He moved backward, away from the rattles, holding his arm up to the ceiling. Roughly four feet later his hand grazed another beam and another caged light. Four feet later, another.
Figuring that the snakes would’ve been placed between him and the exit to the mine, Stone slowly moved back toward the sounds. A rattler was deaf so it couldn’t even hear its own rattles, but it was an instinctive signal to prey or predator that the snake was there, coiled and ready to strike. With each hesitant step he took Stone braced for the venom shooting into his legs. When he reached the first ceiling beam he’d touched, he reached up and gripped the metal light cage. Praying that it would be strong enough to hold his weight he lifted himself into the air, his legs bent and raised to chest-high. His injured arm ached badly, but he simply focused on what he was doing and willed the pain away. The Triple Six Division had been great at beating that technique into him at the Murder Mountain training facility, because they’d been expert at inflicting all types of agony, both physical and mental.
He swung back and forth and then lunged forward in the air, his hand outstretched like he was working the monkey bars, as he had in basic training. His hand closed around the next metal cage. Keeping his knees high, he let go of the first cage and kept moving. He had no idea if a rattler would strike upward and nail him in the ass, but he also didn’t want to find out.
Four beams later, and after he missed one cage and almost fell, he stopped and listened, dangling there, his knees still bent to his chest. The rattles had stopped. But he didn’t want to drop to the ground just yet. He kept swinging until his lead hand went out and touched nothing but rock wall.
Shit!
Had he actually gone the wrong way? Or had the snakes perhaps moved past him while he’d lain unconscious? Or had whoever put him here outthought Stone and placed the snakes on the side opposite the exit? Or was this actually a nightmare and he would wake up any moment now?
His arms growing heavy, Stone cautiously lowered his legs and stood on firm ground. He put out his arms again, trying to gauge the width of the shaft here. He touched what he believed was the dead-end wall, but nothing was on the other side. He kept moving to that side, but nothing was there. Puzzled for a moment, the truth finally struck him.
Idiot.
This was a turn or bend in the mineshaft. He got his bearings, walked his fingers along the wall and moved forward, listening carefully for more rattles. Ten minutes later he ran smack into wood.
The mine entrance must’ve been boarded up, because he could see a thin line of light at the bottom edge of the wood. He considered his options. That was relatively easy, because he had none. He took a few steps back and ran full tilt at the wall. All that did was land him on his butt with a bruised shoulder. He started to rise and then froze. His fingers had grazed against something metallic half-buried in the dirt. It was long and slender. As his hand closed around it, Stone could tell it was a pole with a flat end, like the shaft of a screwdriver.
He worked the bottom edge of the pole into one side of the wooden wall and started to lever. He felt the nails in the frame start to give a bit. He probed at another spot and pushed his weight against the pole, his feet slipping and sliding with the effort. Twenty minutes and much sweat later, the top right edge of the wooden wall gave way and a big shaft of light lit the mine. Encouraged by this breakthrough, Stone really put his shoulder to the effort and only another twenty minutes passed before he was able to force the board enough away from the frame to squeeze out and fall on his back in the dirt.
Free.
He let out a deep, relieved breath. Then, blinking rapidly, he looked around to see if he recognized where he might be. He didn’t. There was a dirt road here that was actually colored black. It took him a moment to realize why. Years of coal trucks carrying the stuff away. Their tires had ground the black dust and bits of rock into the red clay and the black had won out. He looked down at his clothes. The black had won out on him too. He brushed himself off and walked down the road, keeping alert in case whoever had sucker-punched him was still watching to see if he escaped the snake party.
A mile later he cleared the trees and turned onto a gravel street. As soon as the stuff crunched under his feet something occurred to him and he put his hand in his jacket pocket. The empty bottle of Tylenol was gone. Great. His skull felt like it was cracked, and now he’d lost the only real clue he’d found in pounding the increasingly dangerous streets of Divine.
He hitched a ride on a truck to Rita’s and went in through the back but found out that Abby wasn’t there. Then he called her house from the restaurant but there was no answer. He ran to Willie’s trailer, grabbed his truck, drove pell-mell to Midsummer’s Farm and caught her as she was walking out to her car.
When she saw him she said, “What the hell happened to you?”
When he told her, she simply stared at him. “Oh my God, Ben,” she finally managed to stammer. “What is going on?”
“Have you talked to Danny?”
“Just a bit ago. I was just now going to see him.”
“I tried calling you from Rita’s.”
“I thought I heard the phone ringing, but I was drying my hair. What are you going to do?”
Stone thought about that. What was he going to do? “I’m going to see Trimble. And then I’m going to hook up with Tyree to see what he found out.” He took her by the arm. “Abby, I want you to be careful. I know you have the shotgun. How about a pistol?”
