Second Honeymoon Part 55

It was the way Sarah said it-the "Holy s.h.i.+t, O'Hara, you might be onto something" tone in her voice. I knew instantly that we were on the same page.

Of the wedding section, to be exact.

The idea was a lot of things-risky, dangerous, a candidate for the Hazard Pay Hall of Fame-but it was also something else: the best chance we had to stop this thing. I was sure of it. So was Sarah.

Poor Emily LaSalle, however, wasn't sure what the h.e.l.l to think.

"I'm sorry, what just happened?" she asked with a hand on her hip.

"You're looking at the next Vows couple," I explained.

It took a few seconds, but she finally got it. After another few seconds, though, her face went from "Aha" to "Oh, wait." There were frown lines everywhere, and she looked overly concerned.

"I don't know if the Times can do that," she said. "I mean, that's a decision for-"

"Your publisher, of course," I said. "And trust me, I understand the ramifications."

Whether it was Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Bush White House when the NSA was engaged in domestic eavesdropping, or the Obama administration after the capture of Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, a top Taliban commander, there have been occasions during which the Times has been asked to delay or "sit on" a particular story in the interest of national security.

However, this was different. Yes, people's lives were in danger, but this request would have the paper printing a story they knew up front wasn't true. Notwithstanding the fact that most staunch conservatives already had a name for that phenomenon-they called it the Times editorial page-it was easy to understand how this threshold might be one the so-called Gray Lady wouldn't want to cross.

"Listen, we're getting ahead of ourselves," said Sarah. "Before we can get the paper's blessing, we need someone else's. The father of the bride, if you will."

I knew she wasn't talking about her actual father, Conrad Brubaker, whom she'd described to me as a retired art history professor usually found swinging a 7 iron on the back nine somewhere out in La Quinta, California. She was referring to Dan Driesen, who would surely have an aversion to dangling one of his agents as human bait.

"Maybe I can get Walsh to call him," I said, only to immediately shake my head in contradiction. "On second thought...maybe that isn't the best idea."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Talk about another blessing we'll need."

She was right. I had a little issue to work out with my own boss. My suspension. Throw in the breaking news of the John O'Hara Killer and I could already hear Frank Walsh yelling at me.

Jesus Christ, it's not enough you've already got one serial killer coming after you-now you want to arrange for another? You don't need therapy, O'Hara, you need a d.a.m.n straitjacket!

"Yeah, cancel Walsh running interference," I said. "Driesen is all yours."

Sarah turned to LaSalle. "When is the Sunday wedding section viewable online?" she asked.

"Sat.u.r.day at five."

That gave us less than three days. I glanced at my watch. Sixty-eight hours, to be exact.

"Amazing," said Sarah. "Who would've thought planning a fake wedding could be harder than planning a real one?"

"At least we've got one thing to look forward to," I said, keeping a straight face.

"What's that?"

"The honeymoon, of course."

Chapter 87

"SOMEHOW I ALWAYS pictured Paris," said Sarah. "You know, a hotel room on the Left Bank with an Eiffel Tower view." She gazed around our tiny, rustic cabin with its knotty-pine paneling and let out a slight chuckle. "This ain't Paris."

No, it wasn't. Not even close.

But for Cindy and Zach Welker, a couple of avid environmental types who first met-as the Vows column explained-on intersecting trails while hiking in Telluride, it was perfect. Two weeks in a Lewis Mountain cabin deep in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park. A little secluded bliss in the great outdoors.

"Hey, who knows?" wrote Zach, otherwise known as me, on our wedding website. "We may even venture out of the cabin once or twice during the honeymoon and do some actual hiking."

Of course, the Lewis Mountain cabins weren't really all that secluded, not if you knew what-or whom-you were looking for. Fifteen dollars for an automobile pa.s.s at the park entrance and you were in.

Heck, any serial killer could do it.

Or so we-Sarah, I, and the four other agents from the Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., field office who were stationed in the brush outside-were hoping. The D.C. agents were rotating with other agents on eight-hour s.h.i.+fts.

That was the only way Dan Driesen would ultimately go along with the plan. He still wasn't entirely sold on it, but he could hardly deny the ancillary benefit of having me surrounded by other agents. The Honeymoon Murderer wouldn't know what hit him, and the John O'Hara Killer wouldn't even know where to look for me.

In other words, my idea wasn't as crazy as it first sounded to him.

Ditto for Frank Walsh, who was willing to cut enough corners and red tape to essentially suspend my suspension. I had a badge and company firearm again. "Until further notice," he said.

Throw in the tag-team arm-twisting of Driesen and Walsh to get the New York Times to cooperate with our fict.i.tious Vows article, and here we were, Sarah and I playing the role of tree-hugging crunchy-granola newlyweds who just happened to be locked and loaded. Birkenstocks and Glocks, I was calling us.

Now the only question was whether or not the plan would work.

Sarah, fully aware of the irony, summed it up best. "After all the time and effort we went through to get here I'd be seriously disappointed if no one tried to kill us."

Chapter 88

"A PARIS HONEYMOON, huh? Sounds nice," I said, pouring myself some more coffee from the stove. We'd just finished dinner and were hanging out in the small sitting area outside the bedroom. As modest as our cabin was, it did, thankfully, have indoor plumbing, a small kitchen, and electricity.

The mosquitoes they threw in for free.

"What about you?" asked Sarah, tugging on the bottom of her sweats.h.i.+rt from the University of Colorado, Cindy Welker's alma mater. "Where would you want to spend your..."

Her voice trailed off, her face flus.h.i.+ng red with embarra.s.sment. She'd forgotten. I was once married. I'd already had a honeymoon.