Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  “No, sir.”

  He nodded. “Maybe that cell phone you were using? Sit tight. I’ll be right back, sir.”

  That was it. I was screwed. The Crown Vic might not have shown up on the hot sheet yet, but unless the team earlier that morning had been so far off the grid they didn’t want anyone to know, my name and mug were likely on a wanted poster already. The cop would call in reinforcements and have me taken in. I looked at the reflection in the mirror of the young trooper walking—strutting?—back to his hot ride, and something inside me snapped. I didn’t know who these motherfuckers were or what they wanted with me, but I would not go down without a fight.

  Sliding one hand down to the shift lever, I watched the cop in the mirror. The timing had to be perfect. When he was two steps away from his door, I shifted into reverse. He reached for the handle, pulled the door open, stepped around… Now! I took my foot off the brake and used it to jam the accelerator to the floor. The cop had one leg in the car, one hand on the steering wheel and the other, clasping my license and the Crown Vic’s pedigree, hung over the top of the door frame. His eyes widened at the sight of the Crown Vic bearing down on him and he leaned back against the door pillar as if that would take him out of harm’s way.

  Smoke billowed out in front of the Crown Vic as the tires sought a purchase, spitting bits of gravel. The rear end smacked into the nose of the cruiser with a whump of crumpling metal. The force knocked the cruiser back a foot or two and caused the cop to rock back against the post and then forward as the top of the open door rushed backward and caught him on the bridge of the nose. The air bag inside exploded, knocking his hand off the wheel, and he sagged, looking only semi-conscious. I yanked the gearshift into drive, spurted forward a few yards, and slammed it back into reverse again. Twisting in the seat to look out the rear window, I stepped on the gas and rammed the cruiser again hard, pushing it backward several feet as my tires shrieked and spun.

  The adrenaline rush of fear pushed all rationale thought out of my head. Like Cú Chi all over, my senses sharpened, my focus narrowed and instinct took control. The patrolman lay unmoving next to the open driver’s door. Ignoring the cars whizzing by, I scrambled out of the Crown Vic and ran back to the cruiser. Without thinking, I bent down and put my fingers against the cop’s neck to feel for a pulse. It throbbed steadily. His fingers still gripped my license and registration. I snatched them out of his grasp. The holstered pistol at his side loomed in my vision. I unsnapped the holster, and as I pulled to free the big semi-automatic, the cop groaned and shifted. Strength magnified by fear, I pulled harder and jerked it loose, pointed it into the car and pulled the trigger three times, blowing holes in the Mobile Computer Terminal, the monitor and the dash-mounted radio.

  The cop moaned again, regaining consciousness, and feebly grabbed at my clothes. I swatted his hands away, stood up and threw his gun into the adjoining field, then pulled my knife from its sheath and plunged it into the sidewall of his front tire on my way back to the Crown Vic. The whole sequence of events couldn’t have taken thirty seconds, but it felt like a lifetime, and the voice in my head was back, yelling at me. I jumped in and pulled away, fishtailing on the shoulder as I accelerated to get back on the freeway. A horn blared at me as a car raced by, narrowly missing me, forcing me to keep my speed down and watch for oncoming traffic.

  Pulling onto the highway, I slammed the heel of my hand on the top of the wheel. “Fuck!”

  How many witnesses had caught a glimpse of what had happened, or at least enough to wonder? I had to get off the freeway and onto back roads. I pressed the accelerator a little harder, needle on the speedometer inching up. Some Good Samaritan would stop for the highway patrolman, perhaps even before he roused himself and flagged a motorist down. He’d call in the incident on his phone. Damn it! I forgot his phone. Whether or not he remembered the plate number, a description of me and the Crown Vic would go out on the radio.

  With a twenty-minute lead at most, I floored the accelerator, hitting about a hundred twenty before easing up and holding it steady. The milepost markers flashed past, along with several of the cars that had passed me on the shoulder. After five interminable minutes, an exit sign grew larger in the windshield, seeming to race toward me. I veered onto the exit and up the ramp. Near the stop sign, a glance in the mirror revealed a big beige sedan barreling onto the ramp far behind me at high speed. With a quick check for cross-traffic, I turned right, rolling through the stop sign, and stepped on the gas.

