Parallax View

by Leverone, Allan

  Shane hit the pavement and rolled. He disappeared from sight as the Datsun plowed into the man with the gun, catching him in the side with a sickening thud. His body flew up and over the hood. He crashed into the windshield and then tumbled over the roof in an ungainly somersault.

  Tracie watched in the rearview mirror as the man dropped onto the pavement and lay still. She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop just shy of a big vehicle with U.S. Government plates. Then she jammed the car into reverse and began backing up, one eye on the gunman, still crumpled in an unmoving heap in the middle of the parking lot, one eye searching for Shane.

  She spotted him crouched between two parked cars just as the base building’s front door crashed open and two more men exited the building at a dead run. The men wore suits similar to the downed gunman and each was holding a gun. They turned right and ran toward Tracie and their injured conspirator.

  And Shane.

  Tracie leaned across the front seat and shoved the passenger door open. “Get in here, now!” she screamed. She reached down and unsnapped her gun. The men were closing fast, shouting something unidentifiable.

  She leaned out the smashed window and twisted, pointing the gun in the general direction of the pursuers. She aimed above their heads and squeezed off two quick rounds. The two men hit the deck, flopping face-first to the pavement.

  Shane dived through the open passenger door, a sprawl of arms and legs, landing on the floor-mounted gear shift and unintentionally pushing the Datsun into neutral. By now the two men had risen from the pavement and were almost on top of them. Tracie jammed the car into first gear and popped the clutch and the little vehicle spun its wheels and then took off.

  One of the men had reached the driver’s side door and held doggedly to the door frame as he ran along beside, screaming at Tracie, trying to aim his gun. She jerked the wheel from side to side, zigzagging out of the parking lot, trying to break his grip. Finally the man tumbled away from the vehicle. He rolled into a grassy field next to the roadway.

  Shane was screaming, “What the hell’s going on here? What the hell’s going on here?”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Tracie answered, realizing she too was screaming. Her hands were shaking as adrenaline flooded her system. She lowered her voice and tried to calm down, to think clearly. “Right now,” she continued, “we have to get the hell out of here. We’ve got barely any head start and those guys know what vehicle we’re in. They’ll be right on our tail. If they have any kind of decent wheels at all, they’ll catch us in no time.”

  The Datsun screamed past the dead officer’s police cruiser, Tracie keeping the gas pedal pinned to the floor. There was nothing anyone could do for the cop, and slowing down for another look might just get them killed. They rocketed toward the phalanx of news vans and curious onlookers, the surprised faces growing rapidly larger in the cracked windshield.

  She glanced right and saw Shane making a visible effort to get himself under control. He had lifted into a sitting position and now buckled his seat belt—a smart move, under the circumstances. Tracie saw blood sprinkled across his face and clothing. He didn’t seem to notice. He took a deep breath and ran his bloody hands through his hair.

  Tracie blasted into the intersection of the airport access road and the cross street, barely slowing, somehow managing not to T-bone a passing car and kill them all. She turned right, toward Bangor proper and Interstate 95, risking a glance in the rearview mirror, certain the two men in the suits would be right on their tail, but they were alone. For now.

  When Shane spoke again, his voice had modulated, although it was shaking and he was panting as if he had just completed the Boston Marathon. “First off,” he said, “thank you for saving my life. I think I was down to my last couple of seconds on earth when you ran that guy down. That was some quick thinking and some unbelievable driving on your part.”

  She shook her head and started to answer, but he interrupted. “Second,” he said, “what the hell have you gotten me into?”

  26

  May 31, 1987

  9:25 a.m.

  Interstate 95, north of Bangor, Maine

  I-95 buzzed beneath the tires of the Datsun, evergreen trees flashing past outside the windows, the empty terrain of northern Maine beautiful but monotonous. After leaving the airport and their attackers behind, Tracie had driven straight to the interstate, but rather than turning south, as Shane had expected her to, she had instead driven past that access ramp and headed north.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, confused.

