Page 94 of The Family Cross

“Maybe not,” I agreed.

Forty minutes later, the headlamp came back. Same guy, same pack, but we got a better look at him.

“That’s definitely not Bing Bang,” I said.

“Just a guy out for a run with a hydration pack.”

“Any more cameras in the area?”

“One more to check, the parking lot near the picnic tables about four hundred yards northeast of where Conway was found,” Sampson said, pulling the footage up on his computer. “This lot is open twenty-four hours a day. And it’s just north of the Reservation trail where it meets the Western Ridge trail.”

Starting at ten o’clock on the night of the murder, an infrequent succession of vehicles drove down Shoemaker Street, passed the Hungarian embassy, and went into the lot. A few parked; the people inside talked, then the cars left. But most of the vehicles just came in, turned around, their headlights sweeping the grassy picnic area, and left.

At 1:19 a.m., a white Chevy Malibu appeared. The license plate’s lights were off, and we could not make out the numbers. The sedan turned left and parked in one of the spaces closest to the woods and the intersection of the hiking trails. The driver got out; he was wearing dark sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt, hood up.

“That’s a big, big dude,” Sampson said. “Could be Hawk.”

“Or O’Hare.”

We were seeing the guy from probably a hundred yards away, but he towered over the roof of his car as he walked around the back. He opened the trunk, reached in, and came out with a gas can.

“It’s him!” we both yelled and watched the Firebug walk into the shadows and vanish into darkness.

81

I RETURNED HOME FEELING weighed down by the day’s events—seeing Anna Stein’s body, not finding the kids, and then watching the faceless Firebug on video as he went into the park to ambush, kill, and burn Professor Conway.

The house was bustling. Ali and Damon were watching the Red Sox play Baltimore. My aunts were twenty-five minutes from delivering another magnificent meal: chicken Marsala, roast broccoli, and rice. Bree was sitting by Nana Mama’s bed and studying her iPad.

My grandmother was dozing when Bobby Jain came over to give me the day’s report. On the whole, he said, it had been another up-and-down day for the patient.

In the morning, Nana had twice gone to the bathroom using the walker, and she ate breakfast and lunch upright in bed. But following her afternoon nap, she’d been as confused as she’d been the day before.

“She thought Jannie’s next race was today and she was upset that you all weren’t at Notre Dame to watch,” the nurse said softly.

Bree came over. “I was able to calm her down, and she seemed better when she fell asleep again. Especially because your father called and said he was flying up tomorrow to see her. Alicia was released from the hospital yesterday.”

“Her surgery went well, then?” I was glad to hear good news about my dad’s wife.

“Yes, and her sister is going to take care of her so your dad can come.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s real good. It will raise Nana’s spirits.”

Then I flashed on the Firebug’s first victim in the vacant lot behind the condemned building that F and L owned in Northeast DC. My dad would no doubt ask about Charlie. And if he did, I’d have to tell him and probably my grandmother what I knew—that he was homeless and last seen squatting in that same building.

“Alex?” Nana Mama said.

I went to her bedside. “Look at you, Rip van Winkle.”

She smiled. “Twenty years?”

“Not quite,” I said, grinning because she had not lost her sense of humor. “You hungry?”

My grandmother nodded.

“I’ll have Connie bring you something blended up,” Bree said.

She shook her head. “Speech.”