  Twenty seconds later, the car turned onto the highway behind me with squealing tires and opened up the throttle in pursuit.

  28

  Rabbit is running. Hounds have lost the scent for now. Quarry sent distress signal that may bring others out of the burrow.

  Amir reread the message. Satisfied, he filed it as a draft in his e-mail account, and pinged al-Qadir’s cell phone. He logged off the virtual private network and closed the laptop. As secure as he’d made the VPN, he didn’t trust any form of electronic communication. He knew how easy it was to intercept someone else’s conversations. The system he’d set up with al-Qadir using a shared e-mail account, but saving drafts instead of sending messages appeased some but not all of his security concerns. As it was, he changed e-mail accounts on a weekly basis, sometimes sooner.

  “So, what’s your deal, anyway?” Fahrouk said.

  For Amir, the drive had been perfectly pleasant, but he knew that Fahrouk found the silence uncomfortable. Amir shrugged, accepting the inevitable chit-chat.

  “There is no ‘deal,’ as you put it.”

  “Come on, man. I mean where did you come from, and why are you all whipped up about this guy we’re following?”

  Amir looked out the window before replying. “This guy is a potential danger to the plans we have, so we’re following to make sure he doesn’t interfere. As for me, I’m no one special.”

  “Not—?” Fahrouk closed his mouth and started over. “Where’d you learn all this spy stuff? I mean, you know, surveillance and shit?”

  Amir’s mouth turned down in irritation and disgust. “Do you not have any respect for your own religion?”

  Fahrouk’s mouth fell open as he glanced over. “What? It’s just how people talk, man.”

  “This is exactly what comes from living here in this country among infidels.”

  “Hey! We’re all Americans, man. Just because I’m American doesn’t mean I can’t be Muslim, too.”

  “You don’t act like it,” Amir snapped. “When was the last time you said salat? How about the last time you went to mosque?”

  “Yeah, so, what, you want to tear down everything in this country because we have the freedom to worship how we please?”

  Amir gritted his teeth and sighed. “This is exactly what I mean. The longer you live in this godless country, the more godless you become. You go to university to learn, but what do they teach, other than to fill your head with more lies?”

  “What lies? They teach us to think, to understand we have choices, man. Where the hell are you from, anyway? Mars?”

  “I’m Syrian!” Amir spat, the words rushing out. “Not American, Allah be praised. You Americans live fat and happy off the hard work of your parents and shun the mosque. My mother herded goats and raised my brother and me by herself. We grew up in little more than a hut. But we had time for salat and gave thanks to Allah every day for what we had.”

  He caught himself, chagrined that he’d said too much.

  Fahrouk didn’t seem to notice. “I thought you went to school here.”

  Amir grunted. “Yes, we were fortunate enough to have a patron who paid for our education. But we took advantage of it. We used it to better ourselves so we could make better lives for our people.”

  “For Syrians?”

  “For all Muslims.”

  Fahrouk shook his head slowly.

  Amir turned away, angry with himself for letting Fahrouk goad him into saying more than he should have. Fahrouk would never ge
t it, would never understand what it was like to be doubled over in pain from sheer hunger, to be cold and wet and dirty in the winter months when it rained. Maybe that was the secret. Maybe one had to be hungry to know God. The cold and wretched needed a God. They needed someone to lead them to Allah. The ones who were content, those who had more than enough food and shelter and money to splurge on material things, had no interest in getting close to God. He’d always had an easier time converting the disenfranchised than kids like Fahrouk.

  “Holy crap!” Fahrouk suddenly interrupted Amir’s thoughts.

  Amir followed Fahrouk’s gaze out the windshield. Half a mile ahead, the blue and white strobes of a state patrol car flashed brightly in the early morning light.

  “What do I do?” Fahrouk’s knuckles whitened from gripping the steering wheel, and his shoulders tensed.

