by Jude Hardin
There was a horse-drawn carriage parked at the curb. For twenty-five bucks, the driver would take you on a fifteen-minute tour of the historic district. It was the kind of thing normal people did. People who weren’t running for their lives.
Wahlman looked forward to the day when he could do things like that again. Ordinary things. Joyful things. He wanted to go to the movies. He wanted to walk into a restaurant without having to watch his back every second. He wanted to be able to use his real name again. He wanted to own things. A house. A car. He wanted to settle down with Kasey. Maybe start a family. All of that was starting to seem within reach now. He knew there was still a lot of work to do, but acquiring the information on Dorland would go a long way toward achieving his ultimate goal, toward getting his life back.
He looked at the clock on the wall over the service counter. Ten more minutes, and the briefcase would be his.
Ten more minutes.
He watched the seconds tick by, one at a time.
Nine more minutes.
Eight.
A uniformed police officer walked into the coffee shop. He sauntered up to the counter and said something to the barista. She seemed as bored and uninspired as she had when she’d waited on Wahlman. The officer seemed chipper and energetic, but he didn’t appear to be in any sort of hurry. Probably working the middle shift, Wahlman thought. Probably just getting started. This was probably morning coffee for him. Maybe his first cup of the day. Maybe his only cup, depending on how many calls came in during his shift.
The barista brought the officer a paper cup with a lid on it. The officer handed her some cash, turned around and exited the shop, nodding at Wahlman on his way out. He was young. Early twenties. Two or three years on the job, at the most. Probably not a rookie, but probably not very experienced either. He waved at the driver as he walked past the carriage, and then he treaded up the hill to where his cruiser was parked.
Wahlman looked at the clock again. Three more minutes. The hacker had been punctual for the first meeting, and there was no reason to think that he wouldn’t be for this one.
No reason until those three minutes ticked by and the hacker still wasn’t there.
Wahlman went to the counter and bought another cup of coffee. Carried it to the table by the window and sat back down. The hacker was four minutes late now, and Wahlman was starting to get concerned. Maybe the hacker had gotten cold feet. Maybe he’d thought about it some more, and had decided against passing the information along to Wahlman after all, regardless of how much money would change hands. Maybe he’d disabled the little detonator and had thrown the briefcase off a bridge. Those were the thoughts going through Wahlman’s head when the percussive wave from an enormous blast somewhere west of the coffee shop knocked him out of his chair and caused the plate glass window he had been staring out of to shatter into a million pieces.
The horse out at the curb started rearing and thrashing and the people out on the sidewalk started running and screaming.
Wahlman reached up and gripped the seat of the chair he’d been sitting on and pushed himself to a standing position. He brushed the tiny pieces of glass off his clothes and dizzily made his way to the counter to make sure the barista was okay. She was on the floor, hunkered into a corner, hugging her knees and staring blankly at a stack of paper cups that had toppled over into the sink.
“You all right?” Wahlman said.
She nodded.
Wahlman turned and staggered to the door and jerked it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Something was on fire, just over the hill, just beyond where the police car was parked. The cop was nowhere in sight, but the cup of coffee he’d bought was on the top of the cruiser, behind the light bar, somehow undisturbed by whatever had taken place on the other side of the hill.
There was no way for Wahlman to know exactly what had happened, but his best guess was that the hacker had done something to draw the attention of the police officer, and that the subsequent encounter had somehow led to one nervous thumb being lifted from one detonator button. Which of course had led to the explosion.
Maybe the hacker had left his car in a no parking zone or something. Maybe he’d jaywalked. Maybe the officer had recognized him from some sort of previous encounter. Wahlman had no idea, and he would never have any idea, because he didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.
He stared at the black plumes of a smoke rising in the air, and then he turned and started walking in the opposite direction, back down the hill, back toward the park.
14
Wahlman had been planning on taking a bus back to Reality and hiding out until the repair shop closed for the day. He’d been planning on leaving some money and finding his keys and skipping out unnoticed sometime after dark. He certainly didn’t want anyone from that area to see him driving the truck he’d taken. It was possible that Boyfriend had survived the blow to the head, possible that he would wake up at some point, possible that he would eventually be coherent enough to talk to the police. Not likely, but possible. And if Boyfriend did wake up, and if he did talk to the police, there was no telling what kind of story he might tell them about his friend being shot.
So Wahlman had been planning on taking a bus, and he’d been planning on getting into and out of Reality as quickly as possible.
But things had changed.
A police officer had been killed, and Wahlman had walked away from the scene, and the melancholy barista at the coffee shop could identify Wahlman if she needed to, and that was all he needed, more trouble with the law.
So he didn’t really want to hang around in Junction City long enough to take a bus, but he didn’t really want to drive the pickup truck back to Reality either.
