THIRTY-SIX

•   •   •

There were so many people. More people in one place than Lilly had ever seen before. She was glad Mr. Abernathy was with her and held his hand as tight as she could. When Mr. Murphy took her into the room where Mr. Abernathy was, Lilly began to cry. She was so happy to see him, so happy to see a familiar face she could trust.

They walked across the grass, weaving in and out and around people packed so closely their shoulders touched. Mr. Abernathy said, “Excuse me” a lot. Finally they arrived where he said they should be and they stood still. They weren’t even fifty feet from the stage where the vice president would be talking. Lilly didn’t know why they were there, why she was taken to that particular spot, nor why it was so important that Mr. Abernathy be the one to take her. Though she was glad it was him and not Mr. Murphy. The man gave her the creeps. But she did know nothing good was going to happen. She could feel it. This all had something to do with Mr. Murphy saying that her dad was like a superhero. But sometimes superheroes were forced to do things only a villain would do. In the end, though, the hero always triumphed, and she knew her dad would be no different.

Mr. Abernathy put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. “It’ll be okay,” he said with a wink.

“Do you know why we’re here?” Lilly asked.

Mr. Abernathy didn’t say anything. She knew it was because he did know but didn’t want to lie to her. He smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of happiness; there was sadness in his eyes and in the curve of his mouth. He patted her arm and winked again.

Lilly studied the faces around her. None looked familiar. Until . . .

There. She spotted him. The man from Denver, the one who had shown her kindness, the one she trusted. Agent Carson. They locked eyes and he nodded at her. He then made his way through the crowd until he stood right next to her. He glanced at Mr. Abernathy, then knelt on one knee beside Lilly. In his eyes Lilly found concern and sincerity.

“Little sister, you stay with Mr. Abernathy, okay?”

Lilly nodded. “Why are you nice to me?”

He took her hands in one of his, then laid his other hand on top. His hands were calloused but warm. “I had a little sister once,” he said. “We lost her when she was only nine. She had cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” Lilly said.

He smiled. “Me too. She was my hero, you know? She was stronger than I could ever be, right up to the end.”

“You must have loved her very much.”

“I loved her with every fiber of my being.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It’ll be eleven years this Christmas,” he said and his voice cracked. He patted her hand again. “Stay with Mr. Abernathy, okay?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“Good girl.” Then he stood and disappeared into the crowd.

Lilly turned to Mr. Abernathy. “I think that man is going to save my life.”

•   •   •

Tiffany turned onto Marshy Ridge Road. At the entrance to the campground she parked the truck along the side of the road and hiked up a slight incline. A few folks sat outside their RVs, sipping soda or coffee. One elderly couple had a fire going and nodded to Tiffany as she passed.

The road ended in a cul-de-sac that could accommodate at least fifty campers, each with their own electric and water hookup and paved pad. The tip of the loop jutted out into the Colington Creek on a wide peninsula. Not fifty feet from the most eastward site, the ground sloped downward sharply toward the creek, creating an elevated platform upon which the campground pads sat. Looking east, one could see straight across the creek, over a small wooded area, a residential neighborhood, and all the way to Kill Devil Hill, the location where the vice president would deliver his speech in a matter of minutes.

Tiffany’s chest tightened. Was she sure this was the location? She kept telling herself it had to be. Though the location was not at all prime for a long-distance shot, it was the only place where one could set up a camper with any kind of view of Kill Devil Hill and still remain inconspicuous. She walked the road, her palms now sweating, her steps short but quick, her back rigid. To the elderly couple who nodded at her, she must have appeared strangely out of place being so uptight in such a relaxing setting.

At the end of the cul-de-sac there were three RVs along the tip of the peninsula. All were oversize and newer models. One had the awning extended with a couple lawn chairs placed around a portable fire pit. All three sat quiet. Either the occupants were still sleeping or watching television or they’d left the grounds for the day. Or they were inside preparing to pull off the assassination of the century.

She remembered Jack’s words to her as he lay on that floor, blood spilling from his wound: “You have to. Stop Patrick. That’s it. Stop him.”

He’d earlier talked about God and whether she ever talked to him. Like God was a real person. Jack obviously believed it. But did she? Would God allow someone to get away with what Patrick was about to do? Would he allow someone like Jack, someone who obviously believed in him, to be shot like he was for no apparent reason? How? How could he just sit up there on his throne and watch all this happen and not intervene? She returned to the conclusion she’d held her whole life: if there was a God, either he was uninterested or he was powerless.

Tiffany stared at the RVs, knowing her time was running short. God might not be putting his hand in, but she was here to do something about it. She had to make a decision. She had to choose which camper housed Patrick, if any. She walked to the first one, the one with the awning extended, fisted her hand, and held it to the door. But she couldn’t bring herself to knock. What if Patrick was in there? He wouldn’t just answer the door, say, “Hello, what can I do for you?” and maybe invite her in for a chat. And if someone else answered, what would she say? She hadn’t even thought this through.

She backed up on the road and noted the license plates of each RV. One was from North Carolina, one from Virginia, and the other from Georgia. That information meant nothing to her. She studied the campers more closely as she paced the road, not wanting her inspection to appear too obvious to any of the other residents who might be nosing a peek at her through drawn curtains. Nothing was noticeably different about the three trailers, except . . .

The curtains. The one in the middle, a Blackwood, had the curtains drawn on the slideout compartment; the other two didn’t. And that window was the only window facing east toward Kill Devil Hill.

Tiffany swallowed to moisten her parched mouth and throat. Her pulse had quickened its tempo and now tapped annoyingly in her ears. That was the one. It had to be. That was where Patrick had set up his sniper nest. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes to showtime.

Again, Jack’s words were there: “You have to. Stop Patrick.” It was all on her now. But still the questions were there. What if she was wrong? What if this wasn’t the location at all? What if Patrick was elsewhere preparing to pull the trigger and there was no one there to stop him?

Tiffany tightened her hands into fists. The prayer came surprisingly naturally. She didn’t even think about it but simply spoke the words, aloud but quietly. “God, if you’re real and you care, do something.”

She approached the RV’s door and reached for the handle.