"So there's nothing to it?" Stunned, Maxwell couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Absolutely not."
Maxwell nervously adjusted the phone. "What about the dinosaur and the ice caves?"
"What about it? Calloway probably stopped there once on his travels. That's no proof of anything."
Maxwell didn't believe him, but he didn't know why Wiley would lie to him.
"Don't call me with any more wild conjecture, Max. Don't call me at all unless you're responding to my call, or you have something of substance and extreme importance. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." He hadn't meant to call Wiley "sir," as if he were one of his troops, but the word had just spilled out.
"By the way, nice job at the conference." Wiley's voice softened. "But what do you make of this alien stuff?"
Maxwell smiled to himself. "I don't know what to think about it. Maybe he's losing his mind."
"It sounds like it. You don't have anything to do with any of it, do you?"
"Me?" Maxwell laughed. "Not a thing."
Several seconds passed. "No, of course not." With that, Wiley hung up.
Let him keep wondering. Maxwell had planned to tell Wiley about his little experiments with the president as soon as they produced results. But now that Wiley was lying to him, he didn't feel compelled to tell him anything about his own projects, even though some of them worked to Wiley's advantage.
Ritter watched him from a comfortable chair in the corner of the room where he'd listened to one side of the conversation. He grinned and saluted. "Yes, sir." He grinned. "I liked that. Like it a lot."
Maxwell ignored him. He had planned to send Ritter after Calloway, to interfere, if necessary, with his remote viewing. But now he wanted to confirm that Wiley was lying. He'd send Ritter into him. Ironically, it was exactly what Ritter had said he would do.
Without another word, Ritter put on a headphone set and pressed the play button on a tape recorder. He liked to listen to electronic sound waves that moved him quickly into a receptive state. Maxwell sat down at the small table a few feet away and prepared to record the session. A couple of minutes later, Ritter took off his headphones, letting Maxwell know he was ready.
"Okay, I'm giving you a target that I'm identifying by the following numbers 540-921. Your target is a person. You'll be going inside."
Ritter sighed. Thirty seconds passed. "I smell food. I'm in a kitchen."
"What are you eating? How does it taste?"
Maxwell didn't care what the target was eating, but he wanted to affirm that Ritter had dropped into Wiley rather than simply observing the scene. In years past, it had taken hours of repeated efforts to reach the point of merging with a target, but Ritter now moved easily into his subject.
"Not eating. Just drinking coffee."
"Identify yourself?"
"George Wiley, of course."
"Can you tell me what I want to know?"
"All about the bomb."
Maxwell wished that he hadn't called Wiley from the room. If he were performing a scientific test on Ritter, the entire session would be seriously tainted. But Ritter had proved himself over and over again. It shouldn't matter that he'd heard him questioning Wiley about the bomb, he decided. Especially since Wiley had denied any knowledge of it.
"What do you know about it?"
He answered in a monotone, speaking from Wiley's point of view. "I want it delivered. We're going to speed things up now. We'll put the federal government out of business. It's the only way to stop them from destroying us. We need to get Freedom Nation established."
"When will the bomb arrive in Washington?"
"Less than seventy-two hours now."
"Where's the weak point in the mission?"
Ritter's silence extended so long that Maxwell figured that Wiley had refused to divulge anything further. Finally, he spoke, his tone surprisingly angry. "One of my commanders wants to call off the fucking mission, but I'm standing firm. We're going through with it."
"Why does he want to call it off?"
"The Secret Service is on to it, and they've got the FBI looking for the kids. One of them is his daughter. But I just reminded him that they switched vehicles. The feds don't know what they're driving. Now he's concerned about what will happen to his daughter after it's over. I told him not to worry, we'll take care of her and the boyfriend. They'll get new identities, if necessary. But I'm getting tired of his whining. He may have to disappear soon. Real soon. I don't like his insubordination. It's not the first time."
Maxwell felt as if he'd just stepped into a cold shower. After all he'd done for Wiley, the bastard didn't trust him. "Steve, move outside of the target now, but stay with him."
