A rumble from my stomach on the way reminded me how long it had been since I’d eaten, so I stopped at a convenience store on the way and bought a sandwich. The motel night manager gave me a twice-over, so I volunteered a lie and told him I’d slipped getting in my car and banged my head against the doorframe. I showed him the bag from the drug store. That, plus two nights’ cash, got me the key to a room—third floor on the end where I could hear people coming. He slid a sheet of paper across the counter and asked for my signature and license plate number. I signed it “Jack Calhoun.” He directed me around the corner to a lot in back and told me how to find the stairs up to the third floor.
Nothing fancy, the room was clean and comfortable. After tossing my duffel on the bed, I unwrapped the sandwich and took a huge bite. While chewing, I stripped off the bloody clothes and took them along with the bag of first aid supplies into the bathroom. Cheap electric clippers cut my hair to stubble, giving me access to the gash above my ear. I showered, toweled dry and put on clean pants and shirt. Bending over the sink, I irrigated the gash with the peroxide and closed it with short butterfly strips. A small square of gauze taped over that finished the dressing. Inspecting it in the mirror, I decided it could have been a lot worse. I opened a new bottle of ibuprofen and washed down four with water.
After stuffing the clothes and wrappers in the drug store bag, I ate the rest of the sandwich while rinsing out the windbreaker. The temperature had dropped enough outside that I’d need it. The other clothes were dispensable. Fortunately, the blood didn’t show much against the navy fabric, and I managed to get most of it out anyway with the help of a little more peroxide. The motel stocked the bathroom with a hair dryer, and I used it to dry the windbreaker.
Finished with the household chores, I turned on the television and sat on the end of the bed to flip through the channels. Most of the network shows were reruns even though the “season” was barely a month old. None of it held my attention anyway. The news channels still cycled my cross-country “rampage,” but hadn’t yet thrown in the events in Ruckersville, which surprised me. Not that I wasn’t grateful. The media would catch on soon enough, raising the heat on me to unbearable levels. Maybe I wouldn’t need the windbreaker or the sweatshirt after all.
I muted the TV and dumped the contents of the duffel on the bed. Too wired to sleep, I catalogued my spare belongings, reorganized them, and repacked the duffel, adding the leftover supplies from the pharmacy. It was mindless work, giving my thoughts free rein to roam. The whole day had been disastrous, but as I mentally watched a highlights reel, something nagged at me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and as I tried to figure it out, I heard noises on the walkway outside my room.
67
Her own heart pounding, Roberts heard Hunt draw a deep breath before rapping the door hard with his knuckles.
“Mr. Keator, Terry Hunt, FBI,” he called. “We’d like to speak with you.”
A yellow glow spilled from the window onto the walkway and vanished over the edge, the black asphalt below barely visible in the dark except for the white striping marking parking slots. Pools of light from lampposts dotted the rest of the lot. The muffled sound of voices from the television reverberated through the window, but Roberts heard nothing else from inside room 310. Hunt glanced over his shoulder at her. Her brows knit as she stared expectantly past him at the door. Hunt banged again, with the heel of his hand this time, making it boom dully.
“Mr. Keator, open up! We need to talk.”
Again, there was no response, and Roberts stepped to the rail. Farquhar moved into one of the pools of light and looked up at her. She shook her head and raised her gaze to the far side of the lot to Rachel Calhoun’s car just to reassure herself it hadn’t moved. Marquette leaned against the corner of the two-story building, arms crossed, one knee bent, looking up at them. She turned and looked down the third-floor walkway. The two SWAT team members were poised and ready, one standing, the other kneeling. Romero poked his bald head up behind them, craning his neck to see what was going on. Next to her Hunt raised his hand and crooked a finger. Romero looked around then pointed at his chest, mouthing the word, “Me?” Hunt nodded, and the thin man squeezed past SWAT and hurried up to them.
“I need your passkey,” Hunt said. “Open the door, please.”
Romero leaned in, inserted the key and unlocked it, then pulled the key and backed away.
When Hunt put his hand on the knob, she took a breath, rolled her head in a circle and settled into a relaxed ready stance. She gave Hunt a nod, and he opened the door and stepped aside while she scanned the room’s interior. She stepped inside and moved to the left.
“Clear,” she said softly.
Hunt followed her in and headed for the bathroom with gun drawn. The door was open. He approached the tub enclosure cautiously, and yanked the curtain back.
“Clear,” he said.
Roberts moved to the dresser and checked the drawers. Hunt went to the closet, opened the door, and stuck his head inside. A moment later, his head reappeared and he shut the door. They met in the middle of the room and took one last look around before meeting each other’s gaze.
“Well, he was here,” Roberts said with a nod at the television.
Hunt scratched his head. “Yeah, but where is he now?”
68
Quickly moving to one side of the window, I peered through the slim opening between the curtain and the glass. No one was outside my room, and the angle prevented me from seeing very far down the walkway, but I heard voices moving away. Guests, most likely, going out for the nightlife. I looked through the peephole in the door to double-check, but my uneasiness still didn’t dissipate.
