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Authors: Warren Adler
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entrance of the gallery. The full edge of his excitement had returned and he felt his blood surging, his heart pounding.
“I am alive,” he murmured. “Alive. Alive. Alive.”
Having rehearsed the moment so many times before, he knew that he would arrive inside the gallery at 9:10, perhaps at the exact moment that Guiteau had arrived, filled with the same potent degree of excitement and fear. He knew it was the missing link in himself. Guiteau, fearing reprisal, the malice of the crowd, had even gone to inspect the accommodations of the District jail. Remington acknowledged a different kind of fear. But events were now in motion, and nothing must prevent him from going full circle.
The gallery had opened at nine. The tourists had begun to crowd inside; groups of high school students, the retired old people in long Bermuda shorts hanging low over scaly bare legs, cameras swinging from their hands. The rotunda was cool, its fluted columns rising like great stone stalks from the black marble floor. He saw in his own mind the old Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Station that had once stood on this site.
Remington’s eyes roamed the vast rotunda, certain that all vectors would intersect. The signs had all proven it. Everything was irrevocable now. As he moved toward the American galleries, he searched for the ultimate sign, a heavy black-bearded man, nearly six feet tall, in his late forties, a physical copy of the original.
As he neared the entrance to the American galleries, a nest of rooms at the outer edge of the west gallery from which he planned his exit, he was suddenly confronted by two men, both bearded, both physically perfect for his purposes. A double sign. Two! He hadn’t counted on such a windfall. They were both moving purposefully toward the American section. Which one? He had not counted on choices. According to the plan, he had to act at precisely 9:25, ninety-nine years later to the minute, even at the very second, when the big man had entered the B & O’s waiting room. He reached into his pocket, positioned the revolver in his hand, his fingers curling around the cool trigger.
When one of the bearded men trailed off to other galleries, he knew that providence had decided. Miraculously, now, the American galleries were almost empty, the guards lost in a haze of boredom. He had calculated the time it would take to fire and fade away; he had counted on a crowd pushing forward as he scurried down the marble steps to the mall that led to the east wing. He had done all he could do. Now it was up to the unknown force to provide.
The bearded man moved slowly to gallery twenty-six, lingered over the famous George Bellows painting of the battling boxers, then moved to the north wall. At that moment Remington saw the flags, unfurling and flapping in the breeze. Allies Day! Still another sign.
The bearded man paused, studying the painting. Remington let the seconds pass, then lifted the gun slowly from his hip pocket. The guard had just completed his circle of the room and was wandering off to an adjoining gallery. The room was deserted. The second hand on his watch intersected the six. Crotch tingling, blood surging in his veins, he lifted the gun and stretched out his arm. He sighted along the gun barrel to the spot on the man’s body that he had previously plotted, then squeezed the trigger. The report exploded the silence. He pulled the trigger again. The man faltered, staggered and sank to the floor.
He was out of the gallery with the sound of the echo. The gun heated his upper thigh as it rested again in his side pocket. He threaded through a group of high school students, rushing eagerly upstairs. Using them for protection, he moved swiftly to the entrance, turning right through the path between the bushes. Joining a crowd crossing the street, he insinuated himself into a line of pedestrians, using them as a second shield. He made it quickly to the Volkswagen, removed his shirt and put on his hard
“I am alive,” he murmured. “Alive. Alive. Alive.”
Having rehearsed the moment so many times before, he knew that he would arrive inside the gallery at 9:10, perhaps at the exact moment that Guiteau had arrived, filled with the same potent degree of excitement and fear. He knew it was the missing link in himself. Guiteau, fearing reprisal, the malice of the crowd, had even gone to inspect the accommodations of the District jail. Remington acknowledged a different kind of fear. But events were now in motion, and nothing must prevent him from going full circle.
The gallery had opened at nine. The tourists had begun to crowd inside; groups of high school students, the retired old people in long Bermuda shorts hanging low over scaly bare legs, cameras swinging from their hands. The rotunda was cool, its fluted columns rising like great stone stalks from the black marble floor. He saw in his own mind the old Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Station that had once stood on this site.
Remington’s eyes roamed the vast rotunda, certain that all vectors would intersect. The signs had all proven it. Everything was irrevocable now. As he moved toward the American galleries, he searched for the ultimate sign, a heavy black-bearded man, nearly six feet tall, in his late forties, a physical copy of the original.
As he neared the entrance to the American galleries, a nest of rooms at the outer edge of the west gallery from which he planned his exit, he was suddenly confronted by two men, both bearded, both physically perfect for his purposes. A double sign. Two! He hadn’t counted on such a windfall. They were both moving purposefully toward the American section. Which one? He had not counted on choices. According to the plan, he had to act at precisely 9:25, ninety-nine years later to the minute, even at the very second, when the big man had entered the B & O’s waiting room. He reached into his pocket, positioned the revolver in his hand, his fingers curling around the cool trigger.
When one of the bearded men trailed off to other galleries, he knew that providence had decided. Miraculously, now, the American galleries were almost empty, the guards lost in a haze of boredom. He had calculated the time it would take to fire and fade away; he had counted on a crowd pushing forward as he scurried down the marble steps to the mall that led to the east wing. He had done all he could do. Now it was up to the unknown force to provide.
The bearded man moved slowly to gallery twenty-six, lingered over the famous George Bellows painting of the battling boxers, then moved to the north wall. At that moment Remington saw the flags, unfurling and flapping in the breeze. Allies Day! Still another sign.
The bearded man paused, studying the painting. Remington let the seconds pass, then lifted the gun slowly from his hip pocket. The guard had just completed his circle of the room and was wandering off to an adjoining gallery. The room was deserted. The second hand on his watch intersected the six. Crotch tingling, blood surging in his veins, he lifted the gun and stretched out his arm. He sighted along the gun barrel to the spot on the man’s body that he had previously plotted, then squeezed the trigger. The report exploded the silence. He pulled the trigger again. The man faltered, staggered and sank to the floor.
He was out of the gallery with the sound of the echo. The gun heated his upper thigh as it rested again in his side pocket. He threaded through a group of high school students, rushing eagerly upstairs. Using them for protection, he moved swiftly to the entrance, turning right through the path between the bushes. Joining a crowd crossing the street, he insinuated himself into a line of pedestrians, using them as a second shield. He made it quickly to the Volkswagen, removed his shirt and put on his hard
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