  “You’re doing nothing wrong. Just keep driving.”

  For the next thirty seconds the apprehension in the car grew to the point that it squeezed the air from Amir’s lungs. They drew closer and closer to the cruiser’s flashing light bar, and Amir saw the cruiser leap backward as if yanked on invisible strings.

  “What the…?” Fahrouk said.

  A few hundred yards away now, Amir could see the uniformed patrolman on the ground next to the cruiser, and his chest tightened. Suddenly, Keator was standing over the cop, and as they flashed by, Amir heard the gunshots and caught a glimpse of the muzzle flash.

  “He killed a cop!” Fahrouk shouted. “What do I do? What do I do?”

  Amir whipped his head around to look at the scene receding behind them. “Drive! Just drive! Keep going!”

  Surely his eyes deceived him. Was Keator desperate enough to kill a cop? He’d shot the fed outside his house, too. Was he that paranoid? Or was there something in Keator’s past that al-Qadir hadn’t known about when he’d chosen to steal the man’s identity?

  Amir faced forward and stared out the windshield, his thoughts whirling. Fahrouk’s face was ashen, and his hands trembled on the wheel. The car crested a small rise and sped down the other side, the cruiser’s lights now out of sight.

  “Pull over,” Amir said. Fahrouk threw him a frightened glance. “Pull over now! Just park on the shoulder.”

  Fahrouk checked his mirrors, signaled and let the car slow to a stop on the side of the highway. A cornfield spread out on their right, the brown stalks shorn to stubble. The rising sun slanted across the road and turned the field gold.

  “What are we doing?” Fahrouk said, voice quavering with nervousness.

  “We’re waiting.”

  Barely a minute passed when the Crown Vic they’d been following roared past them, its wake rocking their car on its springs.

  “That’s him! That’s him!” Fahrouk said. He reached for the gearshift.

  “Wait!” Amir said sharply.

  “But he’s getting away.”

  “Just wait.”

  Amir craned his neck to see what traffic would appear at the top of the rise behind them. The cop car didn’t show, but a big beige sedan flew over the hill in what looked like hot pursuit.

  “Come on!” Fahrouk said. “We have to go after him, don’t we?”

  Keator had already exited on a ramp a half-mile up the road, and the beige sedan soon followed.

  Amir shook his head. “Don’t worry. We know where he’s going.”

  29

  “Come on, Mom. Hurry up!”

  Preston Keator could barely contain his excitement. He leaned forward, straining against the seatbelt to check their progress. Still a block to go, and the line of cars ahead of them had slowed to a crawl.

  “You can see that I can’t go any faster,” his mom said.

  “I’ll be late.”

  “No, you won’t. This is the same time I take you to school every day, and we always make it on time.”

  She used her serious voice, so Preston knew arguing would do no good. She was right—his mom was always right—but Preston squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, the unmoving traffic amplifying his nervousness. He stared at the cars in front of them, willing them to move faster, and started rocking, forward and back, not so much that his mom would notice, but enough to calm his anxiety. As they curled down the long drive toward school a few feet at a time, Preston saw why the day felt so different than so many others. A long, black limousine parked at the curb in front of the school. Preston’s exhilaration grew.

  Finally, they reached the head of the line in the school drop-off lane. Preston had his seatbelt off and the door open before his mom came to a full stop.

  “’Bye, Mom.” He slammed the rear door shut.

  “Hold on, young man. Not so fast.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Preston stopped, then turned and stepped back to the open passenger window. His mom leaned over in the seat as far as her big, swollen belly would allow. He averted his eyes, the sight making him both proud and embarrassed.

  “Do you have everything? Backpack? Lunch?”

  He tipped his head forward so she couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

  “Okay, then. So, whatever happens, I want you to know that we’re really proud of you.”

  “I know. Mom, can I go now?”

  She laughed. “Yes, you can go. Have fun.”

  He was already halfway up the walk when her “I love you” floated to his ears.

  “Love you, too,” he called over his shoulder.

