Soldier . . .

Sir, go away, sir.

Soldier, what are you—

Sir, fuck you, sir!

Stephen slipped through the trees to a path and walked casually around the meadow, heading east.

Oh, yes, he was now even more certain than before that he had to kill Lincoln. A new plan. He needed an hour or two, to think, to consider what he was going to do.

He turned suddenly off the path, paused in the bushes for a long moment, listening, looking around him. They’d been worried he’d be suspicious if he noticed that the park was deserted, so they hadn’t closed the entrances.

That was their mistake.

Stephen saw a group of men about his age—yuppies, from the look of them, dressed in sweats or jogging outfits. They were carrying racquetball cases and backpacks and headed for the Upper East Side, talking loudly as they walked. Their hair glistened from the showers they’d just had at a nearby athletic club.

Stephen waited until they were just past, then fell in behind them, as if he were a part of the group. Offered one of them a big smile. Walking briskly, swinging the guitar case jauntily, he followed them toward the tunnel that led to the East Side.

. . . Chapter Thirty-two

Hour 34 of 45

Dusk surrounded them.

Percey Clay, once again in the left-hand seat of the Learjet, saw the cusp of light that was Chicago in front of them.

Chicago Center cleared them down to twelve thousand feet.

“Starting descent,” she announced, easing back on the throttles. “ATIS.”

Brad clicked his radio to the automated airport information system and repeated out loud what the recorded voice told him. “Chicago information, Whiskey. Clear and forever. Wind two five oh at three. Temperature fifty-nine degrees. Altimeter thirty point one one.”

Brad set the altimeter as Percey said into her microphone, “Chicago Approach, this is Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo. With you inbound at twelve thousand. Heading two eight zero.”

“Evening, Foxtrot Bravo. Descend and maintain one zero thousand. Expect vectors runway twenty-seven right.”

“Roger. Descend and maintain ten. Vectors, two seven right. Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo.”

Percey refused to look down. Somewhere below and ahead of them was the grave of her husband and his aircraft. She didn’t know if he’d been cleared to land on O’Hare’s runway 27 right, but it was likely that he had, and if so, ATC would’ve vectored Ed through exactly the same airspace she was now sailing through.

Maybe he’d started to call her right about here . . .

No! Don’t think about it, she ordered herself. Fly the aircraft.

In a low, calm voice she said, “Brad, this will be a visual approach to runway twenty-seven right. Monitor the approach and call all assigned altitudes. When we turn on final, please monitor airspeed, altitude, and rate of descent. Warn me of a sink rate greater than one thousand fpm. Go-around will be at ninety-two percent.”

“Roger.”

“Flaps ten degrees.”