The Last Oracle Read Online Free

bottles or cans, like crabs scavenging the last bit of meat from old bones.
    Gray did not sidestep the vagrant as he headed down Jefferson Drive toward the Smithsonian Castle, his destination. He even made eye contact,both to judge any threat level and to acknowledge the man’s existence. While there were certainly some panhandling cons perpetrated by a few who were less than needy, most of the men and women on the streets were there through misfortune, addiction, or various forms of mental illness. And a good number of them were veterans of the armed services. Gray refused to look away—and maybe that was what brightened the other man’s eyes.
    Gray read a mix of relief and hope through the grime and wrinkles. Upon spotting Gray, the homeless man’s shuffling gait became more determined. Perhaps he feared his quarry might escape into the Castle before he could reach him. The man’s limbs shook. He was plainly inebriated or possibly suffering from drunken tremors.
    A hand reached toward him, palm up.
    It was a universal gesture—from the slums of Brazil to the alleys of Bangkok.
    Help me. Please.
    Gray reached inside his blazer for his wallet. Many thought he was a sucker for succumbing to such panhandling. They’ll just use it to buy booze or crack . He didn’t care. It was not his place to judge. This was another human being in need. He pulled out his wallet. If asked, he would give. That was his motto. And maybe at a more honest level, such charity served Gray, too, a balm of human kindness to soothe a guilt buried deeper than he cared to face.
    And all it cost was a buck or two.
    Not a bad deal.
    He glanced into his wallet. All twenties. He had just cashed up at an ATM at the Metro station. He shrugged and tugged out a bill with Andrew Jackson’s face.
    Okay, sometimes it cost more than a buck or two.
    He lifted his head just as the two met. Gray reached out with the twenty-dollar bill but found the man’s hand wasn’t empty. Resting in the middle of his palm lay a tarnished coin, about the size of a fifty-cent piece.
    Gray frowned.
    It was the first time a homeless man had tried to pay him .

    Before he could comprehend the situation, the man tripped toward him, as if suddenly shoved from behind. His mouth opened in an O of surprise. He fell into Gray, who reflexively caught the elderly man.
    He was lighter than Gray had expected. Under his jacket, the man’s body seemed all bone, a skeleton in a suit. A hand grazed Gray’s cheek. It burned feverishly hot. A flicker of fear—of disease, of AIDS—passed through Gray, but he did not let go as the man slumped in his arms.
    Carrying the man’s weight, Gray shifted his left arm. His hand settled upon a hot welling wetness on the man’s lower back. It streamed over his fingers.
    Blood.
    Gray pivoted on instinct. He hip-rolled to the side and dove off the sidewalk, with the man still clutched in his arms. The thick grass cushioned their fall.
    Gray didn’t hear the next shots—but two ricocheting flashes sparked off the concrete sidewalk where he’d been standing. Without stopping, he continued to roll until he reached a metal-and-concrete sign planted in the lawn of the Smithsonian Castle. It stood only waist high. He huddled behind it with the old man. The sign read: SMITHSONIAN INFORMATION CENTER IN THE CASTLE.
    Gray certainly needed information.
    Like who was shooting at him.
    The solid sign stood between him and the Mall. It offered temporary shelter. Only ten yards away, the arched doors of a side entrance of the Smithsonian Castle beckoned. The building itself rose in turrets and towers of red sandstone, all quarried from Seneca Creek, Maryland, a true Norman castle, a literal fortress. The protection it offered lay only a few steps away, but to cross that open distance would leave them exposed to the sniper.
    Instead, Gray yanked a pistol—a compact Sig Sauer P229—from the holster at his back. Not that he had a target. Still, he readied his weapon