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Oates was thankful that he still had one. He knew how vindictive Senator Burton could be. He also knew the rumors about the senator’s alleged KKK connections. He didn’t believe them, but he couldn’t take the chance that they might be true. If they were, he might be dead soon. Unless he took out McDonald …
    Oates could have taken a taxi from his Georgetown apartment to the Adams-Morgan neighborhood, where the Hilton was located, but he didn’t want to risk being identified by the cab driver after the fact. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the D.C. police wouldn’t be the only ones turning over every stone to try to discover who had just assassinated a Supreme Court nominee. The FBI, the Secret Service, and perhaps even the CIA itself almost certainly would devote their vast resources to the investigation.
    The weather had turned for the season. The wind blew hard from the east, and snowflakes frosted the cityscape. Oates picked up the pace as he drew closer to his destination. The cold air—not to mention the adrenaline rushing through his body—propelled him forward like a power walker during a morning workout. He zigzagged through the sea of cars that converged around the many traffic circles that made D.C. such a hazardous city to navigate. More than a few horns blared as he dashed in front of more than a few irate drivers.
    “Ouch!” a pedestrian said.
    Oates had knocked a young man to the pavement in his haste to avoid being mowed down by oncoming traffic.
    Lucky for both of them, the young man was a Georgetown University undergraduate student who was used to getting knocked to the ground at weekend fraternity parties. Consequently, he knew how to take a fall.
    It wasn’t all good news for Oates, though. The collision had caused his pistol to fly out of his pocket.
    “Is this your gun , man?” the Georgetown student said as he rose to his feet. He was dangling the gun between his forefinger and thumb like it was a dirty rag.
    “Uh … yeah,” Oates said.
    “What the fuck are you doing with a gun ?”
    Oates’s eyes danced through the throng of passersby. The college kid had quickly returned the gun to Oates, and Oates had quickly returned it to his coat pocket. No one else seemed to have noticed the gun. One good thing about big cities, Oates knew, was that nobody seemed to notice anything.
    Oates said, “D.C.’s a dangerous place. ‘Murder capital of the world.’ Or so the Washington Post always says. I got it for protection.”
    “I guess,” the Georgetown student said. “Be careful with it, though. The fuckin’ thing could’ve gone off when it hit the sidewalk.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. But I’ve got to get going. I’m supposed to meet someone in a couple of minutes.” Oates re-buttoned his coat and left in a rush.

CHAPTER 15
     
     
    Peter McDonald held the door.
    Kelsi Shelton ducked under his arm. “Thank you,” she said.
    “I could’ve done that, sir,” said the Secret Service agent assigned to protect McDonald. The agent pulled up the collar on his trench coat to shield himself from the freezing rain that had begun to fall.
    McDonald said, “I know. But in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not too comfortable with this whole bodyguard thing. I’m not Kevin Costner.”
    The Secret Service agent smiled. “Whitney Houston, sir. You’re not Whitney Houston. Kevin Costner played the bodyguard in that movie. Whitney Houston played the celebrity. But with all due respect, you had better get used to it. Once you’re confirmed, there’ll be two of us assigned to you.”
    “ If I’m confirmed,” McDonald said. “ If …”
    Kelsi Shelton spun on her heel and flashed a thousand-watt smile. It was the sort of smile that made her male classmates weak in the knees. “There’s no ‘if’ about it, Professor McDonald. You’re a shoo-in.”
    “I thought I told you to call me Peter? … And how do you know I’m a ‘shoo-in’?”