“Sam had a couple. They’re upstairs in the closet.”
“You know how to fire one?”
“You’re asking a girl from the mountains if she knows how to fire a gun?”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a yes. You said you had a couple of guns. Mind if I borrow one?”
“I can’t think of anybody right now who needs it more.”
They went in the house and Stone got the pistols. He loaded them both and handed one to Abby.
“I’d like to keep in close contact with you, but I don’t have a cell phone.”
“You can use Danny’s. I brought it home from the hospital.” She looked at his filthy clothes. “You can’t go see Charlie like that. You can shower here and change your clothes.”
Stone looked toward the truck. He hadn’t thought to check. He looked in the cargo bed. His duffel was gone.
“I, uh, I don’t have any clothes to change into.”
“Come on. You’re about the same size as Danny.”
She led him to Danny’s room and picked out some clothes for him. When he came out of the shower they were all neatly packed in a bag except for a pair of pants, shirt, socks and skivvies.
Dressed with phone and gun in hand, Stone gave Abby a hug. “Thanks, I’ll meet you at the hospital later,” he said.
He watched her drive off. Then he sped off in the opposite direction to keep his appointment with Trimble. Then he would go see Tyree. He had to play this just right. Or the only future he’d have would be either six feet under or else making calendar scratches on the walls of a federal prison.
CHAPTER 40
A TRUCK DROVE UP and a man got out and sprinted to Knox’s front door. He answered and the man handed him a package and left.
Knox sat in his office, put the DVD into his computer, and the images spread over the screen. The artist and Leroy had finally hooked up. The digital sketches of presumably a bushy-bearded John Carr looked back at him. The artist had also, on Knox’s instructions, done images where the beard and glasses were removed. Knox compared these to old photos of John Carr from his military days along with more recent pictures that he had obtained from CIA files. They looked like the same guy to him. He printed out multiple color copies and hustled out the door.
The wheels squealing on his Rover, Knox sped out of his driveway.
From down the street, Caleb started the van and followed.
“Looks like our hound might have a lead,” Annabelle said as she lowered her binoculars.
Knox
went to National Airport first and Annabelle followed him in. An hour or so later he got back in his truck and drove off.
Annabelle jumped back in the Chrysler.
“Looks like he got zilch at the airport, though. Let’s see where he goes next.”
Knox’s next stop was Union Station. Normally he would’ve flooded the area with the images of the altered John Carr, putting them on the metro database, with all the airlines and law enforcement agencies, but he couldn’t do that here. If the FBI recognized the bushy-bearded man as one they’d allowed to slip through their fingers, they would wonder about CIA’s interest in him. And despite Hayes’ assurances that he could keep the FBI at bay, you never knew.
Inside the station Knox hit what might have been the jackpot. A ticket clerk believed she recognized the composite drawing of Stone with the bushy beard and glasses. He’d paid in cash for a coach fare but the clerk couldn’t remember what name was on his ID.
“Do you remember which train he took?”
“Yep. Don’t have many people who pay in cash. He booked the Crescent. To New Orleans.”
“How can I get in touch with somebody who was on that train? A conductor, maybe?”
The woman picked up a phone. Minutes later Knox relayed his request to a supervisor in his office. The man made some calls and told Knox he was in luck. One of the conductors who’d been on that train had just gotten back to town. He came in an hour later to the station after the supervisor phoned him. He was shown the picture but didn’t recognize the man. Knox handed him another composite with the beard and glasses removed.
“Yeah, this could be the guy who got in the fight.”
“Fight?”
“Laid out three guys a lot younger than him on the train.”
“Is that right?”
The conductor went on to explain what had happened, ending with Stone and the other men getting off at the next station. He told Knox the name of the town.
“He wouldn’t give me any ID. Offered to get off the train instead. Little suspicious, I thought.”
“Did you get the names of the other guys?”
“Nope. They said they’d get off the train too and they did. No skin off my nose. Saved me from filing a police report. Damn punks.”
“Give me descriptions of all of them.”
After Knox finished writing this information down he glanced at the supervisor. “Can you pull the ticket records for that train trip?”
“Yeah, but we can’t match them to faces on that train.”
“I’ll take a list of the names anyway. Something might turn up.”
The manager printed out this information and gave it to Knox.
“So is this something big?” the conductor asked eagerly.
“So big you’ll probably never hear anything about it ever again. And I’d strongly suggest that you two gents forget I was ever here.”
Knox hustled out of the station with Annabelle following. His truck rumbled off from the parking lot and the van eased after it.
The Rover picked up its pace and threatened to leave Caleb and Annabelle behind. When Caleb started cutting in and out of traffic in an effort to keep up, Annabelle told him there was no need.
