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it a barn with his 。357 magnum。
Both of them were snoring。 Khamel smiled to himself as he crouched in the doorway and quickly pulled the 。22 automatic and silencer from the Ace bandage wrapped around his waist。 He screwed the four…inch tube onto the barrel； and ducked into the room。 The nurse was sprawled deep in the recliner； feet in the air； hands dangling； mouth open。 Khamel placed the tip of the silencer an inch from his right temple and fired three times。 The hands flinched and the feet jerked； but the eyes remained closed。 Khamel quickly reached across to the wrinkled and pale head of Justice Abraham Rosenberg； and pumped three bullets into it。
The room had no windows。 He watched the bodies and listened for a full minute。 The nurse's heels twitched a few times； then stopped。 The bodies were still。
He wanted to kill Ferguson inside。 It was eleven minutes after ten； a good time for a neighbor to be out with the dog for one last time before bed。 He crept through the darkness to the rear door and spotted the cop strolling benignly along the wooden fence twenty feet away。 Instinctively； Khamel opened the back door； turned on the patio light； and said 〃Ferguson〃 loudly。
He left the door open and hid in a dark corner next to the refrigerator。 Ferguson obediently lumbered across the small patio and into the kitchen。 This was not unusual。 Frederic often called him in after His Honor was asleep。 They would drink instant coffee and play gin rummy。
There was no coffee； and Frederic was not waiting。 Khamel fired three bullets into the back of his head； and he fell loudly on the kitchen table。
He turned out the patio light and unscrewed the silencer。 He would not need it again。 It and the pistol were stuffed into the Ace bandage。 Khamel peeked out the front window。 The dome light was on and the agents were reading。 He stepped over Ferguson； locked the back door； and disappeared into the darkness of the small rear lawn。 He jumped two fences without a sound； and found the street。 He began trotting。 Khamel the jogger。
* * *
IN THE DARK BALCONY of the Montrose Theatre； Glenn Jensen sat by himself and watched the naked and quite active men on the screen below。 He ate popcorn from a large box and noticed nothing but the bodies。 He was dressed conservatively enough； navy cardigan； chinos； loafers。 And wide sunglasses to hide his eyes and a suede fedora to cover his head。 He was blessed with a face that was easily forgotten； and once camouflaged it could never be recognized。 Especially in a deserted balcony of a near…empty gay porno house at midnight。 No ear…rings； bandannas； gold chains； jewelry； nothing to indicate he was in the market for a panion。 He wanted to be ignored。
It had bee a challenge； really； this cat…and…mouse game with the FBI and the rest of the world。 On this night； they had dutifully stationed themselves in the parking lot outside his building。 Another pair parked by the exit near the veranda in the rear； and he allowed them all to sit for four and a half hours before he disguised himself and walked nonchalantly to the garage in the basement and drove away in a friend's car。 The building had too many points of egress for the poor Fibbies to monitor him。 He was sympathetic to a point； but he had his life to live。 If the Fibbies couldn't find him； how could a killer？
The balcony was divided into three small sections with six rows each。 It was very dark； the only light being the heavy blue stream from the projector behind。 Broken seats and folded tables were piled along the outside aisles。 The velvet drapes along the walls were shredded and falling。 It was a marvelous place to hide。
He used to worry about getting caught。 In the months after his confirmation； he was terrified。 He couldn't eat his popcorn； and damned sure couldn't enjoy the movies。 He told himself that if he was caught or recognized； or in some awful way exposed； he would simply claim he was doing research for an obscenity case pending。 There was always one on the docket； and maybe somehow this might be believed。 This excuse could work； he told himself repeatedly； and he grew bolder。 But one night in 1990； a theater caught fire； and four people died。 Their names were in the paper。 Big story。 Justice Glenn Jensen happened to be in the rest room when he heard the screams and smelled the smoke。 He rushed into the street and disappeared。 The dead were all found in the balcony。 He knew one of them。 He gave up movies for two months； but then started back。 He needed more research； he told himself。
And what if he got caught？ The appointment was for life。 The voters couldn't call him home。
He liked the Montrose because on Tuesdays the movies ran all night； but there was never a crowd。 He liked the popcorn； and draft beer cost fifty cents。
Two old men in the center section groped and fondled each other。 Jensen glanced at them occasionally； but concentrated on the movie。 Sad； he thought； to be seventy years old； staring at death and dodging AIDS； and banished to a dirty balcony to find happiness。
A fourth person soon joined them on the balcony。 He glanced at Jensen and the two men locked together； and he walked quietly with his draft beer and popcorn to the top row of the center section。 The projector room was directly behind him。 To his right and down three rows sat the Justice。 In front of him； the gray and mature lovers kissed and whispered and giggled； oblivious to the world。
He was dressed appropriately。 Tight jeans； black silk shirt； earring； horn…rimmed shades； and the neatly trimmed hair and mustache of a regular gay。 Khamel the homosexual。
He waited a few minutes； then eased to his right and sat by the aisle。 No one noticed。 Who would care where he sat？
