Prologue

Suddenly, it was quiet. No talking, rowdy laughter, or marijuana smoke circling her head and burning her eyes. Where did they go, she wondered? Maybe they went to that cabin they talked so much about. Alone in complete darkness, she was terrified.

Pain shot through her arms and legs, worn out from fighting. On her hands and knees, muscles cramping, she struggled to control her breathing. Every breath was a sob as she felt her way over and around bottles, tools, and layers of smelly clothes and blankets. Grunting as she pushed the heavy doors with sweating palms and aching shoulders. Scared to make a sound.

Open! Open!

Before stepping down into the stifling summer heat, she listened and kept looking behind her. Slow but sure, she crawled forward, gripped the door handle, then eased off the ledge onto uneven, dry ground covered in leaves and twigs. Moonlight filtered through tangled branches, hiding whatever lay ahead. She had to run as fast as possible. It was only a matter of time before they came back to find her no longer sitting in blood-stained clothes on a milk crate that wobbled each time she moved.

In any direction into the depths of the unknown, her mind convinced her that looming shadows swirled before her like ghosts. Imagining a canopy of imposing trees with bulging eyes, and winged creatures fluttering above her head made her try to run faster. Where to, she knew not.

Turn here. That way, Lorna. No, go to the right.

There wasn’t a sure or safe way to escape. The effort was as daunting as tracking a hurricane or wildfire. Indistinct paths all looked the same. She could have ended up atop a rolling canyon without a guardrail or at the edge of a steep embankment overlooking choppy water.

The farther she ran, the more disoriented she became in the heavy fog, but like a rabbit unseen by its hunter, Lorna kept running through the vast, uncompromising woods, hoping she’d soon find a clear path to follow and find the edge of a highway with its blinking lights.

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Chapter 1

April 2008: Three months earlier

Hidden beneath tall trees in a close-knit neighborhood, a mysterious gunman watched and waited until Hamilton Street was clear of pedestrians and passing cars. He kept his eyes on a brightly lit conference room at a community center. Finger on the trigger, he aimed to kill as many people in that room as possible.

Lorna Meadows organized a meeting at that northwest DC community center. Participants were respected community leaders, as eager as Lorna was to crush a political system that thrived on cronyism and corruption. She looked forward to discussing the upcoming mayoral election.

She asked herself if the bullets zooming through the windows were meant to strike her. Did Lorna have enemies?

Jealous, insecure women gave her the evil eye when she walked into a room, six feet tall. Braids hanging down her back like heavy ropes. Men wanted to date her the moment they saw her long brown legs and beautiful cat eyes.

At thirty-nine, Lorna was the youngest and least popular member of the D.C. Board of Commissioners, insisting on having a voice. Her boldness was interpreted as arrogance. Her colleagues resented her for digging too deeply to expose legislative and executive irregularities.

Someone close to Lorna overheard one of the mean gentlemen say Lorna had gotten too big for her britches, and he intended to teach her an unforgettable lesson.

Washington, D.C. was Lorna’s hometown. She loved its international culture and diversity but hated how the city had been labeled as the Murder Capital of the United States because of rising crime rates. Voting Mayor Rubin Staley out of office was paramount to an improved image and better government services.

The conference room smelled fresh. There was a skirted refreshment table against one wall. Ten minutes after arriving at the community center, Lorna hurried to the podium to make some welcoming remarks.

Shots rang out in a finger snap. She froze. Her feet felt like nails welded them to the floor. Everyone else moved away from the windows, bumping into each other, falling over upturned chairs, afraid they wouldn’t make it out alive.

Shouts and cries of “Oh my God. We’re going to die. Where’s the nearest exit?” bellowed throughout the room.

Lorna had no idea that she or anyone else was at risk of dying prematurely when she organized this very important meeting. Would the terror end before somebody lay bloody and breathless?

That Tuesday morning the meeting convened, the air was fresh with scents of springtime. By eight o’clock, Lorna was in her office, barely a ten-minute walk to the White House. At her fingertips sat a bowl of cranberries and almonds, which she nibbled on throughout the day, and sipped orange juice in a bottle. No one else had clocked in. No phones ringing, and no buzzing intercom to distract her.

Each workday started with meditation and affirmations that helped her cast out self-doubt, anxious thoughts, and images painting false realities.

She’d been told so many times that she was worthless like her mother and would never amount to anything; she believed every word her father said. Consequently, his hateful remarks stopped her from dreaming she could become much of anything that mattered.

There were days when it seemed the emotional scars from her childhood would never heal. Growing up in a violent household with an abusive father and a submissive mother, she hadn’t seen the best examples of love and marriage or genuine masculinity. How could she have become a wise or discerning romantic, able to see a partner’s true nature?

Today, she chose an affirmation from the Be You, Be Happy hardcover copy her therapist had given her. Five times she declared aloud, “I release toxic people who don’t serve me for the greater good. Possibilities for happiness and success are endless. Today will be a wonderful day.”

When she finished, she had a positive outlook. She felt calm and in control, then concentrated on the Commission deadlines without realizing she’d lost track of time until her secretary knocked and stood in the doorway of her office.

