Had they succeeded?
She tried to relax her shoulders. Take it easy, she admonished herself. How could they know where she was now? At best, they only knew she was somewhere in Virginia, and Virginia was a pretty big place to have to find somebody.
She sat and thought a little more. If whoever had called her had been working for the government, they must have known whose phone she was using and sooner or later would be showing up at Rosalie’s door to force the truth out of her. On the other hand, Rosalie’s eldest son, James, had voluntarily gone to the police station to tell the cops she’d been in their home, and they had no way of knowing that in the meantime little-brother Dennis had driven her to the milk truck by the Washington Bridge. James would never have told them.
No, of course he wouldn’t, but sooner or later her pursuers would put two and two together. So there she was, with no way of moving on and no way to warn Bugatti via Uncle Danny. If she used the cell phone one more time, they’d be able to trace her exact location, but if she did nothing, she’d be sending John Bugatti straight into a trap. And in the meantime, her father was awaiting his death not far from Josefine Maddox’s house. She could do nothing to save either of them. Nothing whatsoever.
“May I call you Josefine?” she asked cautiously, trying to catch the skinny woman’s attention, but the old lady was staring off into the forest and didn’t answer.
“Josefine, you have to help me. Don’t you think you can find someone who’ll drive me to Washington? I’ll pay. You, as well. If it’s not enough, I can make sure you get the rest later. She stuck her hand into the plastic bag to find what remained of her cash.
“No, I don’t know anyone . . .” whispered Rosalie’s sister. “Be quiet now . . .”
Doggie could hear it, too: new rounds of fire from deep within the forest.
“They’re not close by,” said Doggie.
“Shhh! Listen!”
But she could hear nothing.
Josefine picked up the same big knife with which she had greeted Doggie.
“What’s happening?” whispered Doggie. “I can’t hear anything.”
She followed a couple of steps behind Josefine into the dark living room with its lingering odor of old man and cigar.
“They came in this way last time,” she whispered, pointing towards the moonlit patio. “And I think they’re trying again.”
Doggie’s eyes moved across the edge of the forest and along the black earth up to the house. Maybe there was a chance she could force her driver to take her to Washington if she threatened to report him to the police. Would he take such a threat seriously? Perhaps he would; she suspected life had given him enough to tend to already.
Josefine stopped suddenly. “Get out of here!” she spat into the darkness.
Doggie didn’t see the shadow until it began trying to force open the patio door. “Let me in,” called a deep voice, “or I’ll break the door down, and you know I will!”
“I have guests. You can’t come in today.”
“I’ll count to three. One . . .”
At this point Josefine began invoking Jesus and all the apostles. “Why me?” she implored. “Haven’t I always minded my own business?”
“Two . . .”
Then she stepped to the door and unlocked it.
“What’s that vehicle parked in your front yard?” asked the voice.
“Just take it and clear out,” said Josefine. She turned on the light, and the living room revealed itself in all its repulsiveness. Every surface—every corner—was a deep, dark brown from her deceased husband’s tobacco habit, as were the curtains and furniture.
The militia soldier stepped through the doorway and examined Doggie. “Are you the one who came with the milk truck?”
What he lacked in height he made up for in breadth. Weeks in the forest had left their mark all over his clothes and face. His hair was disheveled and his skin bore witness to the days and nights of living close to the earth and far from a bath. There was an emblem sewed on the shoulder of his military shirt consisting of a couple of Gothic letters, a spread-winged eagle, and a pair of crossed weapons. While Doggie didn’t recognize the emblem, it resembled those of the other militias. There had never been much emphasis on originality in those circles.
“The milk tanker’s run out of gas. It’s just by chance I got stuck here.”
The man’s eyes lit up with suspicion as he turned to Josefine. “You’ve got a pickup parked over behind the shed.”
“So you finally saw it. Go ahead, take it. We bought it thirty years ago, and even then it was a bad deal. If you can get it to run, more power to you. My husband sure couldn’t. But first you’ve got to find a way to pump up the tires. They’re as flat as a sow’s ass.” She cackled and put down the knife.
“Is there diesel in the tank?”
“Probably.”
Doggie shook her head. Now he was going to siphon off the diesel for the milk truck. But then he’d have to confront the outraged driver, who definitely wouldn’t give up his truck without a fight.
“Where are you driving to?” she asked, avoiding his eyes.
“None of your business, little lady.”
“Okay, you don’t know who I am, do you?” Her raised eyebrow emphasized the scorn in her voice. “I’m Doggie Rogers, the one who assaulted the vice president. Don’t you follow the news? Everyone in the country’s looking for me. I’m in deeper shit than you are, so I think you ought to tell me where you’re going.”
He looked skeptical. “Doggie Rogers? Prove it.”
She went out to the kitchen and fished her White House ID out of her bag. “The hair’s a little different, but look at the eyes. Are you convinced now?” she asked.
He studied the photo for a moment, then grabbed the plastic bag out of her hand. “What else you got in there?” She tried to grab it back, but he shoved her away.
