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“Oh, is it? I had no idea.”
“I’m sorry, Sean. It was so long ago and I was just here.”
“Forget it,” he said. “I’m just being a jerk.”
“Do you want to go there now?”
“Maybe later. There’s something I want to check first.”
“The closet Loretta Baldwin hid in?”
“Great minds really do think alike. The next thing you know you’ll be drinking fine wine and reading thought-provoking literature. And maybe, just maybe, that might lead you actually to clean out your truck, if you find you have a spare year or two.”
They went to the closet and pulled open the door. Taking the flashlight from Michelle, King went inside and looked around. He zeroed in on a small crevice in the very back, then turned to her.
“Loretta was small?”
“Almost skeletal.”
“So she could have gotten back there with no problem. She didn’t actually say where she was hiding in here?”
“No, but she could have just stood anywhere.”
King shook his head. “If I was a terrified person in the middle of murder, mayhem and screaming, panicked people, and I ran into a closet to hide, I think I’d burrow in as deeply as possible. It’s sort of instinctive, like pulling the covers over your head. She wouldn’t have known at that point what the hell was going on. For all she knew, some guy with a gun would come running in here to hide too and—” He stopped and stared at the spot where Loretta might have hidden.
“What is it, Sean?”
He simply shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He stepped back out of the closet and shut the door.
“Okay, where now?” asked Michelle.
He drew a long breath. “To the Stonewall Jackson Room.”
When they arrived there, Michelle silently watched, shining the light along his path as King stepped off the room’s parameters precisely, his gaze sweeping every point. Then he looked at the spot where he’d stood eight years before. Letting go of another deep breath, King walked over and seemed to take up his old post there, his hand creeping up on the imaginary back of a sweaty, coatless Clyde Ritter.
King was now firmly back in September 1996 as his gaze went to the imaginary people, the potential troublemakers, babies being kissed, the jibe from the back and Ritter’s response to it. He even found himself mumbling into his mic, relaying intelligence. He glanced at the clock at the back, though there wasn’t one there, and he couldn’t have seen it in the darkness anyway. Only three more minutes and the meet-and-greet would be over. Amazing when you thought about it. If Ramsey had been late or Ritter had ended the event early, none of it would have happened. How different King’s life would have been.
He wasn’t quite aware of it, but his gaze was now on the elevator bank. He heard the ding over and over. In his mind’s eye the doors opened over and over. It was as though he were being sucked into that vacuum.
The bang startled him badly, but his hand flew to his holster, and he pulled out his imaginary gun, his eyes going to the floor where Ritter’s body was. Then he looked over at where Michelle was standing with the flashlight, having just slammed the door shut.
“Sorry,” she said, “I just wanted to see your reaction. I guess I shouldn’t have done it.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” he said firmly.
She came and stood beside him. “What were you thinking just now?”
“Would it surprise you if I told you I wasn’t really sure?”
“Talk it out, then. It might be important.”
He thought for a few moments. “Well, I remember staring at Arnold Ramsey. He had this expression on his face that was not the look of a man who’d just assassinated a presidential candidate. He didn’t look scared or defiant, or angry or nuts.”
“What did he look like?”
King stared at her. “He looked surprised, Michelle, as though he hadn’t expected to kill Ritter.”
“Okay, that truly makes no sense. He’d just shot the man. Do you remember anything else?”