I sat on the end of the bed again and stared mindlessly at the television, thinking. A local news announcer mouthed silent words, and a “Silver Alert” graphic popped up on screen with a car make, year and license plate number. I wondered if I’d live long enough that I’d lose my marbles and wander off. Fatigue had already stolen some of them. I stared at the screen.
The license plate…
It suddenly hit me that I’d taken a lot for granted since I’d gone on the run, especially Rachel’s reaction to seeing me after so many years. I was a damn fool to think she’d welcome me back into her life with open arms and no resentment. Even if she didn’t tell the cops I’d taken her car it was only a matter of time before they figured it out.
I put on the now-dry windbreaker and gently donned the baseball cap. I turned the sound on the television back on at low volume, grabbed the duffel and bag of bloody trash, and headed for the door. I checked the peephole and the window before pulling the door open and slipping out onto the walkway. I eased the door shut and hurried to the stairs, quietly taking them down two at a time. On the way in, I’d seen some steps at the end of the building leading down to a brick walkway through a townhome development behind the motel property. I took them now, and walked briskly through the development to the next street over.
A patrol car rolled by the corner on the boulevard. I hustled up to the corner and watched it turn at the corner just past the motel office. Quickly, I crossed the boulevard and stayed on the side street, and headed for the nearest Metro station.
69
“He got wind of you somehow,” Marquette said.
“Not us,” Hunt said. “If we’d spooked him, we would have seen him leave.”
The motel’s parking lot looked like a law enforcement convention.
“Maybe he saw the patrol car sitting out on the street. Pretty good view of it from his room, I imagine.”
“Hey!” Bayne said. “So what if he did? Donovan’s a good cop. He would have seen your suspect take off.”
“This isn’t helping,” Roberts said loudly. “It doesn’t matter how he got spooked. The fact is he’s not here, but he hasn’t been gone long. He’s on foot, and he’s wounded. Why the hell are we standing around?”
Hunt took the hint. “Officer Bayne, would you mind callin
g it in? Get your dispatcher to put out an APB on this guy?” He turned to Romero. “What was he wearing when he checked in?”
Romero swallowed hard. “Um, dark jacket. Navy, I think. Dark slacks.”
Hunt swung back.
Bayne put up a hand. “I got it. We’re gone.” He spun on his heel and trotted off toward the office, waving at Donovan’s patrol car as he went.
“Looks like you don’t need me here,” Farquhar said, “so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll send my team home and save the county a little overtime. Patrol can help find this guy if he hasn’t gone to ground yet.”
“Fine,” Hunt said, “but we ought to have someone watch his room just in case he comes back, don’t you think?”
“We can have a car come by more often, but I don’t think I can convince the desk sergeant to assign a man to it,” Farquhar said.
“I’d say this is on you,” Marquette told Hunt. “I’m still taking him with me if he shows.”
“Terry, we can get someone from Manassas down here,” Roberts said, referring to the satellite office of the FBI’s WFO—Washington Field Office.
When Hunt nodded assent, Farquhar gave a small wave, and headed around the building where his team waited in their vehicles. Hunt and Roberts were left with Marquette and the night manager, Romero.
“You going to get a room?” Hunt said to Marquette.
“Hell, no. I’m going back to finish my shift and go home to sleep in my own bed. If you catch this guy, I’ll send someone up to collect him. In the meantime, you best put my number on your speed dial to keep me informed.”
Hunt sighed. “Yeah, I owe you that much. Sorry about stepping on your toes.”
“We all want to catch bad guys and lock them up,” Marquette said. “A little respect goes a long way.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Marquette touched a finger to his forehead and walked out.
Hunt turned to Roberts.
“You want me to call Manassas?” she said.
“No, I’ll do it. My mess.”
With a wave of thanks to Romero, they went outside. Hunt took out his phone and made the call as they walked to the SUV. She leaned against the passenger door as he paced and talked.
“What’d they say?” Roberts said when he finished.
“The SSA wasn’t happy, but he’s sending a team. Should be here inside forty minutes or so. Take the vehicle. Go home. When they get here, I’ll get a cab.” He held out the keys.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to HQ,” Hunt said. “Try to figure out where Keator went. More importantly, try to figure out what his next move will be so we can find al-Qadir.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Machowski’s still there, right? So, if you’re going, then so am I. You’re not benching me that easily. I can catch some sleep in the office.”
“I kinda figured that’d be your answer.”
70
Preston didn’t know what woke him. He lay in the dark, shivering under the thin blanket and sheet, listening to the strange sounds of an unfamiliar city. Enough light came through the dirty windows to limn the edges of the chair and the television on the table, turning one into a spider-like creature hulking in the corner watching him, and the other into a boxy robot with a single, shiny eye that threatened to suck him in and spit him out in some parallel dimension.
For the first time since he’d gotten into the limo outside his school, Preston was truly homesick and a little frightened. He had a routine at home. The only items that connected him to home were the few books and puzzles he carried in his backpack. He sat up and pulled the blanket up under his chin. Neither the robot nor the spider-thing appeared nearly as frightening from this perspective. And he could make them vanish altogether by turning on the light. He rocked forward and back ever so slightly.
