statue where a man stood reading the legend beneath it, and as he passed, the man turned and said, “Marshal Davenport.”

Lucas looked back.

The man was as tall as Lucas, thin, but not hungry-looking, maybe a runner, perhaps thirty-five years old; brown hair sprinkled with white, conservatively cut. He had a tanned oval face, brown eyes, narrow nose and lips. He had an ex-military or ex-LEO feel. He was dressed almost as Lucas was, running shoes and jeans, but with a black T-shirt under the sport coat, instead of a golf shirt.