“Don’t forget our date,” Navarro reminded Janet as she made her way toward the door.
Taking the prints, they headed back to the car.
“What was that all about?” Janet asked as they headed toward the car.
“I needed to know what time it was when the shots were taken. The best way to find out was to look at the President's watch.”
“What difference does that make?”
“We know what date they were taken, since the photographs in the paper’s files were dated. Now we know the time. Therefore, given the position of the shadows, we should be able to figure out the direction our unknown object is from the fence line. Once we have that, we might even be able to find it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Payton was walking briskly toward the parking space, and Janet struggled to keep up with him. “It might only be some trees, right?”
“Whatever it is, it’s all that we’ve got. And you’re right. It could be trees, but even if it is, the sniper might be using them as a hide. You’ve seen those platforms deer hunters build in a tree. Well, nothing says that our man couldn’t do the same thing. The important thing is there’s something out there, and whatever it is, it’s in line of sight of the golf green. A long line of sight, but a line of sight nonetheless.”
Payton wanted to look over the photos on the way back to the motel, so Janet drove the rental car. It was getting late in the day, and the downtown traffic was building. As a result, Janet didn’t pay any particular attention to the car that followed her out to the Beltway.
. . . . . .
After he hung up the phone, Parker walked over to the state map hanging on the wall of his office. They definitely weren’t staying in Washington. If Payton had planned to remain in the capital, he would have been at the airport motel. With Pine Lakes out, the logical choice was Baltimore, but something had caused them to hurriedly get out of Washington. Whatever that something was, it would point like an arrow to where they were staying.
Parker looked at the map again. Maybe he had underestimated Payton. If Payton had managed to piece enough of the conspiracy together, he and the Phillips woman might relocate closer to Camp David–and that meant Thurmont or Frederick. Parker reached for the phone, punching in the number for the car running surveillance on the couple.
After speaking briefly with its driver, Parker broke the connection and dialed the number of his response team positioned in one of the area motels. Parker’s instructions were clear. He would dispatch two teams. One would position themselves along Route 15, a mile or so north of where Interstate 70 cut the highway. The second he’d have take up a point further north at the Route 77 intersection, but where they’d be able to cover the parallel route 806. If both cars left right away, they’d just make it.
When he was certain the couple was going back to western Maryland, Parker’s man reported in. Parker told him to verify that they exited Interstate 70 at Route 15, then drop off the surveillance. The man in the tail car acknowledged his orders, uncertain what Parker had in mind. It seemed like a lot of trouble to follow them from Baltimore all the way to western Maryland, only to break off the surveillance. What the hell? He was getting paid either way.
When he saw the car get off the interstate at Route 15, Parker’s man reported in again. Wherever they were going, Parker was obviously on top of it. He followed them off the same exit, but headed back to the estate.
Janet was driving at a leisurely pace. The heavy traffic on the north‑south route continued up Route 15 since it was faster than Auburn Road. She followed the small country road, designated Route 550, north.
As they entered the Route 77 intersection, a car coming from the side road pulled in behind her. Janet continued on her course, paying no attention to the other vehicle. The other driver remained a respectful distance behind them, but never let her out of his sight.
Most of the traffic was headed for the interchange at Route 15. Once past the interchange, the road reverted back to a small country road, a single lane in each direction. Less than a mile from the interchange, she watched as the other driver pulled alongside her.
Instinctively, her foot came off the accelerator and started toward the brake pedal. But something told her to get the hell out of there. She regained control of the accelerator, pressing it to the floor.
Payton looked up from the photos. “What’s...” he asked.
“They’re trying to run us off the road,” Janet shouted in response to his unfinished question. Wingate’s people had finally caught up with them.
“Hit the accelerator,” he barked.
The rental car’s wheels screeched as she dropped the shift lever into a lower gear and slammed the accelerator to the floor. Blue smoke poured from the tortured rear tires until they finally grabbed the road.
Meanwhile, the chase car stayed alongside, but made no effort to force them off the road. Payton got a good look at the occupants of the chase car–two men, both sitting in front. Immediately, he reached behind the front seat scrambling desperately for the shotgun, which he had forgotten to move over behind the driver’s seat after Janet took the wheel.
The cars ripped through the western Maryland countryside at a breakneck pace. Fortunately no one pulled out in front of them.
As they reached the next intersection, Janet shouted, “Should I turn?”
Payton had only a split second to make a decision.
“No go straight, stay on 550. At least we know where it goes,” he said as his left hand finally got a grip on the Remington 870.
He pulled the gun between the seats and into his hands. Payton stripped the towel off the gun, then reached for the safety. Mindful of the fact that Janet was in his line of fire, Payton kept the shotgun pointed down toward the floor.
Without warning, the pursuit car slowed, dropping back behind them. Suddenly Payton heard a loud blast. Their rear window exploded, showering the back seat with a rainfall of glass. Hoping the car’s body would slow the pellets, Payton yelled, “Keep your head down.” What little protection the headrest would provide was better than none.