  “Those goons know I have to get to D.C. as soon as possible. They’ll assume we high-tailed it in that direction. Once they get their act together and come after us, that’s the way they’ll go. If we’d gone south before changing vehicles, they’d have been on us before we knew what hit us. We’d be dead before we made it ten miles.”

  “But they didn’t even follow us out of the airport.”

  “Yes, they did. Trust me. The only reason they didn’t run us down before we even got off airport property is because they had to go back and toss the guy I ran over into the back of their car. They can’t afford to leave him there, and he’s injured, so that slowed them down. Once they hustled him into their car, though—and I guarantee it didn’t take very long—they started out after us. Going north instead of south will buy us a little time, give us a chance to catch our breath, acquire a new vehicle, and formulate some kind of plan.”

  Shane raised his eyebrows. “Acquire a new vehicle? Don’t you mean steal?”

  “Acquire, steal. Tomato, tomahto.”

  He shook his head. “‘Acquire a vehicle’? ‘Formulate a plan’? Who the hell are you? And what kind of trouble are you in? Because that was a goddamned bloodbath back at the airport. There are dead people lying all over the inside of the tower base building. I’m almost certain I’m the only one who wasn’t killed.”

  When she didn’t answer, Shane pressed the issue. “Come on, Tracie, I know I owe you for saving my life, but the way I see it, my life wouldn’t have needed saving if I hadn’t hauled your ass out of that burning airplane last night, so I think you owe me, too. How about some answers?”

  She chewed her lip as she drove, clearly conflicted about what—or how much—to share. He kept quiet, letting her fight her inner battle. Finally she spoke, but it wasn’t to shed any light on the situation. “You can’t go home until this is over,” she said reluctantly. “Thanks to the news media, those guys know your name, which means they can find out where you live. They probably already have. They want to use you to find me. They may well be searching your apartment right now if they have the manpower.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve gotten mixed up in something big, something that I don’t even understand completely, and you won’t be truly safe until it’s over.”

  “All the more reason, then, to answer my questions.”

  Tracie nodded. “I know,” she said. “But let’s find a new car first and get something to eat. Once we get started southbound we’re going to have a long drive ahead of us and I’ll try to fill you in on as much as I can, then.” An exit ramp was approaching rapidly and she flicked the turn signal and exited the highway.

  “Fair enough,” Shane said. “So let’s do it. What are we looking for?”

  “An All-American strip mall.

  ***

  May 31, 1987

  9:45 a.m.

  Old Town, Maine

  They found one within a quarter-mile of leaving the interstate, a long, low, L-shaped cluster of concrete-block buildings that could have been stamped out of a cookie-cutter mold and dropped into any city, town or suburb in the United States. Probably a couple of decades old, the businesses looked tired, not quite defeated but struggling to survive. There was a Laundromat, a mom and pop convenience store, a drugstore, a Chinese restaurant, and a half-dozen other businesses, with two or three empty storefronts scattered among them.r />
  “Perfect,” Tracie muttered after looking it over for a few seconds. She drove into the complex and parked the Datsun roughly in the center of the lot, alongside a group of cars clustered in front of the Laundromat.

  “I thought we were going to get some food,” Shane said. “The Chinese joint is all the way down at the other end of the mall.”

  “That’s true, and we are,” Tracie said. “But once we’re done eating, we’re going to ‘acquire’ a car, remember? Too many customers do take-out at your typical Chinese joint. We wouldn’t want to be in the middle of hot-wiring Suzy Homemaker’s station wagon and have Suzy walk out of China Lucky with her Kung Pao special, catching us right in the act, would we?”

  “Us?”

  “Okay, me. But you’d go to jail, too. The point is we’re less likely to be caught in the act by someone who’s fluffing and folding inside the Laundromat than by someone picking up their takeout order.”