At twelve…twenty； the old men lost steam。 They stood； arm in arm； and tiptoed away； still whispering and snickering。 Jensen did not look at them。 He was engrossed in the movie； a massive orgy on a yacht in the middle of a hurricane。 Khamel moved like a cat across the narrow aisle to a seat three rows behind the Justice。 He sipped the beer。 They were alone。 He waited for one minute； and quickly moved down a row。 Jensen was eight feet away。
As the hurricane intensified； so did the orgy。 The roar of the wind and the screams of the partyers deafened the small theater。 Khamel set the beer and popcorn on the floor； and pulled a three…foot strand of yellow nylon ski rope from his waist。 He quickly wrapped the ends around both hands； and stepped over the row of chairs in front of him。 His prey was breathing heavy。 The popcorn box was shaking。
The attack was quick and brutal。 Khamel looped the rope just under the larynx； and wrenched it violently。 He yanked the rope downward； snapping the head over the back of the seat。 The neck broke cleanly。 He twisted the rope and tied it behind the neck。 He slid a six…inch steel rod through a loop in the knot； and wound the tourniquet until the flesh tore and started to bleed。 It was over in ten seconds。
Suddenly the hurricane was over and another orgy began in celebration。 Jensen slumped in his seat。 His popcorn was scattered around his shoes。 Khamel was not one to admire his handiwork。 He left the balcony； walked casually through the racks of magazines and devices in the lobby； then disappeared onto the sidewalk。
He drove the generic white Ford with Connecticut plates to Dulles； changed clothes in a rest room； and waited on his flight to Paris。
* * *
THE FIRST LADY was on the West Coast attending a series of five…thousand…dollars…a…plate breakfasts where the rich and pretentious gladly shucked out the money for cold eggs and cheap champagne； and the chance to be seen and maybe photographed with the Queen； as she was known。 So the President was sleeping alone when the phone rang。 In the great tradition of American Presidents； he had in years past thought of keeping a mistress。 But now it seemed so non…Republican。 Besides； he was old and tired。 He often slept alone when the Queen was at the White House。
He was a heavy sleeper。 It rang twelve times before he heard it。 He grabbed it and stared at the clock。 Four…thirty A。M。 He listened to the voice； jumped to his feet； and eight minutes later was in the Oval Office。 No shower； no tie。 He stared at Fletcher Coal； his chief of staff； and sat properly behind his desk。
Coal was smiling。 His perfect teeth and bald head were shining。 Only thirty…seven； he was the boy wonder who four years earlier had rescued a failing campaign and placed his boss in the White House。 He was a guileful manipulator and a nasty henchman who had cut and clawed his way through the inner circle until he was now second in mand。 Many viewed him as the real boss。 The mere mention of his name terrified lowly staffers。
〃What happened？〃 the President asked slowly。
Coal paced in front of the President's desk。 〃Don't know much。 They're both dead。 Two FBI agents found Rosenberg around 1 A。M。 Dead in bed。 His nurse and a Supreme Court policeman were also murdered。 All three shot in the head。 A very clean job。 While the FBI and D。C。 police were investigating； they got a call that Jensen had been found dead in some queer club。 They found him a couple of hours ago。 Voyles called me at four； and I called you。 He and Gminski should be here in a minute。〃
〃Gminski？〃
〃The CIA should be included； at least for now。〃
The President folded his hands behind his head and stretched。 〃Rosenberg is dead。〃
〃Yes。 Quite。 I suggest you address the nation in a couple of hours。 Mabry is working on a rough draft。 I'll finish it。 Let's wait until daylight； at least seven。 If not； it'll be too early and we'll lose much of our audience。〃
〃The press〃
〃Yes。 It's out。 They filmed the ambulance crew rolling Jensen into the morgue。〃
〃I didn't know he was gay。〃
〃Not much doubt about it now。 This is the perfect crisis； Mr。 President。 Think of it。 We didn't create it。 It's not our fault。 No one can blame us。 And the nation will be shocked into some degree of solidarity。 It's rally around the leader time。 It's just great。 No downside。〃
The President sipped a cup of coffee and stared at the papers on his desk。 〃And I'll get to restructure the Court。〃
〃That's the best part。 It'll be your legacy。 I've already called Duvall at Justice and instructed him to contact Horton and begin a preliminary list of nominees。 Horton gave a speech in Omaha last night； but he's flying in now。 I suggest we meet with him later this morning。〃
The President nodded with his customary approval of Coal's suggestions。 He allowed Coal to sweat the details。 He had never been a detail man himself。 〃Any suspects？〃
〃Not yet。 I don't know； really。 I told Voyles that you would expect a briefing when he arrived。〃
〃I thought someone said the FBI was protecting the Supreme Court。〃
Coal smiled wider and chuckled。 〃Exactly。 The egg is on Voyles' face。 It's quite embarrassing； really。〃
〃Great。 I want Voyles to get his share of the blame。 Take care of the press。 I want him humiliated。 Then maybe we can run his ass off。〃
Coal loved this thought。 He stopped pacing and scribbled a note on his legal pad。 A security guard knocked on the door； then opened it。 Directors Voyles and Gminski entered together。 The mood was suddenly somber as all four shook hands。 The two sat before the President's desk as Coal took his customary position standing near a window； to the side of the President。 He hated Voyles and Gminski； and they hated him。 Coal thrived on hatred。 He had the President's ear； and that was all that mattered。 He would bee quiet for a few minutes。 It was important to allow the President to take charge when others were present。
〃I'm very sorry you're here； but thanks for ing；〃 the President said。 They nodded grimly and acknowledged this obvious lie。 〃What happened？〃
Voyles spoke quickly and to the point。 He described the scene at Rosenberg's home w