The Art of the Devil Read Free Page A

I’m just glad you guys took me seriously enough to send someone out here.’
    Isherwood didn’t have the heart to tell the man that he had no real authority. Instead he said, ‘No offense, friend. But what makes you think you can recognize a sniper’s scope at one hundred yards?’
    Charlie Morgan bristled. ‘Eighty-two days in Okinawa,’ he said. ‘That’s what,
friend
, thank you very much.’
    Following a rough path up into the park, Isherwood encountered a few colorful autumn leaves and a handful of late-migrating birds; but for the most part, he saw only skeletal branches, deepening shadows, and bristling evergreens.
    To reach the area indicated by Charlie Morgan, he had to go off-trail. Almost immediately, brambles scratched his hands, and a singlet of perspiration sprung up beneath his trench coat and threadbare blue suit. Emerging onto another crude path, he paused to wipe sour sweat from beneath his hat brim and fortify himself with a jolt from his flask.
    Achieving the rise at last, he turned to look back at the vista spreading beneath him. The French called it
coup d’oeil
: the ability to take in a battlefield with a glance. After absorbing the lay of the land beneath the rising moon, he paced off a few wide circles, scowling down at a bed of fallen pine needles and a low parapet of rocks. For several minutes he used a foot to shove aside dense tangles of brush, uncovering at length a roughly human-sized depression, which had kept its shape thanks to a gentle rise serving as a windbreak.
    Lighting a cigarette with shaky hands, he kept looking around, seeking something innocent – a discarded bottle, a bracelet dropped by a couple of necking teenagers, a lost lipstick tube – to explain the glint reported by the newsman. The darkening night complicated his search. Using the flame of his Zippo, however, he pressed on until satisfied: there was nothing here except pine needles and dead leaves.
    Knitting his brow, he brought the nub of the cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers.
    Back in the Chief’s office, sitting beneath the soft glow of an electric chandelier, he explained his findings. Overall, he concluded, the site would indeed have been ideal for a sniper whose target was traveling in a motorcade below, and in his opinion Charlie Morgan constituted a reliable witness. While the evidence was far from irrefutable, his mind had hardly been set at ease.
    A brief, reflective quiet followed. Isherwood itched to reach for his flask; instead he reached for another cigarette, trying to steady his hands.
    â€˜Drinking much?’ the Chief asked after a moment.
    Isherwood started guiltily. He attempted – unsuccessfully – to cover his discomfort by snapping open the Zippo. ‘Here and there,’ he allowed.
    â€˜Some men can handle drink.’ The Chief’s gaze was direct and pitiless. ‘But Ish: you’re not one of them.’
    Blinking owlishly, Isherwood said nothing.
    â€˜Ike’s scheduled to spend the next month and a half at Gettysburg. If I get you onto that property, can you stay sober – and keep an eye out – quietly?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Don’t answer so fast.’ The Chief produced his own cigarette, which he lit with damnably steady hands. ‘I can’t afford to have a drunk stumbling around out there. We’re under specific orders from the doctors not to rile the President during his convalescence. He needs not only rest, but relaxation: everything sunshine and roses. Moreover, we can’t afford to stir up the hornet’s nest. If there
is
someone on the inside gunning for Ike, we need information before we show our hand. Keep a low profile and you can blend in with all the other tag-alongs … but not reeking of whiskey.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Go home, Ish. Dry out. Talk it over with the little woman. If you still think you’re the man for the