He felt the cardboard, examining its condition. It was a bit wet, but not destroyed as it would have been after weeks or months outside, exposed to the elements. Two days was feasible, only slight discoloring and dampness, enough to wipe any fingerprints and clear away any threads of cloth or hair. No lab test would prove that the floppy disk packaging came from Zachariah, but what was the likelihood that someone else had tossed this over the side in the past few days? No one had used floppy disks in years, at least since the late nineties. Statistically, there was little doubt that this Radio Shack package of floppy disks had come from Zachariah. Had it flown off the bike or the body after the accident? Ben remembered a slight breeze on Sunday. Or had Zachariah taken it out before the accident and thrown it away just as it happened? Or immediately afterward, as he lay dying at the bottom?
Ben folded the thin cardboard and put it in his pocket. Were there five floppy disks out there? That would explain how Porter had found one, and Palmyra found another. If neither of those two floppy disks was the real one, then three more were out there, hidden by Zachariah, and only one of them carried the data and Joe Morgan’s incriminating handwritten note.
Looking down at the spot where Zachariah had taken his last breath, Ben quickly shut his eyes against the onslaught of dizziness. The dead Marine veteran had either been a meticulous planner or a troublemaker in the grips of a nervous breakdown. Whatever the case may be, Ben couldn’t stop this investigation, which was turning into a treasure hunt.
He was holding on to rocks and shrubbery halfway up a cliff. It was time to move on, and the only way was up. He tightened the shoulder straps of the camera bag and resumed climbing.
The climb proceeded well, which gave him a growing sense of confidence. It also helped that the angle moderated by a few degrees, a minor difference to the eye, but a tangible advantage for a climber hanging on by his hands and the tips of his riding boots.
The edge at the top was enforced with concrete, forming a long beam across, which prevented erosion of the overlook’s edge. The concrete beam stuck outward a bit, and Ben had to plan the last bit of climbing so that he reached a point where there was enough support for his boots in order to allow his hands a good grip on the outer lip of the concrete beam.
It worked well, and he was able to reach up with one hand, then the other. Testing that he could hold his weight, he started to pull up, his feet dangling in the air.
And just as his head cleared the concrete beam, he saw the toe of a white boot fly at him, kicking him square in the forehead.
Chapter 39
Getting kicked in the head, even with both feet on solid ground and a football helmet on, would be dangerous, but a boot to the head over a hillside seven or eight stories high was surely fatal. That was the quick realization that flashed through Ben’s consciousness. As the impact threw him backward, he caught a glimpse of a white figure at the edge of the overlook above.
The rest of his body followed his head, rolling over backward. He began to slide down the precipice, head first, back to the rocks, when the camera bag hit a protruding rock, broke the downward motion for a second, and twisted him around.
Facing the hillside again, Ben tried to grab a hold of the rocks or shrubbery, but he slid down again and dropped through a straight-down section, hitting another rock ledge, this time with his knees. He grasped a bush growing out of a crack. Its roots tore out under Ben’s weight, but it gave him a brief reprieve, enough for his vision to focus and grab another bush, which also tore out. He slid down some more, shoved his fingers into a chink, felt his hand lose skin, but held on until the toe of his boot found a nook.
Finally he was stationary, his body pressed against the face of the rocks. The pain in his head was dull, his breathing shallow and rapid, and his mind only now beginning to digest that he had just been the subject of an assassination attempt.
Craning his head, careful not to lose his balance, Ben tried to see if his attacker was still up there. But the cliff was uneven, and the spot where his fall had been interrupted was slightly in, hidden from view by anyone standing at the edge of the overlook above.
He had to make a decision. The method of the attack—a kick in the forehead—was intended to make it look like an accident. It was unlikely that the attacker would try to shoot him from above. But risking another climb up was out of the question. He might not be so lucky a second time.
After a few minutes of waiting, he started moving sideways like a crab. He had about a third of a football field to reach a more moderate incline, where the vegetation was thicker. Once there, he picked up speed, reaching the footpath without further incident. From there, he ran uphill. It had been about six minutes since the attack, but if the Ghost had assumed that Ben was dead, he might have taken his time searching the GS before leaving, unwittingly giving Ben a chance to snap a photo, hopefully getting a clear shot of the Ducati license plate.
At the last hairpin turn up the path, Ben heard the telltale sound of an engine from above. His ear was attuned to motorcycle sounds, and this motor sputtered at low RPM, rising to a high pitch as the rider revved it up.
Ducati!
He pulled out the camera, keeping up the pace, and got it ready.
The motorcycle engine sound pitched high. It was accelerating!
As he cleared the path, camera held upfront, finger on the shutter, a white Ducati was making a sharp turn out of the parking area and onto the road, speeding off with its engine practically screaming. Ben held down his finger and snapped a series of photos, but he already knew that none of them would show the license plate due to the angle.
Instead of slowing down, Ben kept running, making it to the GS just as the Ducati’s sound faded downhill.
