“Not here,” came the reply.
“Hey, here comes a motorcycle from the direction of Linden. Should I stop it?” yelled the other cop.
“No, I’ll stop it up here. You can cover me,” he yelled back.
A half minute later John could hear the motorcycle’s motor and then see a cone of light flickering through the treetops. The motor decelerated, and the machine rolled to a halt by the cab of the van, where the policeman had his gun trained on its driver.
“I’ve got a pass,” shouted the motorcyclist. “I’m a doctor. I’m on my way to Rockville, up in Maryland, where I live. I work at Bethesda Naval Hospital.”
He raised his hands in the air as the officer approached. Then the cop frisked him with one hand, the other hand holding the gun pointed at his head, before asking to see the man’s pass. He wasn’t taking any chances. There’d been too many stories lately about policemen who hadn’t been careful enough.
“Everything’s all right here,” he reported to his partner.
“What’s been going on here?” asked the motorcyclist, when his pass had been returned.
“We stopped a pirate radio station half an hour ago.”
“I see . . . Looks like it was pretty violent.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Anyone killed?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Would you please move on.”
He walked the motorcycle forward a bit. “Can’t I just take a pee, now that I’m here?” the driver asked.
“Just as long as you leave right after.”
He let the motor idle, dismounted, and took five steps straight towards John. “Finally,” he said, unzipping his leather pants.
John pulled back an inch, his eyes on the heavy motorcycle boots and the studs that went halfway up the pant legs. “Here comes . . .” the driver sighed, as his stream of urine began soaking the ground around John.
“Ahhh . . .” came the standard sound of satisfaction, then it stopped abruptly.
John hadn’t moved a muscle or made a sound the whole time, but it wasn’t enough. “What the hell . . . ?” the man said softly, and took a step backward. He looked over at the cop, who was halfway through the hatch between the cab and the sound room. John kept holding his breath. Maybe the guy had only noticed his suitcase. As though that wouldn’t be bad enough.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered, but John didn’t answer.
“Were you in the van?” he asked, slowly crouching down. John remained silent.
“Are you injured?”
Finally John exhaled. “Yes, slightly. Nothing serious,” he whispered.
“Listen! In ten seconds I’m going to walk the bike over here, then you get on, okay? Can you manage that?”
“I don’t know. There’s something the matter with one of my feet.”
“Ten seconds, okay? Before that cop crawls back out of the truck again.” He strode back to his treasure of a bike and gave it a little throttle while John reached back for his suitcase and stood up. How was he ever going to stay perched on the back of a motorcycle with a suitcase and a laptop and a useless foot? It had been a hundred years since he’d been on a motorcycle, and even then he hadn’t been very good at it.
The driver rolled his machine towards him. He looked to be about John’s age, with a long, shaggy gray mustache. He had wrinkles in his face that even the largest helmet couldn’t conceal.
The guy looked at his suitcase with disapproval. “Leave it here,” he whispered.
“I can’t. They can trace me with that,” he whispered back, and before he knew it, the man had positioned it on the gas tank between his arms.
“C’mon,” he whispered, and pulled an extra helmet out of one of his saddlebags.
John clenched his teeth again and supported himself on his bad foot while he swung his good one over the back of the motorcycle.
“Put this helmet on. Then we can talk while we’re driving.”
John stuck the laptop between himself and the driver and put on his helmet. There was a little microphone by the mouth hole, just like motorcycle cops had.
“Hold on tight.” The command came through a speaker inside the helmet. Before he could answer, the other police officer reached the cab of the van.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” he shouted as the motorcycle revved up. John managed to look back in time to see both cops drawing their weapons before his head was slung back by the accelerating motorcycle.
“I think they’re going to shoot,” yelled John, as loud as he could.
“So let them, but don’t scream so loud or you’ll make me deaf.”
John heard the crack of shots as they reached the first turn in the road.
“Oh, thank God, thank God,” he whispered, as he realized he hadn’t been hit.
He explained to his savior what had happened as they roared through the night landscape. Not in detail, but most of it.
“Bloody hell! Did they really get Tom Jumper?” the driver asked. “Is there anyone who knows you were on his radio program?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You are in deep shit, Mr. Bugatti, but I guess that’s nothing new for you. Where are you headed now?”
“I don’t know. I can’t figure out what to do. You said you were on your way to Rockville, that you were a doctor.”
“That’s what I said, yes.”
“It’s not true?”
“What do you think?”
“But you have a pass.”
“Yes, for myself, but not for you, so we can’t stop anymore.”
“I assume you’re aware that every police and military unit in Virginia is already on the lookout for us.”
“Yes, that’s not too hard to figure out. But there’s not much army out tonight; FEMA’s ordered most of them to Washington because of the British prime minister’s visit.” Then he gave the throttle another twist. John had never driven so fast in his life. “Do you have someone you can stay with?” he asked.
