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certain that the people in his command searched everywhere for them.
    “I want every square inch documented,” he commanded his investigators; four men and two women. “Remember, we’ve got only one chance to search the scene properly. One chance, people. The local gendarme has done a good job closing the city down, but it may be too late. So we’re looking for clues for a man named McAlister.
     
    He was convinced that even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him; in a crowd or up close. Sidney McAlister. Roger C. Waterman. These were only two identities he had perfected. They were so completely different from each other. From appearance to age, to stance, body language, facial expressions and voice. It wasn’t only a matter of hair color, glasses, or contact lenses. Of course, they helped. It went beyond that. He created distinct personalities, each with his own idiosyncrasies and speech affectations. Here was the proof he loved. He could stand face to face with a woman who both liked him as one man and despised him as the other.
    He was a great performer; classically trained by drama coaches, but a true method actor at heart. Private lessons, of course. He didn’t merely play a part, he entered into the psyche of the characters he inhabited. Waterman, the refined and intellectual art dealer. McAlister the smarmy salesman. It was theater on a grand scale. Every day was a performance for the man known only to himself.
    In truth, there was no Waterman. There had been no Christianson, Martinez, Collins or Hammacher before them. But they had all played on his stage and then disappeared just as McAlister had, even before he fired the shot that killed Jenny Lodge. Waterman pulled the trigger. And soon the antique dealer would vanish, unless of course he decided to come back to fuck Carolyn Hill. He fell asleep early with the thought working its way into his dreams.
11:45 P.M.
    Before he went to bed, the President had Louise Swingle place another condolence call to Congressman Lodge. He’d already tried earlier, but he hadn’t been able to speak to Lodge in person. The President of the United States usually could reach anyone in the country on the phone. But not tonight. Newman wouldn’t put him through.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. President, But I’m sure you can understand, ” Newman said. “He hasn’t been able to talk to anyone. It’s been too difficult.”
    “Of course,” Taylor said. “It has been a terrible day.”
    After an awkwardly quiet moment, Taylor continued. “I’ve assigned Secret Service protection for the congressman. If you haven’t seen them already, they’re outside of your hotel rooms now.” Newman and Lodge were in Manhattan, rushed there by motorcade after the shooting. “The officer in charge of the detail will begin working out the routine with you in the morning.”
    “Thank you. I saw them briefly. They introduced themselves. I realize it wasn’t required by law…yet.” Newman intentionally added yet as if to say Mrs. Lodge would still be alive if they’d been there earlier.
    “It’s the least we could do.”
    “Appreciated.”
    “Well, again please convey my deepest sympathies and those of my wife and the entire nation. Oh, and rest assured, we are giving this top priority. We have a good team investigating.”
    “I spoke with the FBI before we left Hudson. I told them we’d cooperate in every way. But just not right now.” Newman had no doubt that the FBI was briefing him at least hourly.
    “And Mr. Newman, I will find out what happened today.”
    Newman heard the tone exactly as Taylor intended. It was a message. Taylor was a hunter. He was no longer in the cockpit of a jet fighter on a bombing run, but he was no less lethal.
    “I’ll convey your sincere condolences and your commitment…to the candidate .” Newman’s use of the word candidate was equally intentional. He gave just the right emphasis to it, but concluded it would be useless to continue the dialogue