Abused. He digested the word. Scale 4 measured anger, conflict and struggle. That could possibly describe Alex, especially if he had spent time in foster care. But he still had his doubts. Alex was—
“Did you hear what I said?”
He exhaled. “I did. But I still say my gut is never wrong. I’m re-testing Alex tomorrow. Maybe he was abused or unwanted. Perhaps he is angry, but deep down he’s a good kid.”
The principal said, “His answer to the Gretchen is right there in front of you. Look at the damn thing.”
“I have.”
“No you haven’t. Look at it.”
The principal hung up.
The psychologist sighed, and re-read Alex’s answer as to why Gretchen would have killed the sister after meeting a stranger at her mother’s funeral. The spiky letters stood out even more this time around.
Gretchen met her dream man at a funeral. To see him again, she must create a new need for a funeral. Killing her sister accomplishes that. Gretchen simply wants to see her love again. Her actions make perfect sense to me.
The psychologist rubbed his eyes. Seriously, was this the answer of a sociopath? When he originally read the scenario himself a few months back, he came up with a couple of reasons as to why the girl would have killed her sister. They were so far off the mark, he actually felt dumb. On the other hand, he was relieved his mind hadn’t moved in the direction Alex’s had taken. After all, to think of an answer like that… one had to have a pretty active imagination, or a twisted, dark side. Still. Alex a sociopath?
On impulse, he flipped over the piece of paper. He frowned, raising the paper to his face. There were small words printed very precisely at each corner of the paper, including one in the center. What the hell is this? He jotted them down but they made absolutely no sense. What was he supposed to do, arrange them into a sentence? Was there some kind of order? Some kind of meaning? He began jotting down the words.
Gretchen slit
The hope
Come on. None of this made any sense. This was a waste of time. He refocused, then quickly scribbled the only word sequence that made any sense to him—the one that literally jumped off the page.
Hope Gretchen slit that whore
He stared at what he’d written. “Shit,” he finally sighed and grabbed the phone.
Alex stood outside in the adjacent corridor, running parallel to Edwards. The rain continued to fall in drenching sheets. The boy watched the psychologist place a frantic phone call. No doubt to the principal, he thought. The poor man slumped forward, and spoke with his head buried in is hand. Then, as if he sensed something, the psychologist suddenly swiveled toward the window. The man lowered the phone. Their eyes locked. Through the deluge they stared at one another. At length Alex turned, took a sip of water from the fountain behind him, and began his trek back to Mrs. Reynolds’s classroom.
Sunday
Chapter 1 7:24 PM Last Week
Stay with us, announced the refined voice from the fifty-inch plasma, for C-Span’s coverage of First Daughter Caitlin Prescott’s live press event from the White House East Room. The seventeen-year-old daughter of Jack and Julie Prescott is featured in this month’s edition of Vogue that includes a seven-page photo spread as well as an informative article on life inside the White House. Coming up next.
The assassin eased behind the large partners’ desk, the surface of which had become a veritable shrine to the first daughter: a hairbrush, a pair of worn Keds and dozens of magazine and newspaper clippings with headlines that read, Orlando Eighth Grader Triumphs at Regional Chess Tournament and Eastland Freshman’s Glue and Toothpick Bridge Withstands 585 lbs. The latest edition of Vogue was carefully arranged just to the right of his laptop. It featured Caitlin Prescott, considered by many in entertainment and politics to be one of the “sexiest people alive”, draped provocatively in an American flag, while sporting flashy red stilettos and a head of over-teased blonde hair. Typical, thought the assassin. Predictable. Tedious. Fashion magazines had clearly surrendered any vestige of self-respect and creativity somewhere back in the mid-Seventies. In fact, the only aspect of the shameless charade that caught his interest was the first daughter’s riveting stare that simply burned a direct line from the cover to the reader’s eyes. That’s my girl. Strong and determined.
Though he had not gone by the name Alex in many years, he figured a younger Alex would have appreciated such an energetic girl. He and Caitlin should have been high school contemporaries. The two of us would have made quite a team.
The flickering of the plasma caught his attention. C-Span had switched over to a live shot of the East Room, decorated in 18thCentury classical style and famous venue to many public events: dances, receptions, concerts, award presentations and, of course, presidential press conferences. The camera was fixed on a small stage, framed by gold curtains, upon which stood a narrow podium, as well as four banner-size blow-ups of the Vogue spread. Guests and photographers mulled about the ornate room, gawked at the photos and mingled with one another.
Finally, a middle-aged woman in a smart business suit took the stage and introduced herself. The guests quieted down and began to find their seats. She rambled on about what an honor it was to spend the two-day photo shoot with the first daughter. The woman proudly announced that a portion of the Vogue sales would go directly to the American Cancer Society.
“Very big of you,” muttered the assassin, adjusting the laptop on the desk and tuning out the television.
The computer screen displayed exactly what he wanted. It was a specially-designed email program. The command, >telnet Eastl.edu, floated on the white screen before him, as the blinking cursor awaited its next directive. Timing was everything and now was the time. He tapped the keyboard with even strokes, and addressed his special email to the first daughter. The computer program assigned the return address he had specifically pre-programmed: WenAdams12@Eastl.edu. After a moment, the screen blinked. The computer had digested the command. Everything was now ready. The assassin composed his short message. He tapped Enter then sat back, and stared at the plasma and the view of the East Room. Go ahead. Read my message. Read it now, Caitlin.
Chapter 2 White House East Room 7:30 PM
Behind the gold curtains, Caitlin Prescott paced and fiddled with her iPhone. She was dressed smartly in a conservative, black sleeveless Marc Jacobs—a Matelasse shift dress, complemented by three-inch black heels. If the audience expected her to prance through the gold curtains swaddled in an American flag and teetering on red stilettos, they had another thing coming. She was made a buffoon of for the two-day shoot; she would not be made a buffoon again.
She plopped down on a nearby stool and exhaled. She shut her eyes momentarily, but that only accentuated the butterflies she’d been feeling since five that afternoon. Caitlin tried to ignore the woman out front, still babbling on about deadlines, photo angles and lighting. Thanking everyone and their poodle for this month’s issue. God, she hated these little ceremonies with a passion.
“You ready?” came the all-too familiar voice behind her.
Caitlin turned to find her mother, the inimitable First Lady Julie Prescott as many in the press referred to her, dressed to the nines. She was in full-blown first lady mode, simply soaking up the moment.
Caitlin sagged. “Can we just get this over with? I have homework.”
Julie Prescott fiddled with a shoulder strap. “Since when have you ever worried about homework? We send you to the finest school in D.C. and I’ve never seen you crack open a book.”
The