Page 119 of The House of Cross

The Sparrow had changed clothes in the bathroom at the Baltimore train station. She’d left her ski togs in a wastebasket and now wore gray wool pants, sturdy insulated shoes, a pink turtleneck, a single strand of pearls, an off-white cashmere vest, a puffy blue parka, a darker blue neck gaiter, and an insulated blue ball cap with earflaps. She’d also bought a lapel button celebrating theinauguration of Sue Winter and one of the small American flags being waved by nearly everyone crowding the sidewalks and crosswalks of the broad avenue that led from Capitol Hill to the Vietnam and Lincoln Memorials.

A few blocks behind her, along Pennsylvania Avenue, a crowd roared. It was nine fifteen. The presidential motorcade must be approaching.

White did not care. She kept walking away from Capitol Hill, against the flow of pedestrian traffic and away from the heart of the inauguration activities.

Once she crossed Twelfth Street, the crowds began to thin. Independence Avenue was virtually empty except for police cars parked sideways, their lights flashing.

The Sparrow could barely hear the U.S. Marine Corps band playing over speakers when she neared Fourteenth Street and the Washington Monument. Her attention jumped to the intermittent wailing of an approaching ambulance’s siren.

White stopped by a small knot of tourists staring up at the monument and watched several black Chevy Suburbans with tinted windows lead a private ambulance through the various police blockades, heading toward Capitol Hill.

The Sparrow checked her watch. Half past nine now.

She got out the burn phone again and texted:Half past nine on the dot!

There was a pause, and then:We aim to please.

She smiled, texted,And I will be pleased to aim.

Several moments passed before a reply came:Patience, my little Sparrow. Patience above all.

CHAPTER 96

THE INAUGURATION WENT OFFwithout a hitch, and at eleven a.m., the nation had a new leader.

Despite my exhaustion, despite my anxiety over Ryan Malcomb wanting to cause cataclysmic damage to the judiciary, and despite the general divisiveness everywhere in the country, I found myself pretty damn proud of America and caught up in President Winter’s vision of a nation that “rewarded aspirational adults while addressing first and foremost the pressing educational and health needs of our youngest citizens, our children.”

After Winter described how an administration focused on bettering the lives of kids would dramatically benefit the country in fifteen years, Bree said, “She makes a lot of sense.”

“She does,” I said, yawning. “Makes me want to go home and see our own kids.”

Mahoney said, “Stay with me until we get the justices moved again. Mayweather’s ambulance is about to pull out.” He called up a feed from an FBI drone hovering over the Constitution Avenue exit of the Capitol’s underground garage complex. His cell phone rang.

“Mahoney,” he said and listened, then put it on speaker. “I have Dr. Cross and Chief Stone here as well, Mr. Reilly.”

“Call me Tim,” he said. “And I ran our databases on Katrina White and the GRU’s Sparrow program and got zilch. I’m sorry. Anything else I can try?”

“Nothing I can think of offhand,” I said. “But thank you.”

“I’m right here if you need me, though I may take a nap in the next hour.”

“We’re running on fumes here too,” Mahoney said, and hung up.

We turned our attention back to the screen and the drone feed, which showed Justice Mayweather’s ambulance exiting the garage and heading out on Constitution Avenue. We listened to the radio traffic from the security detail and from the presidential motorcade making its way down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Twice, the ambulance slowed—at police barricades at Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets—and I thought the opportunity was there for an attack. But it never materialized.

By then it was pushing noon and we’d been up for an ungodly number of hours with only catnaps and high-voltage coffee to keep us going. “We’re heading home for some much-needed sleep,” I told Ned. “We’ll check in when we wake up.”

Mahoney nodded and yawned. “I’ll bunk here after I contact Rebecca and see how Sampson’s doing this morning. I’ll text you.”

John was recovering from abdominal surgery in Kimberley. Rebecca Cantrell and Willow had flown up to be with him.

Bree and I gathered our things, opened the Lyft app, stared indisbelief at the outrageous surge pricing, then booked the ride. We just didn’t care.

A half hour later, we arrived home to find our house empty. Nana Mama had gone out to lunch with one of her friends. Ali was at a friend’s house. Jannie was at Howard.

We both took showers and fell into bed. I closed my eyes and started to drift off.

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