He checked his watch and made a quick calculation. By car he could reach that area ahead of them.
He drove out of the lot, fast.
***
In the pine flat woods, Jeannine Ryan, leaned against a tall loblolly pine and inhaled deeply. She put her laptop on the ground and dropped the canvas briefcase at her feet. She called out.
“Bill, wait. I need a second to rest.”
She sat, staring at the bracken ferns and wire grass that covered the clearing. She could hear the dry snaps of twigs and the return swish of branches pushed aside that marked Bill’s path, but she could not see him through the thick undergrowth of scrubby oaks and brush under the pines. A “controlled burn” to clear the pines of unwanted undergrowth was overdue.
She called again.
“Bill, can you hear me?”
There was no answer and she could no longer hear sounds of his passage.
A light breeze tickled the tops of the tall trees and produced a whispering rustle that emanated from all directions at once. The woods were empty. She was alone.
Damn it, Bill, come back.
She listened for any sign of his return, but heard nothing but wind rustling the tips of the pines.
Afraid to shout lest any pursuers hear her, she clutched her knees in both arms and rested to regain her strength.
***
Bill Hamm broke through the brush to find himself at the edge of a swamp, drying from the August drought. Here cypress with protuberant knees and tupelos with swollen trunks shadowed dark layers of dank moldy leaves.
He hesitated. Walking on the damp surface would be easy, but if this were a flood area of the Little Pee Dee River, he and Jeannine would quickly be stopped by still-flooded lowlands.
He turned back into the pine woods and leaned his shotgun against a tree. He listened for Jeannine, but there was no sound. Minutes passed.
Damn, where is she?
Exhilarated at feeling fit after his pneumonia, he had moved fast. He had not considered Jeannine’s plight, carrying the briefcase and laptop.
Hamm you are an idiot!
He picked up the shotgun and stepped back into the pines. Overhead he heard the same whispering wind that emphasized the woods’ emptiness to Jeannine.
His shoes slipped silently on the long pine needles as he retraced his steps.
***
******
Chapter 22
Thursday, August 30
All day long Henri Duval and Angelique Uwimana stayed cooped up in their motel room in Dillon, South Carolina. The only exceptions were when Henri had sortied to the refreshment area on the floor below where hungry machines ate dollar bills in exchange for chips, nuts, cokes and ice.
After two such “meals,” Henri was ready to risk a real supper in the motel’s dining room, but Angelique was not.
She waved her arms in protest, a maneuver that Henri found graceful and stimulating.
“Non! Henri, we can’t eat there. What if someone should spot us. It’s too dangerous.”
Henri pulled her towards him. Tall as she was, he was taller. He looked down into her eyes.”
“The more agitated you are, the more beautiful.”
She pulled away. Even then her movements were fluid and attractive.
“Non, Henri, Non! I’m serious. One of Gutera’s spies might see us.”
He drew her to him again. This time his lips pressed hers. Finally, he shook his head and spoke.
“You are beautiful, and I promise, I won’t let them hurt you. I’m sure it’s safe, or I wouldn’t let you go there. Besides if we stay in the room, I may not be able to keep my promise to stay away from you.”
She drew back. He held her at arm’s length. His voice was soft.
“Dearest Angelique, if you are afraid, we can eat chips and crackers here. And I won’t touch you. I respect you. I don’t want you to be afraid.”
“Henri, with you here, I’m not afraid. But Gutera and his thugs terrify me.”
She shuddered and leaned against him.
“Are you sure it’s all right?”
“No, but we cannot live in fear. We have taken precautions. They cannot know where we are. We must continue to live, otherwise, Gutera will have won. Wash those tears off, so we can enjoy an excellent supper.”
With a toss of her head, Angelique disappeared into the bathroom.
Once the door closed, Henri checked the action on his “Grande Puissance” Browning before placing it in his shoulder holster, out of sight.
Unlikely as Gutera’s coming might be, if he did show, Henri would be ready.
***
Hugh Byrd was not dumb. After missing Hamm and Ryan at the house on Azalea Road, he had studied a topographic map of the terrain where they had disappeared.
The fugitives would avoid the wet bays of the pine woods as well as the riparian swamps of the tributaries of the Little Pee Dee River. All “dry” routes through the pine flat woods would funnel to a spot that was intersected by an unimproved road.
Now Hugh waited at that spot, his M16 on the seat beside him. Ahead was a one-lane bridge that spanned a sluggish stream whose brown waters were too deep to ford. To his left and right were dry land with wire grass and scattered pines. Behind him the earthen roadway was underlain by large metal culverts that linked low swampy areas dominated by large cypress and tupelo gum trees.
Ryan and Hamm had to cross the road along this stretch.
And he had flushed them from the house with no warning. Surely they would have the incriminating documents with them.
Damn, Hugh, you win, in spite of that fool Stew Marks.
He sat back and waited.
***
Bill Hamm’s search for Jeannine was impeded by the scrubby oaks and other plants that choked the lower stratum of the pine flat woods. Time and again, he broke through the brush into openings of wire grass and bracken fern, always empty!
Jeannine, Where are you? I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.