  “What if they throw their laundry in the washer and then go out for a drive, or to get a cup of coffee or something?”

  Tracie shrugged. “Then I guess we’re screwed. There are no guarantees in life, right? But it’s clouding up out here and there’s a cold breeze. Hopefully most people would want to stay inside the warmth of the Laundromat, rather than go out and freeze their butts off.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Yep. Anyway, that’s my theory, so unless you have a better one, let’s hike across the lot and share a meal, shall we? And speaking of freezing, you probably noticed that driving at highway speeds in Bangor, Maine in a car with a smashed window makes you a lot colder than you might have imagined, even in late May. It’ll feel good to warm up a little.”

  Shane hesitated. “Uh, well, I hate to seem unchivalrous, especially since you just ran over a guy holding a gun to my head, but I’ve only got a few bucks in my pocket. I’m not sure I can afford a meal, and it might be kind of hard to keep a low profile with an angry Oriental restaurant owner chasing us into the parking lot.”

  Tracie smiled. “I’ve got enough cash to last for a while, and I can get more. Come on, it’s my treat.”

  They shared a combination platter, Tracie skillfully and consistently deflecting any questions about her background and about why she had been aboard the doomed B-52 and why men with guns were chasing her around Maine. “You promised you’d answer my questions,” Shane reminded her, surprised but pleased to be eating Teriyaki Steak at this time of the morning, only now realizing how hungry he was.

  Tracie nodded. “I can’t tell you everything. I just can’t. But I’ll fill you in on what I can, I promise. Not here, though. We’ll have that conversation in the car, away from potentially prying ears.”

  Shane looked around the dining room. It was dark and mostly empty. “Who’s going to hear us in here?”

  Tracie shook her head. “Later,” she said, and that was that.

  ***

  May 31, 1987

  10:30 a.m.

  She paid the check and they strolled back into the parking lot. The clouds had continued to gather and there was a chilly bite to the air, more like March than May. Shane watched as Tracie’s sharp eyes scanned the parking lot. She was obviously looking for trouble. “I thought you said those guys would go south,” he said.

  “I’m sure they did,” she answered. “But if they hauled ass for ten or twelve miles, pushing hard, and didn’t catch up to us, I think it’s at least a possibility they would have doubled back and maybe started prowling the areas surrounding the Bangor exits, looking for the Datsun.”

  “That’s reassuring,” he said as they walked back toward the knot of cars parked outside the Laundromat.

  She shook her head. “Everything looks fine. I don’t see anything strange, do you?”

  He glanced around and shrugged. “Guess not. So what do we do now?”

  “Now we try to pass for a normal young couple as we look for a car with unlocked doors. I really don’t want to drive around in this Arctic air again with a broken window.” She took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. They wandered across the parking lot, keeping several rows of cars between them and the Laundromat windows.

  “What if everyone’s cars are locked?” Shane asked.

  “Yeah, right,” Tracie said, grinning. “Sooner or later, we’ll find an unlocked vehicle, and I’m betting on sooner. When we do, we’ll ‘acquire’ it.”

  She was right. The words had barely left Tracie’s mouth when Shane spotted a white Ford Granada, unlocked and empty. Tracie took a casual look around, and when she found no one paying the slightest attention to them, she said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  She hurried around to the driver’s side door. She slid into the car and pried the plastic cowling away from the lower portion of the steering column almost before her body had even stopped moving.

  Shane watched in amazement as she pulled a pair of wires free and then touched the ends together. There was a spark and the Granada started up, running roughly for a second or two and then settling into a contented purr. “I always wondered how they did that,” he said.

  Tracie turned to him with a dazzling smile. “I’ve picked up a few skills,” she said. “But it’s time to go.” She wheeled the Ford toward the exit and freedom. Shane twisted in his seat and looked out the rear window, certain the car’s angry owner would be sprinting across the lot in hot pursuit. But there was no one, the lot was quiet, and then they were on the road. Three minutes later they were back on Interstate 95, this time headed south.