The top box on the rear rack had been pried open and searched. His helmet was on the ground next to the front wheel, but Ben didn’t stop to worry about it. He never left anything worth stealing in the box, other than the helmet. He slipped it on, shoved the camera in his backpack, dug his keys out of his pocket, and started the GS while mounting it. A few seconds later, he was accelerating across the parking lot.
About ten miles of mountainous road separated the Camp David Scenic Overlook from the two-lane road that connected Thurmont with I-70. The Ducati was lighter and more agile than the top-heavy BMW GS, enabling it to run downhill through the twists and turns at a higher speed. Once the Ducati reached the intersection, there would be no way to know which way it went.
Ben operated the bike with well-practiced motions despite a pounding headache. He was still panting from the extreme physical effort, and his arms and legs hurt as he shifted gears and executed deep turns at high speed.
On the plus side, the Ghost likely assumed that Ben was dead at the bottom of the hill, which meant that only one of them was aware that this was a race.
A couple of minutes into his mad dash downhill, Ben noticed the blinking red light on the instrument cluster. It was the ABS indicator, positioned prominently because the GS was one of only few motorcycles that allowed the rider to disable the ABS for off-road excursions. This was done by pressing a designated button, but then the indicator light would be solid, not blinking. A blinking light indicated a problem.
A tight turn was coming up, and he downshifted, putting the ABS indicator out of his mind. Right now he had to catch the Ghost. He focused his diminished mental and physical capacities on the mechanics of steering the GS through the curves and the fast straightaway sections in-between at maximum speeds.
A sign popped up by the roadside, indicating that an intersection was coming up in one mile.
As far as he could remember, the next sharp turn was the last, followed by a flat stretch of road that ran parallel to a stream that was gushing with runoff from recent rains. He was finally recovering from the trauma at the overlook, his reflexes sharpening as he executed each step, keeping the speed high on the approach to the
turn.
Downshift.
Lean into the curve.
Start to accelerate halfway through.
Let the GS straighten up from the turn.
Hug the edge of the road.
Complete turn.
Rush forward.
The rear light of the Ducati appeared far ahead, near the intersection. Ben could see the white back of the riding jacket as the Ghost leaned forward on the low-hanging handlebar.
Yes!
Ben rolled the throttle all the way, pushing the GS to its limit, the RPM reaching redline before he up-shifted. Bowing forward over the gas tank, he tucked his head behind the small windshield, the instruments under his chin showing his speed approaching 60, 70, 80 mph, the ABS indicator blinking, the wind screaming.
There were two of them, babies, following an adult deer out of the woods, crossing the road for the water.
Ben let go of the throttle. For a brief moment he expected them to sprint across and be gone from his path. But the sound of the GS must have startled them, and they froze.
Squeezing the brake lever on the handlebar, he felt the front wheel lock and begin to slip.
Of course!
The blinking light!
The ABS malfunction!
Once the front wheel lost traction, it was too late to recover. All that was left for Ben to do was avoid a head-on collision with the deer.
He kicked down the foot brake to lock the rear wheel and, using his body as a counterweight, manipulated the heavy bike to enter a sideway slide while coming down on the left. Leading with the wheels, Ben and the GS came down together, slid sideways, and clipped the grown deer at the legs, sending it up and over.
The slide down the road was almost surreal in its smoothness until something—a pothole or a crack in the asphalt—tore Ben from the GS. He began to tumble over and over. The world became a spinning slideshow, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted it to be over, but also feared getting smashed by the motorcycle, which was moving in the same direction.
He finally came to rest on the shoulder of the road and immediately popped up and looked around, expecting to see the GS hurtling toward him. But the bike was on its side farther back, its movement halted by the foot pegs and other protruding parts that, most likely, were now either bent or broken.
“Shit!” His voice sounded very loud inside the helmet. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
His hands flexed without pain. His legs bent and straightened. His arms too. He wriggled his toes inside the boots.
Everything worked.
But everything hurt too.
He dropped flat on his back, lifted the helmet’s face shield, and breathed deeply to fight off a tide of nausea.
Feeling better, he sat up and took stock of his body. Nothing seemed to be broken, and the pains were of the bruising variety, not of torn muscles or ligaments, both of which he had experienced at one point or another. His riding boots were scraped badly, the soles torn off, attached only near the toes. His BMW riding pants and jacket were scraped at the joints—knees, elbows, shoulders—and the underlying armor peeked out in some places. Removing the helmet, he found a dent the size of an egg.
The iPhone survived in the inside breast-pocket of his jacket, protected by the chest padding that lined the jacket. He considered calling for help but decided to try getting out of there without alerting anyone to the fact that he was stuck on a side road, alone and defenseless. The attempt on his life, right after meeting the two Mormons, had changed everything. It had not been a coincidence that Zachariah’s widow had asked to meet at the Camp David Scenic Overlook—an isolated spot that was ideal for an “accident.” Was Porter involved in setting it up? Were there other rogue troopers at the state police? The last thing he wanted to do was give them a second chance.