“Well, hello there,” he said, removing a bundle of banknotes. “Thirty-seven hundred dollars,” he counted. “Not bad! This money is hereby confiscated by the Pulaski Militia. Would you like a receipt?” He gave a grunt that was as close as he could come to a laugh. What the hell, he could make any noise he wanted with the little automatic he had stuck in his belt. Fucking jerk.
It occurred to Doggie that, if he came from Pulaski, this wasn’t really his home turf. “Are you going to Pulaski?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead he dumped out the contents of her plastic bag, including her cell phone.
“Bingo!” he cried. “This is almost even better.”
“Don’t you turn that on,” she hissed.
He raised a finger, warning her not to come closer.
“If you do, this place will be swamped with cops and soldiers within twenty minutes. Do you understand me? Aside from Michael K. Lerner, Moonie Quale, Tom Jumper, and John Bugatti, I’m the most wanted person in the US, believe me. You’re not using that phone, got it?”
He raised his head slowly, revealing the full scope of his defiant jaw. If she could have, she would have punched it free of his ugly face.
“I see the PIN code’s been scratched on the backside.” He grunt-laughed again. “Bravo, lady. Thanks a lot.”
Doggie lunged at him and tried to grab the phone—then kick it—out of his hand, but without success. When he got tired of her fulminations he swung a heavy fist into her chest that sent her flying backward into a musty easy chair. There she sat, gasping for breath, as he turned on the phone and dialed a number.
He nodded as he stared into space. “Benson here. I’m coming to Cairo. . . . Yeah, opportunity knocked. I’ll be there in four or five hours. . . . Yeah, around eight or nine. Is the ‘swatter’ in position?” He nodded again. “Do we have the manpower? Fantastic! It’s gonna be like a lightning bolt, for God’s sake! Listen, I’ve got Doggie Rogers with me her
e. . . . Yes, her. . . . Yeah, I’ve got her under control. She’s got a White House ID, so maybe . . . Right. Precisely. I’ll bring her with me.” He folded the phone together and stuck it in his pocket.
“Turn it all the way off!” she hissed again. It was the only way the words would come out.
“Sorry. My cell phone battery ran out last week, and I’ll kill you before I’ll let you turn it off. Just try me.”
“You bastard! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
He took Josefine by the jaw and pressed her thin face even thinner. “Go to bed, woman. We’re leaving now.”
Then he pushed her over and dragged Doggie out of the chair. “Get your coat on,” he ordered. Out in the bitter cold he headed for the shed behind which stood the pickup. As they passed the dairy truck, complaints and curses could be heard from within the milk container. The driver was still performing his dirty task.
“What the hell? Is there someone in there?” said the man, giving her a shake as he took the gun out of his belt for the first time. “Get up into the cab. I’ll kill you if you so much as stick one toe out, you understand?”
She obeyed and could hear him mounting the stainless steel cylinder. Then he yelled down through the hole in the top, and there were muffled sounds inside the container, accompanied by indistinct shouting. Then suddenly they were both standing in front of the truck. Her driver was even more livid than before, if that were possible, but it did him little good.
* * *
—
Two hours later they were heading north. The militiaman was sitting opposite her inside the container in the near-darkness, rolling himself a cigarette. He was unshaven and scruffy and, with his weapon in his belt, could have been one of Che Guevara’s guerrilla warriors. The hatch above them was open, so they could see the last fading stars in the early morning sky; there was no way her captor was going to let himself be locked inside. Up in the cab the driver had undergone a transformation and had become mild as a lamb. The miracle came as a result of having to give up his gun and his wallet. Not because he’d suddenly been rendered both defenseless and penniless—which was bad enough—but because the militiaman had found his home address and informed him that his family would pay the consequences if he didn’t drive where he was told. Just a simple phone call, he said, tapping Doggie’s cell phone, and it was all over for his wife and two over-fed daughters. He’d hate to have to do it, he said, because he had two daughters himself. But that’s how it was.
This had had the desired effect, and now the driver was back behind the wheel, hamstrung and grumbling softly, as the milk truck tore through the landscape. The faster the better, if he were to reach New York by nightfall.
We’ll never make it, thought Doggie. They will have localized us long before.
The militiaman took a couple of drags on his cigarette and checked the contents of the driver’s wallet one more time, emptying it, item for item. Then he took the money he’d gotten off Doggie and placed it in the wallet alongside the money that she had given the driver. Next he reached inside his breast pocket and took out two sheets of lined, folded-up paper. He unfolded them and studied them for a moment with obvious satisfaction, folded them up again, and stuck them in the wallet. He looked pretty proud of himself as he put the wallet back into the pocket of his camouflage jacket.
“Where are we going?” she asked for the fifth time.
“To Cairo, I told you.”
“Yeah, that much I understand. But is it Cairo in Georgia or West Virginia, or where? There are Cairos in every other state in the country, so which one?”
The guy didn’t answer, he just spat on the floor. More cleaning work for the driver.
“I have to be in Washington by noon. My father’s life depends on it, understand?”
“What can you do about it there?”
