another sip, honey,” insisted the nurse.
She felt the blood pressure cuff being secured around her left arm. It was cold. The cuff tightened steadily, then hissed, loosening bit by bit. Caitlin could feel a strong pulse beating in her arm. At length, the nurse ripped off the cuff. Agent McManus pocketed his phone and edged over to the bed.
“Blood pressure is on the low side of normal,” said the nurse, looking up at the agent. “Her color is back. Pulse is okay.”
The agent nodded. “Good.”
The first daughter heard the bell ring, and the rush of students in the hallway outside the clinic. A moment later, the door opened and in came Tessler. He was carrying her books. McManus and Tessler nodded to one another. The teacher approached the bed.
“I thought you looked a little funny.” He turned to McManus and the nurse. “I have this effect on lots of women.”
Everyone chuckled.
McManus said, “Was it something that was said in class that got you upset, Miss Prescott?”
Caitlin thought about the question and took her time in answering. “I didn’t eat much of anything this morning.”
“Hypoglycemia,” the nurse reassured her. “You’ve got to have something in your stomach before you come to school, honey. Has this ever happened before?”
Caitlin caught McManus’s look. She couldn’t decide if he was buying the hypoglycemia angle or not. “I think I passed out once when I had walking pneumonia. I was dehydrated.”
“What were you talking about in class?” the nurse asked Tessler, “Knowing ‘Ole Blood and Guts’ here, it probably had something to do with brain surgery.”
Tessler recapped the class discussion and the notion of repression. McManus mentioned that he had known Father Mulcahy, the topic of the class discussion, and that the priest was a tough Irish boxer from the old school. The agent thought the charges were completely absurd. “Mulcahy was as heterosexual as could be. He may have smacked a few kids around in his time. That’s how they did things back in the Sixties and Seventies. But sexually abused them? Not on your life.”
The nurse shoved a granola bar at Caitlin. “In the studies I’ve read, sexual orientation has little to do with who becomes a pedophile.”
“Well, if you knew Mulcahy like I did, you’d know the accusations were way off base.”
The nurse sighed. Clearly, she was not interested in debating. “What do we want to do with our little angel, Agent McManus?”
“I’m fine,” insisted the first daughter. “Seriously.”
“Are you sure?” asked the agent.
Caitlin swung her feet out of bed. “Don’t piss me off!”
McManus turned to the others. “She’s fine.”
Chapter 14 Terminal B Gate 21 12:35 PM
Maestro sat and faced the large terminal window. He watched the jetliners come and go. His aircraft had arrived fifteen minutes earlier. GSE buzzed about the plane, and workers casually pulled luggage from the underbelly while locking a fueling line into the right wing.
His cell rang. “Yes.”
“Is your flight on time?” asked the pale man.
“It is. We board soon. I’m looking at two hours and forty minutes in the air.”
“I have been assured that you have a car waiting at the other end, along with everything you’ll need.”
The assassin paused and thought about timing. Timing was everything. Though he had left very little to chance, he still worried that he might jump the gun on something. But what? He’d been incredibly detailed and meticulous. An error in judgment was unlikely. “The package,” he said. “Deliver it this afternoon. Understand?”
“Yes sir. Enjoy your flight.”
He pocketed the cell, and flipped open his laptop. Maestro prepped the computer as he had done the night before. His return address was ready: WenAdams12@Eastl.edu. No thought as to what he would write was required. He had prepared immaculately for this moment. He typed the message.
-How is lunch?
He hit the Enter key and waited. Caitlin Prescott’s school schedule was as regular as clockwork. If he knew her, and he certainly did, she’d be in the cafeteria right about now. Whether she’d get his message on her phone or iPad was anyone’s guess. Really, what did it matter unless—
-what do you want?
That was quick. The assassin was very pleased she had answered. It told him she was still intrigued by their game of chess.
-Did I stir up some unpleasant memories concerning Terry?
- militia bastard.
The first daughter’s response was not quite up to her standards. He knew she had already done some research on his friends out west, but she’d failed to peel the onion’s next layer.
-Do you remember me?
-what are you talking about?
This was no act. Apparently she didn’t know. Yet.
-You saw me from the window.
The gate agent announced the pre-boarding for his flight to Oklahoma City. Maestro waited for a reply. One minute turned to two and then three. He had more to say, so much more. She had to answer. She had better answer.
His laptop chimed.
-let’s get one thing straight. i don’t know you. you don’t know me. got that?
The gate agent announced the boarding of first class passengers.
-Birthmark one-inch above right ear. Clinodactyly. Type B blood when first lady and president both have type A. You are experiencing an uptick in distractibility, irritability, even violent tendencies. Obsessive violent thoughts worry you. School is becoming more and more pointless. In a community of villagers and hunters, you’ve always believed you were a villager. Now you realize otherwise. And your most profound question is this: Who am I? You know, Caitlin. You know. You saw me from the window.
He waited another three minutes for a response. What he finally got was clumsy, but not unexpected.
-who are you?!
The assassin typed back quickly.
-I am no one.
-cut the shit!
Passengers in rows ten through twenty-five were told to board. His fingers raced.