“Lorna, it’s six-fifteen. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late for your seven o’clock meeting.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Do you want me to call a taxi for you?”

Lorna looked over her desk, piled high with resumes and applications that didn’t fit the Board member criteria.

She sighed. “I can drive and still get there on time. Parking shouldn’t be a problem.”

Right away, she pulled a hand mirror from her drawer to be sure not a single strand of hair was out of place. She loved the recent cut she’d gotten in a flattering asymmetrical style. Blonde highlights made her hazel eyes stand out even more.

Sensitive information locked in a drawer, she clutched her purse, car keys, laptop, and laptop case, then speed-walked to her car and drove well over the speed limit.

Lorna arrived on time, smiling and waving at twenty government reform activists sitting at adjoining tables under bright lights. She knew most of them by their first names. She went straight to the podium.

Opening the hood of her laptop, she said, “Hello, friends.”

The group turned its attention to Lorna as she spoke.

“What a beautiful evening.” She closed her eyes and breathed in and out as if practicing a calming yoga technique. “I just love springtime.”

“So do I,” it was said.

“Thanks for coming, and for such a compelling reason. We’re here to plan for the right outcome on Election Day, which isn’t that far away.”

“September is only five months from now,” said a friend of Lorna’s.

“That’s right, Annie,” said Lorna. “You all know I’m the mayor’s most vocal critic. No more Rubin Staley, I pray.” Her eyes scanned the room. “How about that?”

The housing representative, who agreed with nothing concerning the mayor’s performance and conduct, no matter how blatant, vile, or profane, leaned forward in his chair, hands pressed against the table.

He said, “In my opinion, Rubin has done a good job as mayor, and I plan to vote for him again.”

Lorna’s voice rose to a higher pitch. “If you think gross fiscal mismanagement and lining one’s pockets with city funds is commendable leadership, then vote as you see fit.”

“I’m going to vote for him again.”

Lorna shook her head in disgust. “I’m sorry to hear that, but we’re here tonight to consider alternatives. I won’t be upset if you leave, but the point of tonight’s meeting is to identify a solid candidate to defeat Staley in September.”

“Good luck with that,” said the loyalist.

“God knows he hasn’t done the city a bit of good these past four years,” said Lorna.

Becky Rice, hairless from chemotherapy, skin radiating vitality, had barely begun to elaborate on a plausible course of action when gunshots ricocheted off the air conditioner, followed by another explosive crack splitting the air.

Lorna took a deep breath, the acrid smell of sulfur and gunpowder filling her lungs. Ceiling lights shattered like icicles hitting the ground. The conference room darkened.

Everybody kept their hands over their heads, crawling from spot to spot or lying flat on the hard floor, wailing in desperation. Some of the men hastened to hover over the women. They tried to shield as many from the shattered glass as they could reach.

Seconds, minutes, maybe less, maybe more, but the gun blasts ceased. Perhaps the gunman fled or reloaded.

“Let’s get out of here while we can. Go, go!” one of the men shouted.

Tables and chairs flipped. Lorna’s eyes widened in a blank stare. Sweat rolled down her face and neck into the inside of her shirt. The necklace she’d worn felt like a noose tightening around her neck. Dazed and too stunned to grasp the certainty of the moment, she gripped the podium tightly with both hands and stood still.

Additional shots were fired.

The stocky gentleman in army fatigues had combat experience. He hurried to save Lorna from a certain death. As fast as possible, he crawled toward Lorna on his stomach, reached, and grabbed her wrist with a firm hand.

“Get down. Get down before you get shot,” he yelled.

At last, she had a lucid moment and presence of mind. Dropping on her knees, she almost hit her head on the base of a glass podium. Only one bulb flickering off and on, she looked around in the dim light, praying no one would get shot.

Among fallen paintings and bullet-riddled photographs, Lorna spotted Giselle Winston sitting on the floor, crying and fumbling with her cell phone. Her repeated cries to a 911 dispatcher grew louder.

She pointed. “Help her,” Lorna said to the former soldier who’d yanked her out of the line of fire.

“I see her. You stay put.”

Lorna was afraid the shooter might come inside and leave the once orderly and clean-smelling conference room a bloody sight. But as suddenly as a hail of gunfire began, the rampage ended. Lorna waited five minutes, then cautiously rose from the floor. In the frantic aftermath, she heard moans, persistent coughing, and groans and wails.

“Do we need an ambulance? Is anyone hurt?”

Lorna’s heart thumped hard and fast, waiting for someone to respond.

“We’re shaken up, but alive.” Another woman cried while saying, “I can’t find my shoe.”

Lorna felt an enormous wave of relief when everyone returned to the main room, stepping over shards of glass, spilled water bottles, laptops, handbags, and shell casings. There was sniffling and whimpering as each person emerged.

Tearfully, she said, “The police will be here any minute.”

Even after the police showed up, Lorna still heard screams and gunshots in her mind. She wanted a cigarette to calm her and steady her breath so she could better explain what happened, but she didn’t have one, nor did anyone else.

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