Ritter raised a finger. "Okay. Watching now."
"Can you tell if any other remote viewer has been there ahead of you?"
"You mean, Calloway? Let me clean house. I'll check for his droppings."
Ritter remained quiet for nearly two minutes. "No sign of Trent. He hasn't been here, either inside the target or in the safe house."
"Are you sure?"
"He's busy looking for the bomb. But he'll come after Wiley in no time. No time at all. Count on it. I'm hooked in with him. Hooked in good." Ritter laughed.
A shudder rippled through Maxwell. Once Calloway got to Wiley, he'd find out everything. They had to deal with him. Doc too. Just like they'd dealt with a couple of the FBI agents on Wiley's trail.
"Okay. Come back now. Leave him alone."
Bitter took a couple of breaths, blinked his eyes. "Wow! He's really going to nuke Washington!"
"We've got to stop them."
Ritter frowned. "Hey, who's side are you on?"
"I don't want to see Washington destroyed. I wouldn't want to live with the result, and I don't think you would, either."
Ritter snorted. "I could do without the big Washington shithouse." "You're on the government dole, Ritter. So am I."
Ritter grinned. "Who needs it."
"The point is that bomb will never make it to its destination."
"Why not? You think our old buddy Calloway is going to find it?" Ritter asked.
"No, you are. You and the boys. We'll get the bomb, then deal with Calloway and company."
"Sounds like fun," Ritter said with a smirk. "We get the nuke, then the kook."
Chapter Fifteen
The green, illuminated highway sign, indicating the approach to 1-80, stood out against the purple evening sky. If he remained on 1-84, they would hit Salt Lake City in no time, and by continuing south, they would head right into Las Vegas. Jackpot!
Can't do it. Not now. Hell, maybe they'd never get there. Matt pushed away the thought, fighting off the gloom that slowly descended over him. Of course they would go to Las Vegas, as soon as they made their delivery. They'd get married, have a good time in the casinos with the extra money Jill's father had provided, then they'd go home. In a couple of weeks, he would start his new job with Freedom Nation and embark on a new life. But first he had to pass his trial and that meant delivering the bomb.
He switched lanes and flowed into the traffic that followed the curving entrance to 1-80. He felt tired, but they had a long, long drive ahead—two and a half more days—and that was driving day and night, stopping only to eat and sleep for short stints at rest areas.
Jill stirred next to him as he nudged the Cherokee into the curve. She'd fallen asleep half an hour ago. "Where are we now?" she murmured, trying to get comfortable in the seat that she'd folded back.
"We're just turning onto 1-84, heading east. We're gonna be on this road all the way to Ohio. That's a long haul."
"If we make it that far."
"Why do you say that?" The gloom started to creep over him again.
"I had a dream, a kind of scary one. We were driving and driving, and we couldn't stop. Then suddenly, a big hole in the road opened up and we drove right into it and disappeared. It just swallowed us."
"That's just a
fucking dream, Jill. It's nothing."
She hugged her arms. "I don't mind telling you that I'm scared, Matt. I don't like carrying that bomb around with us, even if it can't blow up, like you say. What if we were stopped? The cops'll look at this brand-new Cherokee and want proof that you own it, and you don't."
"I've got the temporary registration. The owner just loaned it to me. The cops can call him." He didn't know who's name was on the registration. Probably a dead person.
"Yeah, and meanwhile they'd snoop around and search the back and guess what—they'll find a little ole bomb."
"It'll never happen, Jill. Don't worry. We're stickin' right with the speed limit. As long as we don't do anything weird to draw attention to us, we don't have any problem."
"I'm hungry. Let's stop somewhere," she said, stretching.
No, keep driving.
"Let's get some more miles under our belts," he responded.
"Matt, we've been on the road for hours. All we've eaten is crap from machines. I want a meal."
He glanced over at her. "You're not wearing your seat belt."
"Oh, shut up. Look, two restaurants at the next exit."