“Maybe, and maybe not. But I know a lot of people around Washington and New York.”
“You’re not going to New York. That party’s over for you.” He laid the motorcycle into a curve. John had to close his eyes. “Hey, you don’t have to hold on to me so tight. Nothing’s going to happen.” He laughed and John loosened his grip. “Who do you know in Washington? Can’t you call them and have them meet you somewhere?”
“I don’t think I’d ask anyone to do that.”
“Well, I’ll get the both of us over the Potomac at White’s Ferry. They’re waiting for me down there. Then we’ll see what we can do. Is there anyone you want to call?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a good idea for me to use my cell phone. I’ve been told they can track it.”
“Then why don’t you use mine?” the driver asked, while the wind flattened John’s cheeks back to his ears. You can just speak into the microphone. I’ll connect you. What’s the number?”
* * *
—
In the old days John would be consumed by jealousy if Danny took too long answering the phone, but now he just got anxious.
And it didn’t sound like Danny was doing well at all when he finally took the phone. “My God, John, where are you?” he asked, having trouble breathing, and coughing a little. “No, you better not tell me. Maybe it’s best I don’t know.” He coughed again; it hurt John to hear it. “Are you okay, John? Tell me.”
“Yes, no matter what you may hear, I’m okay, Danny. Understand? Don’t believe what other people tell you.”
“You make me afraid when you talk like that, John. What might people say?”
“Nothing, Danny. I just want you to know I’m okay.”
“I have a message to you from Doggi
e Rogers.” Bugatti could hear his driver grunt in surprise.
“Who’s with you, John? Is someone listening to us?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. It’s okay. It’s a friend.”
Danny sighed on the other end of the line, but not like after the hundreds of times John had lied before. This time it was almost as though Danny was hoping he was out having a good time. At least that’s how he sounded.
Out having a good time? He had a hard time remembering what it was like.
“He’s seeing to my transportation, Danny, that’s all. We’re on a motorcycle right now, and he’s listening in.”
“Okay. Then take good care of my friend, you there. Please?” he said.
“Don’t worry, I will,” answered the biker.
“Doggie Rogers called?” said John. “When was that?”
“It wasn’t that long ago. A couple of hours, I think. What time is it now?”
“Around two thirty.”
“Yes, that sounds about right. She said you should try to meet her in Washington tomorrow. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her you were far, far away. Because you are, aren’t you?”
“Just tell me where she wanted me to meet her, Danny.”
“At Market Square. At a tea salon called Teaism. Between one and two in the afternoon. God, you’re not around here, are you, John? Should I meet you there, too?”
“No, Danny, I’m not near Washington. You just look after yourself. I’ll call again as soon as I have a chance.”
He tapped the driver on the back to let him know he was finished talking. The conversation hadn’t been very uplifting, to say the least. Danny sounded in worse shape than ever. And then the message from Doggie, that they should meet in the lion’s den. Two of the most wanted fugitives in the United States.
How was he ever going to make it to Market Square?
They were heading north via small, crooked side roads. John asked several times what the purpose of the driver’s trip was and what he actually did for a living, but each time was told that, just like Danny, the less he knew, the better.
It wasn’t a very satisfactory answer for a journalist like John.
* * *
—
Out on Route 15, just north of Leesburg, they discovered they were being followed and gave the motorcycle more gas. It was a relatively anonymous pickup with a set of fog lights and other flashy extras, but from the speed at which it was traveling, there was no doubt it was following them. It had popped up from an even smaller side road, as though it had been waiting for them.
“Hold on tight!” yelled John’s driver, and he wasn’t kidding. They swung out into the middle of the road, and the motor revved up to a high-pitched, skull-splitting whine. John tried to get a glimpse of the speedometer, but his view was blocked by a set of shoulders as wide as John was tall. The landscape was a blur; they must have been doing at least 120 miles per hour.
Then there was a ringing inside the helmet, and the guy connected his phone.
“We’re right behind you, Sean,” a voice said. “I guess you noticed.”
Okay, it was someone he knew—a friend. The question was, what kind of friend?
“So what’s going on?” John’s rescuer—apparently named Sean—asked. “Why are you showing up now?” John couldn’t have put the question better himself.
“We’ve been waiting for you for a quarter of an hour. There’s a bunch of patrol cars heading straight for us from the north. They’ve localized you.”
“How many vehicles?”
“Three.”
“How close together are they?”
“Close.”
“Okay, good. And what do you guys recommend?”
“Maintain your speed. When you meet them—and you will, before you reach the shortcut to the ferry—brake hard and make for the side of the road. We have a vehicle coming at them from behind, so don’t worry—we’ll take care of them. Just drive off on the side of the road as soon as the first patrol car spots you.”
Sean laughed. “Sounds like this is going to be heavy.”
“We’ve fixed situations worse than this, you know that.”
They broke phone contact. Sean remained still as a statue for a few moments as they barreled over the asphalt.
