They were about thirty feet from the solemn black wall when Czisman saw a man in a dark overcoat step from behind a tree. It was a cautious, furtive movement and suggested that the man had been hiding. And when he walked toward the Memorial he moved too deliberately, his head down, focused on the ground for no reason, as if he were trying not to be noticed. He disappeared into the crowd not far from Kincaid.

Czisman trotted after him.

Suddenly Kincaid turned. He glanced at Czisman, away, then back again with a frown, realizing that he'd seen the face before but couldn't place it. Czisman turned away and ducked behind several large men carrying a cooler. He believed he lost Kincaid. He returned to his search, looking again for the man in the dark overcoat.

Where-?

Yes, yes, there he was! A man in his forties, completely nondescript. He was unbuttoning the coat, looking around with dull eyes at the crowds around him.

And then Czisman saw the flash. A flash of gold on the man's neck.

He wears a gold cross…

The agents in the bar had told him that the Digger wore a cross.

So here he is, Czisman thought. The Butcher, the Widow Maker, the Devil…

"Hey!" A voice called.

Czisman turned. It was Kincaid.

Now, he thought. Now!

Czisman lifted his revolver, aimed it toward his target.

"No!" Kincaid shouted, seeing the gun. "No."

But Czisman had no clear shot. There were too many people here. He danced to the side and pushed through a break in the crowd, knocking several people aside. He lost Kincaid.

Twenty feet away, the Digger-oblivious to both men-looked over the crowds like a hunter gazing at a huge flock of geese.

Czisman shoved aside a cluster of college students.

"What the fuck you doing, man?"

"Hey…"

Czisman ignored them. Where was Kincaid? Where?

Still no target! Too many people…

The Digger's coat fell open. In one of the inside pockets was a large, black machine gun.

But nobody sees him! Czisman thought. It's as if he's invisible.

Nobody knows. Families, children, just feet away from the killer…

The crowd seemed to swell with people. The police were directing everyone toward Constitution Avenue but many of them were remaining-so they wouldn't lose a good view of the fireworks, Czisman supposed.

The Digger was squinting, looking for a place to shoot from. He stepped onto a slight rise in the grass.

Kincaid emerged from the crowd.

Czisman pulled back the hammer of his pistol.

The limo had parked beside the Mall, near the box seats reserved for diplomats and members of Congress.

Mayor Kennedy and his wife climbed out, accompanied by C. P. Ardell.

"You have to dog us like this?" Claire asked the agent. "It's orders," Ardell said. "You understand."

Claire shrugged.

Understand? Kennedy thought. What he understood was that he was virtually under arrest and that he couldn't even avoid the humiliation of appearing in public in his own city without a baby-sitter.

Any hope that his career would survive tonight was being tidily laid to rest by a few glances at the people who stood near the reviewing stand watching him. The ambiguity of Slade Phillips's news report had been missed, or ignored, and it seemed that everyone here thought Kennedy was practically the Digger's partner.

Cameras flashed, capturing the stark images that would be identified in the papers tomorrow as "Mayor and Mrs. Jerry Kennedy." He waved to some of the people on the viewing stand and, with grave tact, fielded cursory comments such as "Where've you been hiding?"

"How you doing, Jerry?" No one here really wanted answers; they were hard at work distancing themselves from the soon-to-be-former mayor.

The other question Kennedy heard was: "Heard you weren't coming to the fireworks tonight, Jerry. What brings you out here?"

Well, what brought him out was Claire.

The secretary of the African-American Teachers' Association had called and, only moderately embarrassed, had said it would be better for him not to attend the party he was supposed to be keynote speaker at. "Probably best for everybody."

Well, he'd have been perfectly content to slink back home. But sitting in his City Hall office beside him on the couch, Claire had had a different idea. "Let's get drunk and go watch the goddamn fireworks."

"I don't know," Kennedy had said dubiously.

"Well, I do. You're not the sulking kind, honey. Go out with your head high."

And he'd thought for a few seconds and decided it was the smartest thing he'd heard all night. She'd tracked down a bottle of Moët and they'd drunk it on the way here.

As they wound through the crowd on the reviewing stand Kennedy shook the hand of Congressman Lanier, who obviously recognized Agent Ardell for exactly what he was-a jailor.

Lanier probably could think of nothing to say that didn't sound like gloating so he merely tipped his head and offered a very unflirtatious "Claire, you're beautiful tonight."

"Paul," she said and, nodding to the quiet Mrs. Lanier, added, "Mindy."

"Jerry," Lanier asked, "what's the latest on the shootings?"

"I'm still waiting to hear."

"We've got room for you right over there, Mayor," said a junior aide, pointing at a deserted bank of orange folding chairs behind the other viewers. "Your friend too." He glanced at the large agent.

"No, no," Kennedy said. "Well just sit on the stairs."

"No, please…"

But, for the moment at least, Kennedy retained some social autonomy, even if he had no fiscal, and he waved off Lanier and the aide. He sat down beside Claire on the top step, dropping his jacket on the wood for her to sit on. C. P. Ardell seemed dense but he was apparently sensitive enough to know what kind of embarrassment the mayor would be feeling at the presence of a federal agent so the big man sat a few feet away from the mayor and his wife, didn't hover over them.

"Used to come here when I was a kid," the agent said to the mayor. "Every Sunday."

This surprised Kennedy. Most FBI agents were transplants to the area. "You grew up here?"

"Sure did. Wouldn't live in Maryland or Virginia for a million dollars."

"Where's your home, Agent Ardell?" Claire asked him.

"Near the zoo. Just off the parkway."

Kennedy laughed faintly. At least if he had to be under detention he was glad his turnkey was a loyal citizen.

Feeling warm from the champagne, he moved closer to Claire and took her hand. They looked out over the Mall. Gazed at the hundreds of thousands of people milling about. Kennedy was pleased to see that there was no microphone on the reviewing stand. He didn't want to hear any speeches. Didn't want anybody to offer the mike to him for impromptu remarks-Lord, what on earth could he say? All he wanted was to sit with his wife and watch the fireworks blossom over his city. And forget the agony of this day In his radio plea to the Digger he'd referred to this as the last day of the year. But it was, apparently, the end of many things: his chance to help the city, the lives of many of his residents, so horribly killed.

The end of his tenure in office too; Lanier and the others in Congress who wanted to snatch the District away from its people would probably be able to leverage the Digger incident into something impeachable-maybe interference with a police investigation, something like that. Add in the Board of Education scandal and Kennedy could be out of office within a few months. Wendell Jefferies and all the other aides would be swept out with him. And that would be the end of Project 2000.

The end of all his hopes for the District. His poor city would be set back another ten years. Maybe the next mayor-