"Burger King and a truck stop. Let's keep going. We'll find something better further on."
"Hello, is that you, Matt? Since when are you picky about food? You eat at Burger King all the time."
He drove past the exit. "Let's see what else is coming up."
She slid down in her seat. "Shit. The next exit isn't for another twenty-two miles. I don't want to wait that long."
"We'll be there in no time. When you're on the road, you know, the miles click by fast. You start to count them by the hundreds."
"How do you know? You've never been more than a couple of hundred miles from home."
Tell her to can it.
"Fuck off, Jill. Just fuck off. I don't have to listen to your lip."
She looked sharply at him. "Don't talk to me that way. Maybe that's how your jailbird dad talked to you, but don't do it to me. Not if you want to many me."
His hand curled into a fist. Smack her good.
He raised his hand, leaned toward her, and waved his fist, threatening to backhand her across the face. She shouted as the Cherokee swerved into the left lane, cutting off a tractor-trailer. Bright lights impaled Matt from behind, followed by the deafening blast of an air horn. He swung the wheel hard to the right and weaved back into his lane.
"Fuck that guy," he snapped. "Can't he use his brakes instead of his horn."
"Are you crazy, Matt Hennig? Were you going to hit me? I can't believe you."
"Okay. I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me. But don't talk about my father that way. I told you what he did. He sold army weapons to the militia and he got caught. That's not such a bad thing." When she didn't answer, he added: "I said I'm sorry. I'd never hit you. You know that."
She dropped her head into her hands and began to cry softly. "I don't know that. Not anymore." He reached over, touched her shoulder, but she shrugged his hand away.
He glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted a highway patrol car, lights flashing, coming up on him in the left lane.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
He touched his brakes, dropping back to sixty-five, and held his breath.
"What's wrong?" Jill asked.
"Cop! Stop crying. Act normal."
The flashing lights from the Highway Patrol vehicle momentarily illuminated the inside of the Cherokee. Then, the patrol car zipped past at eight-five or ninety.
"Thank God," Jill uttered.
"That was close."
What the hell was wrong with him, anyhow? He'd attracted attention to himself, exactly what he'd wanted to avoid. He'd just been lucky that the cop had something more pressing on his mind than stopping him.
"Do you realize what would've happened if that truck had slammed into us?" Jill whined. "We'd be dead and that damn bomb who knows what would've happened. I don't believe that it's not dangerous. I'm sorry, but I just can't believe that."
Chuck the fucking bomb. Chuck it.
"I'm tired of hearing about that bomb," Matt said in a low voice. "I'm really tired of that. I'm not going to listen to that for two thousand miles. You better believe it."
"Tough," she answered.
Chuck the bomb! That'll show her.
Matt stepped on the brake and eased over to the shoulder.
"What are you doing now?" Jill asked.
He didn't answer. He drove at thirty miles an hour, then slowed to twenty as an overpass came into sight. He stopped under the bridge and stared straight ahead, the engine still running.
"What is it, Matt? Tell me."
Without a word, he popped open the back gate, got out and walked around to the back. He lifted the gate and moved aside Jill's suitcase. He carefully pulled out the backpack and hooked the strap over his shoulder. It weighed about fifty pounds. Not too heavy. Probably enough to blow up the bridge, though, if it exploded, he figured.
Chuck the damned thing. Don't waste your time. Just go to Vegas.
He walked along the passenger side and stopped by the window that Jill had rolled down. "Stay here. I'll be right back."
She looked at him, a mystified expression on her face. "What are you doing?"
"Chucking it."
He climbed up the underside of the bridge. He leaned forward, trying to keep his feet from slipping, slowly working his way up. He reached a three-foot wide ledge near the top and lowered the backpack to the concrete. He caught his breath.
Get out of there now. Fast. Move it.
That voice in his head almost seemed as if it were separate from him. He turned away and loped down to the bottom of the bridge.
Jill stood near the passenger door. "Matt, do you know what you're doing? Why did you put it up there, anyhow?"