  And then he was inside the comparatively dim hallway, racing to his classroom, dodging students, teachers and an occasional parent on the way.

  “Preston Keator!” a deep male voice called. “No running!”

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson,” Preston said, slowing to a brisk walk.

  A moment later, he darted into his classroom and quickly took his seat. Half the kids had already arrived, and the noise of their laughter and loud talking filled the room. Two rows over, his friend Joey waved, catching Preston’s eye as he shrugged the backpack off his shoulders.

  “Hey. How ya doin’?”

  “I’m okay,” Preston said, taking his seat. In fact, he was anxious to the point of rocking.

  He looked around the classroom, wondering where Miss Williams was. She almost always was in the room when he and the other kids got there, either writing something on the board or putting her lessons in order.

  More kids arrived, and the noise built until Preston’s ears hurt. He leaned forward. Just once. Several kids played a game of tag, running down the aisles between the desks and scampering around Miss Williams’ desk. Some other kids were playing catch with a doll that belonged to Joann. She stood nearby, close to tears, lunging for it each time someone tossed it. Preston leaned back, started to rock forward and caught himself. Billy Hartman made fun of him when he rocked. Called him a mama’s boy. He stole a glance at Billy, but Billy was cheering on the boys who were tormenting Joann. Just when the room threatened to collapse into total chaos, Miss Williams stepped inside the classroom. A short man in a suit came in directly behind her, and while she walked to her desk, the man folded his hands over his buttoned suit coat and stood by the door.

  Not taking his eyes off the man, Preston started counting under his breath. Before he reached five, all the kids made it back to their seats and the room grew deathly still. The man was bald, but he had bushy black eyebrows that hooded dark eyes. A large nose that curved down toward thick lips reminded Preston of a picture he’d seen of a vulture. The man’s eyes flicked back and forth as he took in all the students, but they stopped when they reached Preston. The man didn’t smile or change expression. He just stared. Preston held his breath. The bell rang.

  “Thank you, class,” Miss Williams said, “for taking your seats so promptly.”

  Billy let out a giggle. Preston didn’t like Billy. Billy was mean to the girls on the playground, pushing and shoving them when they weren’t looking, and pulling their hair.

  “I’m sorry I was a little late this morning,” Miss Wil
liams went on. “As you can see we have a guest this morning. This is Mr. Samara. He’s from the White House in Washington, D.C.”

  “Ooos” and “ahhs” echoed around the room, and some kids’ eyes opened wide and round. Preston’s heart skipped a beat then raced faster than he could run.

  “Good morning, children,” Mr. Samara said. He moved to the center of the room.

  The man smiled, transforming him in Preston’s eyes, from a bird of prey to something far more approachable, but perhaps as dangerous—a small brown bear, perhaps.

  “Good morning, Mr. Samara,” the class said in unison. Miss Williams had taught them well.

  “I came here,” Mr. Samara continued, “to tell you how pleased the president is with all of you. He’s very proud that so many young people chose to take part in this nationwide civics contest. As you probably know, we’re selecting fifty people from each grade, one from each state, and sending them all on a trip to Washington, D.C.”

  A few kids cheered and whistled, along with some exclamations of “Cool!” Preston could feel the excitement in the room rise.

  “There were a large number of excellent entries from schools all over Michigan, but we selected one from this school.”

  A feeling of dread washed over Preston. He deserved to win. He knew way more than his classmates about social studies. Most of the kids in his class didn’t even know the right words to the Pledge of Allegiance. Preston not only knew them; he knew what they meant. He paid attention when his dad talked about patriotism and civic pride at the dinner table. While the other kids read Dick and Jane, he was reading biographies of the founding fathers, learning the Bill of Rights and studying the Constitution. What if he didn’t win?

  Mr. Samara smiled again, keeping everyone in suspense. “The winner is… Preston Keator.”

  Polite applause broke out, along with loud complaints from kids like Billy and his buddy Jeff. Preston’s face warmed, but he knew he glowed with pride, not embarrassment.