Mr. Samara and the other man, Joe, had both treated him nicely and with respect. He’d eaten foods he liked. He wore the kind of pajamas that felt most comfortable. They’d bought him a toothbrush and his brand of toothpaste because he’d insisted that oral hygiene was almost as important as school. No, more important. He learned it from books, from his mom and dad. He couldn’t do without teeth. He’d seen pictures of people with false teeth, and didn’t like the way they smiled. There was something as false about their expressions as their teeth.
Though he’d been promised the trip to the National Archives, this spare, cold room with the grimy window wasn’t the sort of place where contest winners stayed. And Preston wasn’t sure what he should do about that. There wasn’t much he could do about his situation. They kept the door locked, and even if Preston managed to get out, he wasn’t sure where he could go. No, he’d better stay and see where they took him, what they panned to do with him. After all, they’d let him talk to his dad once. He could insist they let him do so again if he didn’t feel they were keeping their word. Still, this wasn’t home, and it wasn’t quite what he expected.
Awake now, Preston decided he might as well do something to keep his mind off his surroundings. He turned on the light and rummaged through his backpack for the sketchpad and box of colored pencils he kept there. He laid out the supplies carefully, and with the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, he started to draw.
71
The subway station entrance stood at the end of a long, broad, tree-lined plaza sandwiched between two one-way boulevards. Several people strolled through the park-like plaza, and dozens more dotted the sidewalks on both sides. I checked for traffic behind me and was about to cross the boulevard to the plaza when a cruiser coming down the opposite boulevard slowed, turned on its flashers and came to a stop with a short burp of its siren. I looked straight ahead and kept walking. From the corner of my eye I saw an officer get halfway out of the car. He pulled a corded radio mic up to his face, and his voice boomed across the plaza.
“Sir, stop right there.”
I kept walking. He could have been talking to anyone on the street.
“Sir. You in the baseball cap on Clarendon. Stay where you are.”
I pretended not to hear him and picked up my pace. When he got back in his cruiser, I knew he was coming for me. I ran, and before he got to the end of the plaza where he could make a U-turn behind me, I turned the corner onto a side street out of sight. The wail of a siren filled the night. I ran down the block full out, away from the plaza and the station, thinking furiously. The neon lights of beer and spirit brands lit up plate glass windows on my right, and I saw a sign over a door up ahead announcing a sports bar. I raced up to the door, pulled it open and stepped smack into a wall of heat and sound compared to the chill outside.
A boisterous crowd jammed the place, the din of their conversations and laughter overshadowing the volume on several flatscreen televisions tuned to a basketball game—the hometown Wizards against the Raptors. I inserted myself into the mass of bodies, and the crowd swallowed me up. With loudly mumbled apologies, I rapidly pushed my way through to the bathrooms, and ducked inside the men’s room. A couple of guys at the urinals paid little notice to me as I found an empty stall and locked myself in. I had to find a way out of the neighborhood before it crawled with cops. The fastest way out was the subway.
I took off the baseball cap and windbreaker, and traded them for the Georgetown sweatshirt in my duffel. I remembered that I kept a knit watch cap in with my spare clothes at the garage, and rummaged through the duffel to see if I’d grabbed it with the other clothes from my locker. Luck ran with me, a sense of elation filling me as I pulled it out of the bag and put it on. I zipped up the bag, flushed the toilet and stepped out of the stall. The pair at the urinals had been replaced by someone new. He didn’t turn around. I slung the bag on my shoulder, rinsed my hands in the sink, and left.
The flicker of the television screens was now magnified by the flashes of blue and red light splashed across the interior of the bar. I kept an eye out as I weaved my way through the
raucous crowd and spotted the cop leaning over the bar asking the bartender questions. Averting my gaze, I focused on the front door and tried to mirror the expressions of the people around me. Just another happy-go-lucky working stiff out for a beer and ball game at the local tavern. I made it to the door without having a heart attack or being arrested. As I pushed through, I glanced back to see the cop stretching on his toes and craning his neck as he scanned the room.
Outside, I pulled the hood up and exerted every ounce of will power I had to keep from bolting like a skittish hare. I walked to the corner, certain with each step that my pounding heart was broadcasting a signal to every cop within miles to come get me. I waited for the crossing signal, shaking knees a sign of my impatience, not my arthritis. When the light changed, I started across the intersection toward the plaza and the canopy over the subway entrance.
Halfway there, I heard the whoop of a siren, then another. Two blocks away, a cruiser raced down the street toward my position. Behind me, the patrol car outside the bar burned rubber making a three-point turn and roaring up the street. The thought of being caught between the two goosed me into a sprint the final few yards to the subway escalator, and I took the moving steps two at a time to reach the bottom faster. I vaulted over the fare gate without looking back, and ran down the escalator to the train platform. It was nearly empty, and the few people there seemed to pay no attention. The distant rumble of a train echoed up the tunnel. I ran toward the approaching lights of the train, and reached the end of the platform as the train pulled into the station.
Stolen Identity Page 29