"Because. . ." He looked back toward the darkened underside of the bridge, frowned, momentarily confused. Who the fuck needs it? Let's go to Vegas.”
"To Las Vegas? Now?"
"Why the fuck not?"
Jill hugged him. "That's great, but what about Dad? What about the militia and General Wiley and your new job? If you disobey Dad, you're out. He won't have anything to do with you anymore."
Who cares? Who cares? None of it matters anymore.
He waved a hand, then opened the door. "Forget about it. And stop asking questions. Let's go."
She shook her head and climbed in the vehicle. "You amaze me, Matt Hennig. You really do. Fuck the bomb. You're right. But what about the Cherokee? Won't Wiley want it back?"
He won't get it back.
"It's ours now. And we got some cash, too. We're on our own." "Damn, Matt. I can't believe you. If Wiley and Dad don't like it, tough. We'll make it. I know we can do it."
"Hell, yes!" He started the engine, turned up the sound on the radio, filling the vehicle with a throbbing wall of sound.
Turn around. Right here. Go to Vegas.
He pulled out, crossed two lanes, making a U-turn.
Jill shouted. "Matt, what the fuck are you doing? Wrong way!"
She grabbed for the wheel, but he pushed her back, and accelerated toward the lights.
A car, its horn blaring, whizzed by.
"Get off the road. Quick!" Jill yelled.
Keep going! Keep going! Into the bright lights!
What the hell was wrong with her? "We're going to Vegas!" Another car flew past them. A tractor-trailer filled the lane, its lights shining into the windshield. Jill screamed.
Moments before the impact, Matt felt a presence lift from his mind. His confusion cleared. Too late he realized what he'd done. "Oh, shit!"
He slammed on the brakes, skidded sideways and slammed hard into the oncoming truck.
SUNDAY
Chapter Sixteen
Calloway rolled over, reached for the phone, and answered on the second ring. He heard Doc's sleepy voice as she picked up at the same time.
"Good morning," a crisp voice said.
"This is Clarke. You can both stay on the line." For a moment, Calloway couldn't place the name. Then he remembered the Secret Service agent, Tyler's partner. He looked at the clock. Six-forty.
"Morning." Calloway cleared his throat and threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Thanks for the wake-up call. What happened to Tyler? We never heard anything from him after he left."
"Agent Tyler has been sent to another location," Clarke said, cryptically. "I want to thank you two for your help. We won't be needing you any longer."
"Did you catch them?" Calloway asked, sitting up. "Did you find the bomb?"
"We found a man named Matt Hennig and a young woman named Jill Sudner. Both are dead," Clarke said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Highway fatalities. There was no bomb in their vehicle."
"What?" Calloway came wide awake.
"Where did this happen?" Doc asked.
"The accident occurred about forty miles northeast of Salt Lake City on 1-80. The girl's parents verified that she and Hennig were plan-fling on getting married. They must have realized they'd taken the wrong turn onto 1-80 and were trying to go back at the time of the accident."
"Why do you say that?" Calloway asked.
"Because they were driving down the interstate in the wrong direction."
"In the wrong direction!" Doc exclaimed. "You mean the wrong side of the interstate?"
"That's right."
"That doesn't make sense," Calloway said.
"Very little of this entire scenario makes much sense, Mr. Calloway. But, as I said, there was no bomb in the vehicle. The highway patrol is investigating the accident."
"But you haven't found the bomb," Calloway said. "It could be anywhere."
"Or maybe there is no bomb," Clarke responded. "We still don't have any evidence it ever existed."
"On the other hand, it could be on its way to Washington in another vehicle." Doc sounded just as annoyed as he was by Clarke's dismissive attitude. Her anger flared. "I thought you were the guy who believed in this stuff. It sounds to me like you're rejecting everything that Trent has picked up as if it were some sort of wild fantasy. I got news for you, Mr. Clarke. Trent gave you that kid's name and the vehicle. Why would he be wrong about the bomb?"
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