He was starting to wonder if he should just forget about the SUV. Chalk it up as a loss. Forget about it and never go anywhere near Reality, Missouri again.
He strolled into the park and sat on the same bench he’d been sitting on earlier. It had been a rough day. First the incident with Boyfriend and Partner In Crime. Then the hacker had wanted twice as much money as Wahlman had in his pocket. Then the hacker and a police officer and no telling how many innocent bystanders had been blown to bits. Not to mention the briefcase, which had supposedly contained the information Wahlman needed to start getting his life back.
At least he knew now that the information he needed was attainable. It was just a matter of time until he could find someone else to help him get it. A matter of time, and a matter of money. It had been one of the worst days of his life, but at least he knew now that the situation was not impossible.
And at least he still had Kasey.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in her number.
“How did it go?” she said.
“It didn’t,” Wahlman said. “I better not elaborate over the phone, but I’m pretty much back to where I was when I started. Back when I left Tennessee.”
“Do you still have the money?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you can get someone else to help you.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Wahlman said.
Silence for a few beats.
“I need to go,” Kasey said.
“A while ago you said there was something you needed to talk to me about.”
“There is, but—”
“What is it?” Wahlman said.
He could tell by Kasey’s voice that she was upset about something. She sounded as though she might be on the verge of tears.
“A man was here looking for you,” she said.
“What man?”
“His name is Decker. He’s a professional tracker. And a bounty hunter. He’s working for a private investigator. The one you got into a fight with in Bakersfield, I guess.”
“Did he mention the private investigator’s name?” Wahlman said.
“Feldman. I think that’s what he said. Something like that.”
Wahlman couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
&nb
sp; “This is all very significant,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I was afraid. He started talking about aiding and abetting and the state taking Natalie away from me and—”
“You need to be afraid,” Wahlman said. “Since Decker was able to find you at the lake house, it means that Dorland’s people will eventually be able to find you there as well. And Dorland’s people won’t be interested in charging you with any sort of crime. Dorland’s people will do whatever it takes to pinpoint my location. You’re not safe there anymore.”
“I know,” Kasey said. “We packed some things and left last night.”
“You left the lake house?”
“Yes. And don’t ask me where we are, because I can’t tell you.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. You know how it is with these cellular phones. You never know who might be—”
“It’s not because of that,” Kasey said. “This just isn’t going to work out. I can’t talk to you anymore. I can’t see you anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Daddy said not to worry about the money. Keep it. Use it for whatever you need it for.”
“Kasey. Listen to me. I’m getting close to resolving this thing. I can feel it. I just need a little more time. I need for you to—”
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“What did you say to Decker? You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”
For a brief moment, Wahlman heard Kasey sobbing in the background.
Then she clicked off.
15
Wahlman sat there on the park bench for a few minutes and considered his options. He was totally alone in the world now, and—as if he didn’t have enough problems to deal with already—a professional tracker named Decker was on his tail.
A tracker, and a bounty hunter.
The last time Wahlman had checked, the bounty put out on him by the New Orleans Police Department had increased to an amount that was practically unheard of. It probably wasn’t quite enough for a man like Decker to retire on, but it was probably close. The online wanted posters that Wahlman had seen had specified that he was to be delivered alive and in good health, but that had been a while back. The conditions of the reward might have changed by now.
Decker was sort of a celebrity, one of those guys you see on the national news channels sometimes. Special Investigative Consultant, or something like that. He was known for his dogged persistence. If he was looking for you, it was only a matter of time until you were found. A fugitive had stowed away on a rocket ship to Mars one time. It didn’t matter. Decker eventually caught up to him and brought him back to Earth. Decker was expensive, but he was the best. He was the guy you called when you wanted your chance of success to be one hundred percent.
Wahlman had no idea how much information Kasey had provided to Decker, but it was a pretty safe bet that Decker had squeezed her for everything he could get. Threatened her with prosecution and all that. If she’d told him everything she knew, he was probably in Reality right now. He’d probably gone to the repair shop. Maybe the hotel. Maybe the diner. Everywhere that Wahlman had been. And he was probably hanging out at one of those places and waiting for Wahlman to return.
Which ordinarily would have sent Wahlman hightailing it in the opposite direction.
But this was Decker.
He only worked for one client at a time, and he never gave up. The day he was hired, it became his sole mission in life to find Rock Wahlman and deliver him to the authorities. And that was exactly what he would do. And if the requirements for the bounty had changed, he would proceed accordingly. He wouldn’t pull any punches. He would find Wahlman and ambush him and send him to Louisiana in a box.
Which meant that Wahlman needed to find him first.
