A President In Peril

Scrabble. A brand name for a game combining anagrams and crosswords in which two to four players use counters of various point values to form words on a playing board.

— The Random House Dictionary of the English Language

Prologue

The marksman in the darkened second-floor room peered from his open window onto the sidewalk below, where onlookers had been gathering in clusters for the last half hour or so. The majority of them were the flophouse habitués who spent much of their time idling outside anyway. This was a break in the monotony for these pathetic souls: a chance to see a president of the United States, however briefly.

The marksman had no sympathy for the sad denizens of Chicago’s Skid Row. To him, every man had the power to better himself, and these people were no exception. They dwelt in this miserable stretch of West Madison Street in the shadow of the downtown skyscrapers because they were weak, undisciplined, and in most cases hopelessly alcoholic. He would be glad when his task ended in the next few minutes and he could leave this urban hellhole.

The sound of a marching band wafted in from the east. The motorcade would soon follow. As if to presage its arrival, two squad cars, lights flashing, and four helmeted police motorcyclists roared by, directing the onlookers to stay on the curbs. The marksman looked down the barrel of his bolt-action Winchester 70 .30–06 rifle, hefting the familiar weapon and relishing its comfortable, secure feel in his skilled hands.

Because his target would be no more than forty feet away, he felt no need for a scope. He had killed at several times that distance on Okinawa during the war in the Pacific without using a scope — although that was with a different rifle: the standard-issue M1 Garand. He far preferred the lighter Winchester. He had always been glad he hadn’t had to serve in Europe, against the Germans. That would have been like fighting friends.

He vaguely took note of a pedestrian below in a business suit and a crisp fedora. The man stood out from the otherwise seedy crowd, but the marksman remained so focused on his assignment that he gave the well-dressed pedestrian little thought. He did not realize he had seen the man before.

The band was louder, only a couple of blocks away. It should not be more than ten or fifteen minutes at the most now. The president’s motorcade, close behind the band, probably contained several convertibles filled with self-important figures including the mayor and every Democrat of note who was a candidate in the election.

He caressed the rifle once again, running his hands along its smooth stock. He rested the barrel on the windowsill, careful to keep it out of sight from the street below. He knelt on the floor, finding the most comfortable position, padding one knee on a pillow he had pulled off the rickety bed.

The trumpets and trombones blared still louder. He sighted down the barrel once more, but was jarred by a hammering on the door.

“Police! Open up!”

The marksman swung his Winchester around to face the door and dropped into a crouch. The banging on the door continued, then the wood shattered and splintered. The door tore open, its knob bouncing along the floor with a clatter. Silhouetted in the dim light of the hallway stood a man in a fedora holding — what the hell — a baseball bat!

Momentarily stunned, the marksman fired and the man in the fedora uttered a groan. Stumbling, lurching forward, he cocked the bat.

The marksman stood, backed against the windowsill, and raised his weapon into position for a second shot at the charging man.