“I’m assuming we’re in the same boat here, right?” he finally said.
“Of course,” John answered. He dared not answer otherwise. It all sounded worrying in the extreme, but what could he do now, rocketing across Virginia on the back of a motorcycle?
“Good. When we go our separate ways, forget you ever heard my name. Forget all of this, okay? I know who you are, Bugatti, and I heard you tonight on Jumper’s program. That was good work you did, no doubt about it. You have to be in Washington tomorrow, and I’ll see to it that you make it. Then you forget all about this.”
“Are you going to Washington yourself?”
“Let’s call it that.”
“And you know a way to get over on the cable boat at White’s Ferry, even at four o’clock Sunday morning?”
“That’s right.”
“Something tells me you’re connected with the militia coalition. Am I right?”
“Hey, dude, give it a rest. Hate to tell you, John, but now I’m going to have to dump your suitcase. In a little while we’re really going to have to hold on. You get rid of your laptop, too, understand? Now! Else this can all end in a real fucking mess.”
John saw his suitcase flick by his head like a shadow, about to bust into pieces and spray its contents all over the road. John sighed and launched his laptop towards a similar fate. The little sucker had cost him over $1,100 out of his own pocket.
“What do you have to do in Washington?” John kept up, cautiously, but he got no response.
“Hey, now I can see blue lights flashing ahead of us!” Sean punched a series of numbered buttons on his control panel to contact the pickup that was following them at a distance of fifty yards. “Do you see them?” he asked.
“Roger,” a voice replied. “Take care of yourself. Big brother’s got the ‘swatter.’”
“Fine. See you in Cairo, the sixth of October.”
“There’s a lot of wind in here. . . . What’d you say?”
“See you in Cairo, the sixth of October!” Sean yelled again.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said a crackling voice in response.
What the hell are they talking about? John wondered, and noticed the bike braking slightly.
“Ten seconds!” Sean yelled into his microphone, and John instinctively squeezed his body closer to the driver’s. Strangely enough, he no longer felt afraid. Maybe he’d stopped feeling altogether.
He heard the police car sirens just before the motorcycle began to spin out. As the brakes locked, the back wheel started churning sideways across the asphalt in a cloud of burnt rubber. For a moment they were still propelled forward, but practically sideways, so he could see three patrol cars positioned abreast, four hundred feet ahead, heading straight for them. But then the bike straightened out, wobbling a couple of times before Sean slammed on the brakes a second time. Just as John was certain they’d both be heading over the bike’s front forks, he released the brakes again and banked the motorcycle into a sharp turn, careening towards the shoulder of the road.
John could see lights off in the distance, maybe from farms where the morning milking had already begun. He could remember what it was like from all the times he was at his uncle’s when he was a boy. They’d gotten up much too early. Not a life for him, he thought in the seconds he reckoned would be his last, but then the bike straightened up and came to a halt.
The next second the souped-up pickup shot past them. He heard it braking and the men shooting from inside at the same time. But it wasn’t the usual heavy gunfire, it was more like explosions, and the
same sounds erupted from the other vehicle that was pursuing the patrol cars from behind. All three police cars lit up as they were hit and then, at the same moment as Sean started gunning the throttle again, they exploded simultaneously in a merciless sea of flames.
The pickup stopped diagonally across the road, less than thirty yards from the inferno. Two men jumped out and sprayed the police cars with machine-gun fire as Sean popped the clutch. In less than ten seconds he cut around the burning vehicles and past his accomplices. John could see figures inside the cars, desperately trying to kick the windows out until they were consumed by the flames.
It was cold-blooded murder.
* * *
—
They didn’t speak until White’s Ferry Road made a sharp turn down along the river and the beautiful view engulfed them in a playful, early-morning embrace that hinted at springtime.
“They’re already coming after us over there, see?” he said, pointing out over the calm waters.
It was true. The rope ferry was heading towards them from the Maryland shore, over by the east side of the Potomac.
He’d taken that ferry once, long ago. It had been a day in autumn with the foliage flaming in all the colors of an artist’s palette. Nothing on earth could have been more beautiful.
CHAPTER 33
The commotion on death row all started when they recaptured Bud and threw him back in his cell. A few of the inmates wailed out their frustration over the fact that an otherwise completely improbable escape attempt had been thwarted, but most of them joined in the disturbance because they had no other way to express their fundamental hatred for everything and everyone—probably themselves in particular. The entire unit was transformed into an inferno of cell thrashing, pissing on the walls, and barrages of curses.
The prison guards responded quickly. They hauled fire hoses down to the cells of the prisoners who had reacted most violently, and each massive shot of water through the bars was followed by a splat as the inmate was smacked against the wall. Cell by cell the tumult gradually began to subside.
Daryl kept heckling Bud about the cigarettes he believed were owed him, until Curtis retreated to the far corner of his cell. The pain in his soul had become unbearable.
The Washington Decree Page 43