He bulled ahead through brittle branches of scratchy oaks into an extensive clearing, carpeted with wire grass and ferns. A trail of broken bracken stems marked someone’s recent passage. Nearby, was a longleaf pine with a slash mark on its bark.
Damn! I know this tree, and that’s my trail.
He had walked in a circle. He looked about. The monotonous well-spaced pines gave him no hint of what direction to take to find Jeannine.
Maybe she was not lost.
But he was.
***
The sun on the western horizon was too low to be visible through the pines. Overhead, a layer of dark clouds obscured its brightness. Only diffused light reached the clearing where Bill Hamm stood. He leaned his shotgun against a fallen log and scratched his head.
At a sound behind him, he reached for the gun, but a voice stopped him.
“Touch that gun, Mister, and I’ll fill your butt with shot.”
Bill drew his hand back. Who?
“Now, Mister, step away from it and turn around real slow.”
Bill turned. Protruding from a thicket was the ominous barrel of shotgun.
The voice continued.
“Sit down on the ground, put your hands on your head and stay still!”
At that last command, the speaker, a gray-haired man of medium height, stepped from cover. He picked up Bill’s shotgun and broke it open, all the while keeping his own gun pointed at Bill’s back.
“Mister, I’m sick of you city fellows poaching on my land. Last week my best hound, Suzy, was shot. The vet fixed her leg, but she may never hunt again. You’ll pay for that.”
But he stopped.
“Whoops! What’s this?”
At those words, Bill turned and saw his captor examining the cartridge from Bill’s gun.
“Sir, you’re mistaken. I’m not poaching your deer.”
The man laughed and tossed the cartridge to Bill.
“I reckon not, unless you’re dumb enough to hunt bucks with
birdshot. That’s a number six cartridge. Who are you?”
“My name is Hamm.”
“Hamm? You’re the one Rob Wilson is letting use the Morton place. What are you doing in my woods?”
Before Bill could reply, the man stretched out his hand.
“I’m Fred Middleton. Rob told me about your troubles with the FBI. It doesn’t matter to me. I trust Rob, and after I heard about you and the Unity Pavilion up in Virginia, I trust you. Rob told me all about that too. Let me guess, the Feds showed up at the Morton house and you’re on the run again. Don’t worry. Me, I got no love for those guys. They wouldn’t let me clear and plant the woods on my south tract. One damned tupelo gum and they said it was ‘wetlands.’ To hell with them.”
Fred did not stop.
“Say, I found a pretty redhead in the woods thirty minutes ago. She claimed she was lost. She with you?”
Bill gaped.
“Don’t worry, she’s fine. Made me wish I was younger. I locked her in a little hunting shack I built, nothing much. It’s got cots and an old wood stove, but the pine burns too fast and makes too much smoke. She wouldn’t tell me her name. Mostly she was tuckered out. I’ll take you to her.”
Fred cradled the pump action in his right arm while he handed Bill his shotgun and signaled him to follow.
“Come on, the shack’s this way. You know I once had an old single shot just like yours. My dad bought it for me, my first gun. I got a lot of squirrels and rabbits, and my dad took me for deer too. I got a six pointer. My dad took a picture. I still have it.”
Still talking, Fred Middleton wove his way through the brush with ease.
Bill tried to keep up as dusk fell.
***
At the formerly “safe” Morton house in Dillon, South Carolina, agent Stew Marks watched as a mixed FBI team from the Florence Resident Agency and the Columbia Field Office examined the scene.
Stew Marks took Wayne Johnson into the back yard.
“Look, Mr. Johnson, I have nothing against Miss Ryan. Tell me where she’s going. It will be best for her. We will find her whether you help us or not.”
The rest of Stew’s words were lost in the roar of a helicopter whose search lights swept the back yard in broad arcs before disappearing over the pines to the west.
“Mr. Marks, I’m grateful that you saved me from Byrd, but I don’t know where she is, or even if Hamm is with her.”
“You seem like a good guy. Why would you help a traitor?”
“Bill’s no traitor. The documents incriminate Byrd, not Bill. And it was Byrd’s man that tried to kill me and Jeannine at my beach house. Hamm wasn’t there. He was in the hospital.”
His eyes pierced Stew’s.
“Jeannine could have died.”
Stew stayed silent. Wayne did not let up.
“Mr. Marks, for all his secret clearances and government power, Byrd is just a dirty rotten cop!”
A thoughtful Stew Marks retreated into the house.
***
Finally Bill Hamm caught up with Fred Middleton. The latter pointed ahead. Through the shadows Bill made out the outline of a cabin, a box-like structure made of plywood sheets.
The door was padlocked on the outside. Fred called through the door while he fumbled for the key.
“All right, Miss Redhead, I found your man. We’re coming in.”
Jeannine was seated on a bunk to the left. Her eyes blinked as Fred lit a kerosene lamp.
Bill embraced her.
“Are you all right”
She nodded. Fred, quiet for once, turned and lifted a hinged board to reveal a window, an opening cut in the wall with flexible screening tacked about the margins. He secured the panel above the opening by means of two hooks. Then he turned and spoke.
“That gets us some air. Now we got to get rid of the chill.”