Frantically, Janet maneuvered the sedan so that other car was behind her. She couldn’t let them pass. If they managed to get ahead of her, the game would be over. Once they forced her to stop, both she and Steve would be dead, the victims of some unknown, random crime that unexpectedly hit the western Maryland community.
She had no intentions of letting that happen. Every time the driver of the chase car tried to get around her, Janet swung the steering wheel to the left, cutting him off. Both cars whipped from lane to lane, each driver struggling to gain the upper hand.
More rounds raked the car, each blast slamming into it with a loud thump. At first Payton had thought they were trying to shoot out the tires: a high-speed crash would be almost as effective as a shooting. But the rounds’ impact at window level changed his mind.
He looked over at the speedometer; they were pushing seventy‑five miles per hour. The rental was holding its own, but if they got to a straight section of road, the other car would out run them. They were on the razor’s edge, and quickly running out of options.
Payton held his fire: he was reluctant to use the Remington from where he was sitting. In order to get a shot off, he’d have to lean over Janet’s seat, and that was the last thing she needed. He’d have to move to the back seat, leaving Janet alone in the front.
But they were going too fast, and the road had too many curves for him to be able to climb out of the front seat. What’s worse, he knew they couldn’t keep this pace up much longer. Either Janet would crash, most likely into one of the countless roadside trees, or the other car would finally force them off the road.
Janet watched as the other driver tried again to pass. He had just begun to pull up on the left side of them, when Janet glimpsed the construction dump truck in the oncoming lane. Wingate’s man, still trying to edge up alongside them, hadn’t seen the truck. Janet gauged the distance. It was ti
me to fight fire with fire. A plan began to take shape in her mind. It just might work.
Ever so slowly she cut her speed, letting the chase car move up closer alongside them. She didn’t want them so close that a shot would hit something vital. On the other hand, she didn’t want them so far back that they could easily slow down then ease in behind her. She kept her imaginary fingers crossed, hoping the other driver’s attention would remain on her, and not the road ahead. The gunman’s attention was riveted on his quarry.
Carl Yalter had recently turned fifty. His beer belly, infinitely better padding than a seat belt, propped him up between the seat and the rig’s steering wheel. He often threatened to lay off the suds, but his after‑work six pack was the one thing in life he really looked forward to.
As usual, he was late, and his wife would be all over his ass. He had promised her he’d be home on time so that she could go out with the “girls” for a sandwich and a beer, then go bowling.
It used to be the guys’ night out. Now it was the girls’, and his turn to put up with their three brats. At least there was an ample supply of beer in the fridge. He downshifted gears on the huge Kenworth dump truck.
Many people who worked in Baltimore or Washington discovered that the lengthy commute out to Western Maryland was well worth the lower housing prices. Construction was booming, and Yalter was working pretty steadily. In fact, he’d worked more this year than he had in the past three years. His load of gravel topped ten tons cargo weight.
Yalter was thinking about how he was going to get his boss to pay him off the books when he saw the two cars drag racing up the road. His rig wasn’t going fast, a little under forty. The asshole in his lane had plenty of time to give up the race, and pull over where he belonged. For some reason the other driver didn’t seem aware of the construction dump truck headed right for him. That didn’t make any sense. After all, the Kenworth was kind of hard to miss. Probably a couple of dumb teenagers playing chicken. Yalter gave some thought to the air horn, but Christ, they had to see him!
Both drivers, still locked in mortal combat, were closing on the dump truck at over sixty miles an hour–ninety feet a second. Allowing for the dump truck’s speed, the sedan and the Kenworth were closing at nearly one hundred and fifty feet per second. There wasn’t much roadway left when the other driver finally saw the juggernaut bearing down on him.
The driver’s reflexes were fast. Planning on slewing his car behind Janet’s until the road cleared, he stomped the brakes. But Janet anticipated his move, slamming on her brakes as soon as she saw him begin to slow. Her action kept the chase car firmly planted in the southbound lane, and on a head‑on collision course with Yalter’s rig. The gunman forgot about the fleeing car. Payton no longer was the biggest problem facing him.
From Yalter’s perch high in the cab, he watched the accident unfold like a gigantic panorama. The car closing on him had nowhere to go. The shoulder along this section of the road was only a few feet wide, allowing no room to escape the inevitable. Conscious of his potentially shifting load, Yalter pumped his brakes, hoping to avoid a head on collision, but it was too little, too late. Carl Yalter reached for the air horn.
Yalter braced himself as the sedan plunged headlong into the front of the Kenworth. The car nosed down under the big truck’s front bumper, while its back took a short hop in the air as the car came to an abrupt rest. Steam from the blown radiator shrieked from the mangled front end. The car’s hood bent back to the front of where the windshield had been. As the car came to its final resting place, its trunk sprang open. Both doors jammed against the frame, which the crash had pushed back a good foot. Safety glass tinkled across the macadam.
As soon as everything stopped, Yalter sprinted from the truck’s cab. The sounds of breaking glass, tortured steel, and disintegrating body parts were gone, replaced by a deathly silence. Only the ticking noise of slowly cooling hot metal could be heard.