  Shane slumped in his seat. “That was nerve-wracking,” he said. “I’m really not comfortable with stealing a car. What if we get pulled over? We’ll get busted for Grand Theft Auto.”

  “We’re not going to get pulled over,” Tracie said. “I’m going to be the most careful little driver you ever saw, and once we get a few exits south of Bangor, we’ll stop somewhere and exchange plates with another car. The police will have no reason to stop us.”

  “Okay, fine, but why can’t we just go to the police and tell them someone’s after you? That way we stay on the right side of the law, instead of becoming wanted car thieves.”

  “We’re not thieves,” Tracie said, exasperation evident in her tone. “The owner will get his car back in short order, good as new. Probably. And in the meantime, we stay alive. I can’t go to the police because…well, I just can’t.”

  “Not good enough,” Shane said. “You promised you’d give me some answers. Well, we ate, we ‘acquired’ another vehicle, and we’re on our way south, maybe driving into some kind of ambush around the next corner. It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on.”

  So she did.

  27

  May 31, 1987

  4:55 p.m.

  Portland, Maine

  After leaving the Bangor area behind, Shane and Tracie drove for a long time without seeing much beyond the occasional small town, appearing isolated and lonely in the distance. They passed Waterville and then the state capital of Augusta, eventually reaching Portland, where they stopped for gas, to use the restrooms, and to grab another bite to eat, then continued on.

  Shane spent most of the drive in silent contemplation of the incredible turn his life had taken in less than a day. A fiery plane crash. A secret document. A beautiful CIA operative. KGB spies. Murder.

  The whole scenario was outlandish. It was like something out of a Tom Clancy novel. Twenty-four hours ago, Shane would have dismissed it as a nonsensical nightmare. But that was before he had seen a room full of professional investigators gunned down in cold blood, had a silenced pistol shoved between his eyes, helped steal a car, and gone on the run.

  He shook his head. He realized with a start he hadn’t given a single thought to the deadly diagnosis he had received yesterday, the one that had shaken him up so badly, since seeing the airplane burning in the forest.

  Until now.

  The miles continued to melt away under the tires of the Granada. Shane found himsel
f struggling to keep his eyes open. He blinked a few times, stifling a yawn. They had spent the entire afternoon in the car, with just the short break in Portland at midday to gas up and stretch their legs, and it was now late-afternoon. The skies had cleared as they moved south and the sun blazed high in the sky, but Shane felt like he could drop into a deep sleep at any moment.

  “Go ahead and relax,” Tracie told him, amused. “Once the adrenaline from the conflict melts away, that high is replaced with a feeling of lethargy. It’s your body’s way of coping. It’s not every day you have to fight off psycho gunmen. At least I assume it’s not.”

  “You assume right,” Shane agreed. He chuckled, then sobered, thinking about the slaughter that had taken place back at the Bangor Airport. “You don’t think the cops believe we killed everyone back in Bangor, do you?”

  Tracie was silent for a moment. “Right now, I doubt they know what to believe. Witnesses saw us leave the airport, undoubtedly followed immediately by the gorillas chasing us, but that doesn’t mean much one way or the other. Unless there is someone still alive who can describe exactly what happened—”

  “—and I don’t think there is,” Shane interrupted. “As far as I know, the only people they didn’t kill were the controllers in the radar room working airplanes, and those guys wouldn’t have seen anything, because they were inside a dark room in a separate part of the building.”

  “If that’s the case, then it would be in our best interest not to get picked up by the police. They would eventually have to release you, but it would take a long time to verify your story, and they wouldn’t be in a very forgiving mood, not with a half-dozen or more murdered people—one of them a cop—on their hands.”

  Shane rubbed both hands over his face, still just as tired but now nervous as hell, too. He exhaled forcefully and looked across the front seat at Tracie. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Where are we going? What do we do now?”