Limping back to the bike, Ben noticed that the engine was still on and turned the key to shut it off.
Farther back, up the road, the two fawns stood by the doe, most likely their mother, who was lying motionless on the road. They smelled her face, but still she didn’t move.
His camera bag was near the bike, the shoulder straps torn. He unzipped it and pulled out the Canon. It appeared undamaged, thanks to the heavy padding in the bag. He turned it on and snapped a few photos of the two fawns. The camera worked fine.
Feeling inside the bag, he found the roll of duct tape, the fix-it-all every adventurous motorcyclist never travelled without. He used it to tape the soles of his boots and parts of the jacket and pants.
The effort of lifting up the GS came with a lot of grunting, and when it was upright, he taped up the broken signal lights and cracked windshield. The gearing lever was bent inward, and he pulled it back out. The left side of the handlebar had formed a right angle over the gas tank. Planting a boot against the front of the engine, he muscled it back to semi-straight. The clutch lever seemed to work fine.
The top case was missing from the rear rack. He couldn’t see it on the road, where lines of scratches in the black asphalt and pieces of plastic told of the GS’s long slide. Scanning the area, he noticed it on the opposite side, farther than where he had ended up. It must have been torn off the rack and had flown over him in the direction they were moving. He retrieved it and secured it to the rear rack with long strips of tape.
The fawns scattered as he approached. The doe, a full-size white-tail deer, was still alive, its eyes following him. The legs were broken, the belly was bleeding from a long tear, and the mouth was open, the lips trembling.
Was it in pain?
Most likely.
He had to do something, but killing it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t kill a living thing.
The sound of running water gave him an idea. He took off his riding jacket, lay it flat next to the doe’s back, and rolled her over onto it. Grasping the sleeves, he dragged it off the road, across the gravel shoulder, down a short embankment, and into the shallow stream. He maneuvered around so that the injured deer was lying in the cold water, yet its head was out, resting on the grass.
Ben knelt and petted the head.
A few minutes later, the water reduced its body temperature enough to render the injured doe unconscious.
It was over.
When Ben finally pulled into the garage, wet and cold on his mangled GS, Keera’s Mustang was already there. As he was getting off the bike, she appeared, saw him, and covered her mouth. That was the extent of her reaction. Keera had a sharp tongue and knew how to use it to inflict real damage when circumstances warranted it. But she was all love when it really mattered.
She helped him take off the wet jacket, riding pants, and taped-up boots, and supported him up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he sat on the ledge of the bath while she filled it and made him swallow a couple of pills. The rest was a fog of hot water, dull aches, and Keera gently scrubbing him with a sponge. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in her arms under the bedcovers.
Part IV:
The Lawyer
Chapter 40
Ben woke up and felt warm lips on his forehead. In that brief transition from sleep to waking, he thought they were the doe’s lips, trembling as it descended into oblivion. But when he opened his eyes, there was Keera, all dressed up, emitting her morning aroma—a mix of shampoo, perfume, and toothpaste.
“Hi, baby.” She smiled. “How’re you feeling?”
He tried to stretch, and the pain made him stop immediately. He groaned.
“I thought so.” She held out two pills. “These will take the edge off and help with any inflammation. Take a hot shower and do some stretching, but carefully.”
“I love you,” he said, but she was already running downstairs.
Everything hurt, but not to the point of paralysis. Ben skipped the hot shower and the stretching, instead slipping into a sweat suit and med
icating himself with a tall cup of steaming coffee.
On the TV, news analysis of recent opinion polls showed Joe Morgan running an average of 6 percent ahead of the incumbent president. A report showed the GOP candidate at a campaign stop on a factory floor in Pennsylvania. He was standing on a wooden shipping crate, propped up by a forklift.
“The current administration,” Morgan declared, “has no faith in American exceptionalism! This country is ready to reject the socialist ideology of government bailouts, handouts, and takeovers that destroy the true spirit of competition and keep good people out of work and out of hope! As your future president, I pledge that restoring faith in American manufacturing will be my number one mission! I believe that you and I can do it together!”
The crowd of workers applauded him, and the camera returned to a smiling news anchor.
In his study, Ben saw the plastic bag of debris from Zachariah’s Harley Davidson and felt lucky to be alive. He picked up the cap of the gas tank, unscrewed the two bases, and examined each one. He remembered what Rex had said about Zachariah’s insistence on filling up every sixty miles, a habit Rex attributed to perfectionism. But was there a different reason? Had Zachariah modified the gas tank? Could the real floppy disk be hidden on the Harley?
Browsing the photos on the Canon, he found the tow truck with the remains of the stars-and-stripes Harley Davidson on its bed. There was a telephone number stenciled on the door of the truck. He dialed it.
A woman answered.
“Hi,” Ben said. “I’m calling to find out where you guys took my friend’s motorcycle after an accident on Sunday. It happened at the Camp David Scenic Overlook. Last name Hinckley.”
“Spell it, honey.”
He did.
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