Doggie noticed his attentive expression. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Yes, what could she do in Washington? She couldn’t very well say she was going to pay the president a visit. She’d better not say much, in fact. She bit her upper lip. Damn that cold floor—here she was again! And she was in more danger than ever.
“What are your daughters’ names?” she asked. Surefire way to soften a person up, she figured.
He looked at her contemptuously. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?” he mimicked. “Then I can send him a postcard telling him where the garbage can is that’s got your head in it because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut with shit like that.”
She looked at the floor. “What are you going to use my ID card for? You’ll never get into the White House with it, if that’s what you think.”
“Names and pictures can be changed if necessary. And it may become necessary, so shut up. Or maybe we’ll send you in.”
Then the cell phone rang and the man took it out of his pocket.
Doggie froze. “Don’t answer it,” she whispered. “Right now they know approximately where we are, but not exactly. You’ll be helping them trap us. Turn it off! Now!”
He looked at the display panel. “Yeah, it’s Benson here. . . .” He shook his head and looked at her. “We were cut off. Maybe the signal’s too weak.” He looked around at the curved steel walls as though they may have had to do with the phone going dead.
“Turn it off now,” she repeated.
“Hey . . .” He was looking at the display again. “Someone’s left a message on your voice mail.”
“How do you know?”
“Don’t you know your own telephone? You can see it there.” He pointed at an icon on the display.
“Turn that thing off,” she said once again, feeling her forehead getting clammy. Who could have left her a message?
“Okay, it’s a guy who calls himself ‘T.’ Funny name. He sounds pretty old. Hope it’s not your boyfriend.” He laughed.
So the bitchy switchboard lady in the Highland County Sheriff’s Office had given T her number after all.
She leaned towards him quickly, trying to grab the phone. “Give it to me,” she commanded.
“He says he has important information. That Thomas Sunderland is involved in the matter. Does he mean our vice president?”
She dried her forehead and nodded, waiting until he’d listened to the rest of the message.
“May I hear it, too?”
“Oh, getting brave now, are we? A minute ago, you wanted me to turn it off, didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry. Let me hear the message for myself—please!” Then she would take the cell phone and smash it to bits.
He pushed a button and handed her the phone.
She waved her hand impatiently as she listened. Hurry up, T, she beseeched him silently, get a move on before they find us.
But T couldn’t hurry up because he had so much to tell. And the longer she listened to the message, the uneasier she became.
T had gotten some important information regarding the case, yes. Thomas Sunderland was involved, and T wanted to meet her in Washington at twelve noon, at Barnes & Noble on the corner of 12th and E Streets.
He had given her a ray of hope, but at the same time she was choked with panic. There she was, sitting across from an armed militia fanatic, pinned down on her way to God knows where, and had two fateful, closely timed meetings in Washington in a few hours. Luckily, the two meeting places were as close together as could be, but suddenly she realized each of them was positioned more or less along a side of the block that housed the Hoover Building—FBI headquarters. What the hell had she and T been thinking?
She shook her head. In T’s case, it could be that he did not yet know she was the focus of a nationwide manhunt. But how could he not? He was a police officer, for Christ’s sake. Was there something fishy about this meeting? Could it be a trap? No, dammit, she wasn’t going to start mistrusting him! After all, she, herself, had chosen a place that was just as dumb
and potentially fatal.
Then she raised her arm to fling the cell phone against the floor.
Maybe the guy had foreseen it; maybe his fight for survival out there in the forest had sharpened his senses and instinct. In any case, the next thing she knew was the sensation of excruciating pain in her underarm and wrist. She never saw the rigid side of his hand coming, she just felt the blow as her arm was sucked in close to her body in a reflex. Then he plucked the cell phone out of her numb hand and shoved her over backward.
“Turn it off,” she pleaded, and then it rang again.
He looked irresolute for a moment before he answered. “Benson here. Is it you, Eric?”
Doggie shook her head. In five minutes the guardians of law and order would be descending on them, stopping them at a roadblock if they didn’t prefer blasting them off the road from a helicopter.
“Turn the thing off, you asshole!” she screamed, as loud as she could.
He frowned, asked again if it was Eric, and clapped the phone together. This time he turned it off.
“It’s your fault,” she said, trying to get some feeling back in her arm. “You should have listened to me.”
“They asked if it was your voice; they could hear yelling in the background.”
“I’ll bet,” she said. But the thought of it gave her the shivers.
“They know we’re heading north, they said.”
“Are we?”
“Shut the fuck up. I ought to hog-tie you and throw you out with this cell phone stuck in your little pink panties.”
“Then why don’t you?”
His face was indistinct, but the glow from his cigarette was pulsing more rapidly.
“What’s a swatter? You mentioned it on the phone before.”
“Shut the fuck up, I said.”
“Oh, is it something bad? I thought it was some kind of dildo. Weren’t you speaking with your wife?”
“You be quiet, Doggie Rogers, or I’ll strangle you.”
She sat for a while, studying the open hatch in the roof of the container. An Olympic gymnast would probably be able to spring up, crawl out, and close the hatch before this idiot knew what had happened.
The Washington Decree Page 45