“But we’ll lose him.”
“No we won’t.” She pulled a small device from her bag. “When I was in his truck in Georgetown, I placed a transmitter under the seat. It has a range of about twenty miles.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
Caleb grumbled for a bit but then said, “That was a pretty good idea. Putting that in his truck.”
“And that way we can hang back a little just in case he’s checking.”
“He strikes me as a man who checks and often.”
“Me too.”
“So Oliver took a train?”
“Appears to be.”
Knox’s Rover turned on to Interstate 66 heading west. After traveling out past Gainesville, the Rover exited off the highway.
“I don’t believe the train goes this way,” Caleb said.
“Let’s just see where he’s headed.”
Twenty minutes later Annabelle said, “Shit! There goes my perfect record.”
They watched as Knox climbed into a chopper and it rose from the ground in a whirl of power.
“Now what?” Caleb asked.
“Back to Union Station, just as fast as you can.” She glanced at Caleb with a quizzical look. “Wait a minute.” She grabbed her camera. “Take off your ball cap and that sweater.”
“Why?”
“I need to take your photo.”
She snapped his picture. “We’ll stop on the way into town at a photo place. And then I’ll need to grab a laminator and some other supplies.”
“What are you going to do?” Caleb said as he put the van in drive.
“You’re about to change careers.”
CHAPTER 41
THE CHOPPER DROPPED Knox off about thirty miles from the town where Stone had detrained. A truck was waiting for him there. The aircraft had come courtesy of Macklin Hayes, who had sounded heartened over the phone that Knox finally had grabbed hold of a solid lead.
His instructions to Knox had been clear. Locate Carr but do not move in.
“Phone me and I’ll take it from there.”
I’m sure you will, General.
When Knox pulled into the town he decided he’d better hit the first place that looked promising. His prayers were almost immediately answered. The sign of the One T restaurant loomed ahead. He parked, went in, settled himself at the counter and ordered some food. There weren’t many people in the place, but still, Knox figured if Carr had come by to eat after ditching the train someone could remember seeing him. He showed his composite and asked his questions and thirty minutes later he walked out, not knowing much more than when he’d gone in.
Neither the people behind the counter nor the customers were the observant type apparently, or else didn’t like to volunteer any information about anybody. All he got in response to the artist’s comp were dull shakes of the head. Even the flash of Knox’s creds had not helped matters. In fact, it might have hurt. Knox had to keep in mind that around here the federal government was probably only a bit more popular than Osama bin Laden.
There was a bus station, he found, though it was now closed and wouldn’t reopen for a while. Apparently folks up here didn’t need to travel every day.
Knox sat in his truck and studied his map. The terrain around here was rugged and the towns few and far between with the roads connecting them two-lane and serpentine. He decided to find a place to sleep and start anew in the morning. He would have to come back to the bus station when it reopened. He’d asked around about the people that worked there, but they operated on some sort of circuit basis and wouldn’t be back in town for a couple days. Yet Knox was counting on the bus station to pop for him if nothing else turned up in the meantime. There were probably limited ways out of this dump, and a bus was at least one of the more promising ones. Carr might have taken one after losing his ride on the train.
The motel was yellow-painted concrete and crummy, the rates so low they were easily covered by his government per diem. Crackers and a soda constituted room service that he grabbed out of the vending machine outside the tiny office. He showed the artist’s comp to the manager but the man shook his head and went back to his TV and can of Bud. Knox spent another hour roaming the streets, showing the picture to passersby and shop owners. Either no one had seen the man or else they wouldn’t confess to it.
Knox sat fully clothed on the bed in his room, crunching his miniature cheese and peanut butter sandwiches and sipping his diet Coke. He channel-hopped from wars to natural disasters to corruption scandals to ESPN, NASCAR, and finally settled on the TV Land channel watching, of all things, a decades-old episode of Happy Days.
Carr was the hunted and Knox the hunter. Those were the official roles anyway. In r
eality those identities could be switched at any time, and with Carr’s skill level, the odds that they would reverse at some point were pretty good. And after what he had learned, Knox had quite the misgivings about his exposed rear flank, because there lurked the master of the ambush and blame game, Macklin Hayes.
He pulled out his phone and punched in the number.
“Hello?”
“Melanie, it’s Dad.”
“Hey, I was just thinking of you. Do you want to get together tomorrow night? I’ve got center orchestra seats. Wicked is playing.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I can’t. I’m out of town.”
“Where are you? Paris? Amsterdam? Kabul? Tikrit?” Her tone sounded light and upbeat, but Knox knew his daughter well enough to sense the anxiety behind the casual words.
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