Grave Apparel (30 page)

Wise Men, and a shepherd have all been left unprotected from the onset of winter
weather
.

The
theft
might
have
been
a
prank
by
teenagers,
ac
cording
to
police,
or
the
work
of
homeless
people
who
gather
in
the
vicinity.
The
church
itself
was
not
entered
or
damaged,
Church
Pastor
Wilbur
Dean
told
The
Eye.
“I
don’
t
know
who
would
do
such
a
thing!
And
at
Christ
mas.
It
makes
you
wonder
about
people.”

“Vic,
read
this.”
She handed the paper to him. “Robes stolen.

A
shepherd’s
robe.”

He read it and met her
eyes.
“A
shepherd. No description of the robes. Big shepherd or little shepherd? Coincidence?”

“Pretty
coincidental.”

“Coincidences
happen.”
Vic
reached for another chip.
“A
known
fact.”

“I
wouldn’t
be so sure that kid is
safe.”
Lacey
pulled out her
cell
phone,
got
a
number
from
information,
and
dialed
the
church,
even
though she realized the pastor
was
probably
busy.
After all, it
was
Sunday.
A machine answered and she left a message, identifying herself as a reporter with
The
Eye
and ask ing
Pastor
Wilbur
Dean to call her as soon as possible.

She
wondered
if the kid still had
Cassandra’s
phone.
Lacey
dialed the
number.
Maybe the little shepherd
would
pick up. But it rang until
Cassandra’s
voice
message came on, saying she
couldn’t
come to the phone right
now
and please
save
the planet and
leave
a message after the beep.
Lacey
didn’t
leave
a message. The kid
wouldn’t
have
Cassandra’s
password
to ac cess her
voice
mail.

“Lacey,
please eat your enchiladas,
they’ll
get cold. Or else
I’ll eat
them.”

She
took
a
bite.
“If
Kavanaugh
could
take
the
facts
and
mush ’em together
like
she did, I
can’t
imagine what Damon
Newhouse
did with
them.”

“Don’t
even
think about
it,”
he said. “Ruin your appetite.

You
gonna eat that taco?”

“Right. I
won’t.
It will. And I am! Get your
thieving
hands
off
my taco,
cowboy.
Taco
rustler!” But of course she
couldn’t
get her mind
off
it until
they
returned to her apartment. And she let the
thieving
taco rustler
have
half her taco.

*

Lacey
raced past
Vic
and her front door to her
officeslash
guest room, the second bedroom of her apartment, which had a
lovely
view
of the Potomac
River.
Today,
however,
she barely noticed that wide ribbon of
water
that
divided
Virginia
from Maryland, gleaming in the early December sunshine.

“I
have
a sick feeling about
this.”
Lacey
sat at her little an tique writing desk and flipped open her laptop.

“I told you not to look at the
paper,”
Vic
said. “Do you really
want
to turn on the computer?
It’s
Sunday.”

“I
have
to do
this.”
She
powered
up and dialed into her ISP to connect her
woefully
slow
dialup connection to the Internet. She preferred to surf the
Web
at
work.

“Didn’t
you
want
to
do
some
Christmas
shopping?”
Vic
stretched
out
on
the
trundle
bed,
which
was
made
up
to
look
like
a
sensible
sofa,
his
cowboy
boots
propped
up
casually.
“What
ever
DeadFed
has
to
say
will
just
bum
you
out.
Guaranteed.”

“You’re
probably
right.”
She turned around while the Inter net connected. “I
know
you mean well,
Vic,
but
I
have
to
know
what
insane
flight
of
fancy
has
seized
that
little
wretch
Damon.”

“Don’t
say I
didn’t
warn
you.”

“Are
you telling me
you’ve
already seen it?”

Vic
closed his
eyes.
“I
don’t
have
to see it. Damon
New
house is an open book. Written in an
unknown
language.”

Lacey
turned back to the screen. “Oh, no!”

Cassandra
W
entworth,
oped
page
wordsmith
at
The
Eye
Street
Obser
ver,
took
a
giant
candy
cane
to
the
cranium
Friday
night
at
the
hands
of
an
unknown
assailant,
re portedly
disguised
in
a
Santa
cap.
W
entworth
still
lies
un
conscious
in
her
hospital
bed,
Conspiracy
Clearinghouse has
learned.
And
the
only
witness
to
the
savage
attack
is
said
to
be
someone
wearing
a
shepherd’
s
robe,
described
as
a
child.
A
child,
or
something
much
more
sinister?
This assault
may
be
part
of
an
orchestrated
attack
on
the
free
dom
of
the
press
and
the
First
Amendment.
But
by
whom?

Or
what?
According
to
sources
who
requested
not
to
be named,
this
purported
“child”
witness
may
in
fact
have
been
the
assailant.
This
tiny
suspect
may
in
reality
be
a small
man,
a
Little
Person,
midget
or
dwarf
with
criminal
or
paranormal,
perhaps
even
extraterrestrial,
connec
tions.
The
perp
may
also
be
the
perpetrator
of
a
bizarre hoax
calculated
to
delude
The
Eye
’
s
ace
fashion
repor
ter
,
Lacey
Smithsonian,
whose
ability
to
unravel
a
bizarre
crime
is
unparalleled
and
well
documented
on
these
pages.
What
part
in
this
attack
was
played
by
“Sweater
gate,”
a
strange
scandal
brewing
deep
inside
The
Eye
’s
newsroom
and
hidden
from
the
public
eye
by
newspaper
management—until
now?
Is
this
attack
par
t
of
a
con
cer
ted
effort
to
silence
the
press
on
some
story
Eye
writer
W
entworth
had
been
keeping
under
wraps?

There
was
more. Much more. And all in Damon
Newhouse’s
patented purple unparagraphed prose.
“He’s dead,”
Lacey
said.

“Who’s
dead?”

“Damon
Newhouse
is so dead. I’m
sorry,
Brooke,
but
he is so dead this
time.”

“I
was
afraid you might not
like
it.”
Vic
stood behind her and peered at the screen.

“The little bastard. He
can’t
really
believe
this
stuff,
can he?

Is it all just a big comedy act for him?”

“Who knows? Once he gets ahold of a
story,
all bets
are
off.
Sweetheart, one thing I learned about the press as a
cop:
Once the barn door is open and the horse is running
down
the
street, there isn’t much you can do, except to
say,
‘No
damn
comment.’
”

“He had the
nerve
to email me his resume
too.”
She
was
tempted to delete it from her email. “He
wants
to be an
inves
tigative
reporter
for
The
Eye
.
Can you
believe
it?”