Yalter took a hard look at the passenger compartment. The carnage was horrific. Neither man had worn his seat belt. The driver, his face and chest covered with blood, seemed to be breathing, or at least Yalter could hear the wheezing sound of the driver’s blood‑filled lungs trying to take in more air and failing. He might make it if the State Police medevac chopper got there fast enough, but Yalter wasn’t taking any bets.
At the time of impact, the passenger’s had head traveled forward to be greeted by the windshield. The dash as well as most of the interior was splashed in slowly congealing blood and gray matter. Sickened, Yalter turned away. There was no doubt in his mind that the guy was dead.
Carl Yalter looked up the road to see if the other car had stopped, but the other driver hadn’t bothered hanging around. Yalter wasn’t at all surprised. He wouldn’t have either. Yalter started back to the Kenworth’s cab and his CB radio, hoping the locals still monitored channel nine. His old lady would be bananas when he failed to show up in time for dinner. It was going to be a long night with the cops.
. . . . . .
As soon as they had cleared the accident scene, Janet eased off the accelerator. Payton, wary of being spotted with the shotgun, put it back on the floor.
“Nice driving. Where did you learn that stunt?”
Janet’s stomach was churning. Her arms quivered from the fear that coursed through her body. She knew it easily could be them in the torn, twisted car. She struggled to get a grip on herself, but it was to no avail. Her head felt light and her knees began to shake. “Can you drive back to the motel?” she asked, her voice wavering.
Payton nodded. “Pull over up there,” he said, pointing to the side of the road.
As soon as the car came to a stop, Janet got out and slowly walked around to the passenger’s side. Payton eased behind the wheel. He thought about checking out the car, but knew what he’d find. The rear window was history. Amazingly the tires were all in one piece, and there were dents and holes from the shotgun pellets in the left rear side panel. At least the rental was still drivable.
Janet sat ashen‑faced as they headed back to the motel. After Payton parked the car, she got out and closed her door. Not uttering a word, Janet walked into the room. Payton followed, unsure whether he should hold her or let her emotions run their course. He wanted to give her the support she needed, but he didn’t want to crowd her.
“I’m tired of all this,” she blurted out as he closed the door. “I’m sick of the killing. I’m fed up running like a scared rabbit, and I’ve had enough of this. . .” Janet waved her hands in the air as she searched for the word she wanted. “. . . conspiracy.” She put particular emphasis on conspiracy. “I’m so fed up with it all,” Janet said as she sat on the side of the bed. Payton held her as tears welled up in her eyes.
“This will all be over soon. Hang in there. I won’t let anything happen to you. I love you.” There, he’d said it. His words surprised Janet, but they shocked him. More so because in his heart he knew them to be true.
Janet sobbed, clutching at Payton as if by holding him tightly, she could somehow drive the danger away. Her face was still white, and her hands were trembling. Tears streamed down her cheeks. A few minutes later, she let him go and went into the bathroom. Payton watched from the doorway as she threw cold water on her face.
“You did what you had to do,” he said. A feeble attempt at allaying her guilt. “Those guys were trying to kill us. I’d have done the same thing if I had been driving. You couldn’t let them win, Janet. You just couldn’t.”
She didn’t answer right away. “I guess I never was in a situation where I had to defend myself like that. When it occurred to me that maybe I could keep them in the left lane, I figured they’d veer off the road or stop.” She paused for a few seconds. “I was scared, and I wanted them to crash into that dump truck–anything to get away. And that’s exactly what happened. I didn’t plan it, but thank God we made it.” Janet paused and looked into Payton's eyes. “Does that make any sense?”
“It does to me. I expec
ted to be the first and only one of us to take a life, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I bought the shotgun figuring that if it came down to us or them, I’d use it. What you did, you did for both of us. If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, we’d be splattered all over the road, or laying alongside it with a couple of bullets in us.”
Payton didn’t say, “instead of those two”, but it was implied. A shiver ran up her spine.
Slowly, Janet pulled herself together. Dropping the towel, she walked over to where Steve stood propped against the doorframe. Gently, as if stroking a young kitten, he put his arms around her. Slowly her trembling stopped. As she regained her composure, she took Payton by the hand and led him toward the bed.
CHAPTER 39
After stopping for some coffee and doughnuts, Janet and Steve drove back to where they had parked the last time they looked for Camp David. Payton turned the car around so that the driver’s side with its pattern of holes faced the woods and was not visible from the road. He slipped the now filled canteen over his shoulder, but left the shotgun. There was no sense in taking it; he didn’t expect to run into any trouble.
They took off into the woods, going in the general direction he’d staked out after seeing the photographs. Neither of them spoke as Payton, leading the way, did the best he could to keep the branches and thorn bushes from whipping back into Janet’s path. Off to their left, a buck, startled by them, crashed through the dense underbrush.
“What was that?” Janet called to Payton.
“Must have been a deer,” Payton replied trying to get his heart rate back to normal. “For a minute I thought we had company.”
“Me too,” Janet seconded. “That deer scared the hell out of me.”
“From the looks of things, the feeling was mutual. He really took off. We’d better move along.”
Now that they were oriented, it took less than an hour to find Camp David’s outer perimeter. Janet walked up to the chain-link fence.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 30