He stuffed the iron stove with kindling and added an oak log.
“That ought to do it. This spot is pretty damp. That log will do the trick. It’s hardwood. We’ll just let it burn down slow.”
He saw Bill eye the kerosene lamp.
“Don’t worry about that old lantern. Nobody can see it. The woods are thick here, and there’s swamp on three sides.”
Jeannine whispered.
“Bill, who is this guy? What does he know about us? Do you trust him?”
Without turning, Fred interjected.
“Don’t fret Miss. Rob Wilson is my friend, and I know that your man here was a hero at that fracas up in Virginia. As for the Feds, you two are safe here for a couple of days at least.”
Fred was not done.
“My home is a ways off, and it’s dark. Looks like I’ll be staying with you guys tonight. Sorry to spoil the honeymoon, but it is my cabin.”
Jeannine huddled next to Bill, still whispering.
“Bill, I did it. I broke the code. Gutera and Guerry are in this together.”
***
Angelique Uwimana was happy. The meal with Henri had been wonderful, and after two glasses of wine, she was relaxed for the first time since leaving Florence.
As Henri put the key card in the door, she pressed against him and looked into his eyes.
“Angelique? Are you sure?”
She wasn’t, but she liked him close.
“Henri, I … .”
He put a finger on her lips to silence her.
“Angelique, I know that this would not be right for you.”
He pushed her inside and looked carefully about the room. Nothing appeared disturbed.
“Angelique, go to bed. I have to check something.”
She took the bed by the window. After only moments, her eyes shut and her breathing became regular.
He threw the deadbolt and fastened the security chain. He was worried. That blond Irishman had stared at Angelique all through the dinner. Something was wrong.
Henri turned out the light, but he did not go to the other bed.
He sat in a chair and faced the door.
***
Hugh Byrd sat in his car. The lights were out and though there was little moonlight, the road in front of him was sufficiently illuminated. All was still. Nothing had crossed, not even a raccoon.
Hugh yawned and glanced at his watch, 2:00 am. Damn it Hamm, hurry up, I haven’t got all night.
The night air was chill and he rubbed his arms. He thought to turn on his motor and the heater, but he did not want to alarm his prey.
He watched and waited.
***
******
Chapter 23
Friday, August 31
The rising sun blazed through the windshield of the Excursion where Hugh Byrd slept, slumped in the seat. The buzz of his cell phone woke him.
“Byrd, where are you?”
The voice was Denise Guerry’s. Byrd cleared his throat.
“In South Carolina, near Dillon. Ryan and Hamm are on the run. They’re on foot, in the woods.”
A helicopter roared overhead. Byrd waited for it to pass.
“The FBI has helicopters in the air, searching for them.”
“You led the FBI to them? Marks will find them.”
“Not before me. Wait, someone’s coming. I have to hang up.”
Hugh slid his M16 under some newspapers on the floor just as the man arrived and tapped on the window of the Excursion.
“Mister, my name is Middleton, Fred Middleton. What are you doing sleeping on my land. Were you hunting last night?”
A pump-action shotgun was cradled in the man’s left arm. The weapon was well-used. Go slow, Hugh.
“Sorry Mister, Isn’t this a public road?”
At that response, Fred Middleton’s left hand lifted the gun’s barrel to point at the car door. Simultaneously, his right hand gripped the stock and his finger sought the trigger.
“Public? Very funny, Sonny. I’m sick of you poachers jack-lighting my deer. Where’s your damned shotgun?”
Fred lifted the gun to a level with Hugh’s nose.<
br />
“Maybe you’re the one who shot my dog Suzy?”
Hugh drew back from that barrel. He held his breath. His foot nudged the M16 farther under the papers.
“Mr. Middleton, I am a Federal agent. Here, see my ID.”
Fred lowered his gun.
“What kind of badge is this, Mister? You’re not FBI.”
“The FBI reports to us. Look Sir, I’m sorry about your hound, Suzy, but I am no poacher. Perhaps you can help me. We are looking for two fugitives, a man and a woman. She has red hair. Have you seen them?”
Fred flinched and looked aside. That was enough for Hugh.
Damn, the old guy has seen them!
“Sir, if you’ll put the shotgun down, I’ll leave.”
Hugh started the engine. Fred stood by, shotgun lowered.
“I hope you catch your poachers, Sir. When you catch them, cut their balls off. They shouldn’t have shot your hound.”
But to himself. Next time old man, I’ll part those gray hairs with my Glock.
Hugh sped away and disappeared around a bend in the road.
***
Crouched behind a thicket of scrubby oak, magnolias and bays, Bill Hamm turned to Jeannine.
“Something’s wrong. Fred has been gone too long. Maybe we should have stayed at the cabin.”
“But the battery on the laptop is low and there’s no power there to decode Gutera’s messages. We can’t wait.”
Before Bill could answer, Fred Middleton appeared
“Somebody was on the road, said he was a Fed. Face like a weasel. He’s looking for you both. He left, but he’ll be back, I’ll take you across if you want, but if I were you, I’d go back to the shack. You’ll be safer there, at least for one more day.”
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 16