Wahlman got up and slid his phone back into his pocket and started walking to where he’d parked the pickup truck. He still had the .357 revolver he’d taken from Boyfriend. It was in the glove compartment. He started the truck and eased away from the curb and made a U-turn at the first intersection he came to and headed back toward the interstate.
Back toward Reality.
16
Decker was accustomed to sitting and waiting for long periods of time. It was basically what he did for a living. Hours and hours of extreme boredom, followed by short bursts of intense excitement. The excitement part was kind of like a drug. An addiction. It was what Decker lived for.
It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon, and he hadn’t eaten anything all day. And he didn’t plan on eating anything until the job was done. Hunger was part of the experience. It added to the tension. The anticipation. There would be no eating—or sleeping—until Rock Wahlman was taken care of.
Decker’s cell phone started vibrating. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Feldman.
Decker didn’t like to take calls while he was on a stakeout. It was a distraction. It diverted your attention from where it needed to be. It took your mind off the job at hand, and when you were the best in the world at what you did, you needed to stay focused. Every second. Because things could go very wrong in a heartbeat.
Decker usually turned the phone off, but he’d forgotten to this time.
Feldman.
Shit.
What could he possibly want?
Decker decided to go ahead and answer the call, but he was determined to keep it short.
“I’m working,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Where are you?” Feldman said.
“Where I am is not important. What is important is that I’m very close to completing the job you hired me to do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to get back to—”
“We have a lead on a man who fits Wahlman’s description.”
“What kind of lead?” Decker said.
“Detective Collins called me a while ago. He and every other law enforcement officer in the country received an encrypted message from the National Terrorist Alert System. A briefcase bomb exploded in Junction City, Kansas earlier this afternoon. The paper documents that had been inside the briefcase were destroyed, but the man who had been holding the case had an interesting note tucked in his wallet.”
Decker sighed. “I’m listening,” he said.
“The note described a man who was very tall and very muscular, with dark brown hair and blue eyes and chiseled features. Wahlman doesn’t have dark brown hair, of course, but it’s very likely that he’s been dying it since he’s been on the run.”
“What else did the note say?”
“It said that this tall and muscular man was working to obtain government secrets. He’d contacted the man with the briefcase through a mutual acquaintance, and—”
“Did the man with the briefcase have a name?” Decker said.
“His name hasn’t been released yet. The note said that if anything happened to him, the tall and muscular man was to be held responsible. Then there was an apology, from whoever wrote the note—presumably the man who’d been carrying the briefcase—an apology to his family and to his colleagues and to the United States of America. It said that he was very sorry for the role he’d played in this affair, and that he hoped the people in his life could remember him for the good things he’d done.”
“Sounds like the man with the briefcase was getting ready to sell some kind of classified information to the tall and muscular man,” Decker said.
“Exactly,” Feldman said. “But the most important part of that note, as far as we’re concerned, is that it places the tall and muscular man in Junction City. That’s something we can use.”
“The tall and muscular man could have been anyone,” Decker said.
“True. But I have a strong hunch that it was Wahlman. We’re working to secure the footage from several nearby security cameras. We should know for sure by the end of the day if it was him or not.”
Decker thought about that for a few seconds. It didn’t really mat
ter where Wahlman had gone that morning, or what he had done that afternoon. His primary mode of transportation was still in Reality, Missouri, and it didn’t seem likely that he would just abandon it. Decker was betting that Wahlman would return to the hotel, and that it wouldn’t take him much longer to get there.
“Okay,” Decker said.
“That’s it?” Feldman said. “Seems like you would want to—”
“Like I said, I’m working. I’ll call you if I need anything, but you probably won’t hear from me until the job is done.”
There was a long pause.
“And when might that be?” Feldman said.
“Soon,” Decker said. “Very soon.”
17
Wahlman pulled over to the shoulder and switched off the ignition at approximately the same spot his SUV had stopped running yesterday. He climbed out of the pickup truck, slid the revolver into the back of his waistband. Walked to the bottom of the exit ramp again and saw the sign again and headed west toward Reality again. But he didn’t walk along the side of the highway this time. He trotted across the grassy runoff that ran parallel to the road and made his way to the edge the forest.
He didn’t go very deep into the woods. Just a few feet past the tree line. Just far enough from the highway to be invisible to traffic. Not that there was much, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He didn’t want to be seen by the police or The Waitress With No Name or the mechanic at the repair shop or the clerk at the hotel. He didn’t want to be seen by the ordinary folks traveling from Reality to Fantasy, or from Fantasy to Reality, and he didn’t want to be seen by anyone who had taken the wrong exit and was now lost somewhere between the two. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone. He wanted to sneak into town and take Decker by surprise.
If Decker was indeed there waiting for him.
