Reagan National Airport
Washington, D.C.

He was fidgety today, more so than usual. His eyes darted around the crowded airport as he waited for his flight to start boarding. He had another hour to wait, if the digital bulletin board was correct. Why did he feel as if he was constantly waiting?

He readjusted his laptop computer, stretching his legs before settling down again. His wireless connection allowed him Internet access anywhere. It was the best investment he had made. He continued to surf for news articles, anything and everything about the murdered priests, two of them over the holiday weekend. The first had been over the Memorial weekend.

Was that how it worked? Did it have to be a holiday weekend? If that was the case, the next holiday was…what? Labor Day? That was September. He couldn’t wait until September. He wouldn’t wait. He had waited long enough, more than fourteen years.

His foot tapped out his nervous energy. He was annoyed by his restlessness. It hadn’t stopped. Why wouldn’t it stop? There had been no reprieve like there usually was right after one of his outbursts. At least, there used to be a reprieve for a month or two. The rage would retreat for a time. Oh sure, he knew it was just beneath the surface, but still he felt that it was manageable.

He thought he had learned how to channel his anger into other activities. And that’s what he had done with the game. Playing it, coming up with the characters and taking out his rage in a make-believe scenario had actually worked…or at least it had worked for a while. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had moved beyond the game. Sometimes he had trouble remembering what was real and what was imaginary. Only his rage seemed real.

All he knew now was that it had been only a couple of days, and the twitch, the throbbing, the restlessness had not gone away. It was with him constantly. He just wanted it to go away. And he knew exactly what it would take to make that happen.

On his laptop he clicked over to weather.com. It was raining in Boston, eighty-four degrees and ninety-five percent humidity. He had already decided he’d take the subway when he got there, as he always did when he was a kid. He had only one bag, an oversize computer case, large enough for everything he would need along with a change of clothing. He had confirmed everything, planned out every single detail. By nine o’clock this evening it would be all over with and he would be catching another flight home. And the twitching, the throbbing, the restlessness would be gone.