by Jordan Cole
“This line isn’t secure,” Dallas said. “Feds have been visiting me. No telling who’s listening in.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Riley said. “I’m on a cell phone. It’ll take them time to triangulate the position. Pretty sure they have a general idea of my whereabouts, anyway.”
“What do you need from me?”
“A car. I need a ride back to the DC area.”
“Where are you?”
Riley paused. Looked at Agatha, who was still maintaining her sentry but clearly listening to the conversation as well.
“Knoxville.”
“That’s a bit of a haul from DC. Seven hours, at least. And you just told anyone listening in where you’re gonna be.”
“If the Feds were tapping you, it’d be at your office. Harder to do a cell phone. There’s legal wrangling. Probable cause, and all that. Bureau still takes that stuff seriously, believe it or not.”
“What if it’s not the Feds? What if it’s the other guys?”
“If they can do that, then we’re toast no matter what I do.”
A pause. Riley pictured Dallas on the other end, maybe just settling down for a cigar and a scotch after a hard day’s work. Thinking quickly and weighing his options.
“I don’t have anyone out that far west. I’ll come pick you up myself.”
“You’ll be directly aiding and abetting a fugitive,” Riley said.
“I’ll be helping out a friend. Lay low for seven hours and wait for my call. Try and stay out of custody until then.”
The line clicked dead. Riley closed the phone. Turned to Agatha.
“We’ve got seven hours to kill before Dallas gets here,” he said.
“Police probably have our description,” she replied. “We can’t be walking around all night.”
“No. We need to get out of here.”
Agatha made a pensive sound. Did a little half turn, like she was thinking. Riley studied her.
“What?”
“We passed a shed a few hundred yards back. Could see it toward the back of the property. House was dark, like the owners were asleep or out of town. We get inside, we could hole up there.”
“No good. If they’ve matched the car to us, they’re going to go all out. They think I killed a cop, remember? Cop killers get the full press treatment, even two states over. They’ll send dogs after us. After mucking through that swamp, we’ll be like two bullseyes to them. They’ll find us in the shed within the hour.”
“What then?” Agatha quickened her pace, unconsciously, as if she could outrun the cruisers that would soon be sweeping up and down the block. Wouldn’t be hard at all to track their progress. And once the dogs were involved, forget about it. It would be game over. “Can’t we change clothes or something? Wash the sent off?”
Riley shook his head. Saw a hedge overgrown with tall shrubbery, and pulled Agatha behind it. The corner of the yard of a sizable house, out of sight for now.
“There’s no chance. Not if they’ve got bloodhounds. We’re shedding skin all over the place. Our only hope is to get far away. Get into a car, get on the highway, lose the scent trail.”
“All right,” Agatha said. “Here comes one.”
Headlights flashed ahead of them, their twin cones growing larger as it approached. Agatha darted out into the street, waving her hands above her head.
“Hey, wait,” Riley yelled. Tried reaching for her, too late. The car, a dark green Ford Taurus, braked to an abrupt stop. A guy wearing dark glasses and business attire got out, running over to Agatha, who looked like she was on the verge of hysterics.
“Everything all right, ma’am?” he asked. Agatha was flailing her arms wildly, a look of panic on her face. Riley cursed. Pulled the Smith & Wesson from his jacket pocket and ran out. Held it to the guy’s chest.
“No games,” Riley said. “Cell phone and keys. Now.”
The guy complied immediately. Pulled his cell phone from his slacks with shaking hands. Riley snatched it.
“Keys are still in there,” he said, his voice trembling. Agatha was already halfway into the car.
“Sorry,” Riley said, giving the guy a half shrug. “You got insurance?”
“Yes?” The guy looked puzzled.
“Good. We’ll try and keep it in one piece. Now get the hell out of here.”
The guy turned and fled. Riley climbed into the driver’s seat and hit the gas. From here on in, luck would be the biggest factor. Either the guy would get the call in in time and the cops would put two and two together, or Riley and Agatha would be outside the Knoxville city limits before they got the chance.
“Punch it,” Agatha said, and he did, heading east.
26.
The knock that sounded against Metzer’s sturdy walnut door was ultimately unnecessary, because Metzer could already hear the clomp of Deputy Director Hammond’s heavy shoes, echoing down the hallway. He turned the ironwork puzzle in his hands a few more dimensions, shifting it up and down, left and right, before finally setting it down onto his desk. Hammond didn’t wait to be invited inside after the knock, which was unusual, and the white hairs on his head appeared to stand out vibrantly against the dark ones, for some reason Metzer couldn’t quite fathom. Whether it was stress, or anger, or just a trick of the light, he wasn’t sure. But one thing was clear: Hammond was upset, which didn’t happen frequently. And he was in Metzer’s office, and he had knocked but had barged in immediately after, which suggested that Hammond was mad at him. Which was slightly disconcerting. Metzer pushed the brainteaser aside and straightened in his seat.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Hammond said. No small talk, no jokes about Metzer’s suit.“What’s the matter?” It was already dark, and Metzer hadn’t been planning to stick around his office much longer. Hammond’s end-of-the-day interruption likely meant something new had come up.
“You’ve been begging off your assignment. At the Virginia Port.”
Metzer paused. Found a stray pen somewhere on his desk and tapped it against the wood.
“What do you mean? I think we’re making good headway. We’ve narrowed down the possible smuggling routes. Agents Caro and O’Connor are--”
“Caro and O’Connor are junior agents.” Hammond’s tone was more exasperated than angry, like he was dealing with a smart kid who’d brought home a less-than-stellar report card. “You’re supposed to be our Bureau presence down at the Port Authority. Supposed to be leading the show, not handing it off to your subordinates. You’ve shown your face there, what, once? Twice?”
Metzer bristled. Suddenly defensive. Smuggling was a big deal, sure, but it happened multiple times a day, at every port in the world. There was other, more pressing work to be done, things with far-reaching implications.
“Did Caro tell you that?” Metzer said finally, choosing his words carefully. “Or was it O’Connor?”
“Don’t put this on them,” Hammond said, shaking his head. “They didn’t rat you out. They had your back, actually. Said you were doing an excellent job of ‘managing’ the situation. But I can read between the lines. You’ve been largely AWOL on this.”
Metzer considered. Figured Hammond had a point. That some contrition was in order.
“You’re right,” he said. Bowed his head a little bit, deferentially. “I should have asserted my presence more. Taken a leadership role, instead of handing it off. I was confident Caro and O’Connor could handle it, but it was my responsibility to be there. I apologize.”
“Are you still mucking around with the Clay Riley case?” Hammond asked.
Did Hammond know about his trip to St. Louis? Had there been new information? Metzer considered lying, but thought better of it.
“Yes,” Metzer said. “If by mucking around, you mean following up on it.” Hammond shook his head.
“It’s not our arena anymore. There are systems in place to track him down. It’s the local police’s problem. You made an unofficial visit to Henderson Security, right? One of
Riley’s old merc buddies? Among other inquiries we’ve heard about. You’re fixated on this case.”
“There’s more beneath the surface,” Metzer said. His tone of voice almost pleading. He didn’t like it. Toned it down, to a more neutral timbre. “Something was wrong with the scene. I believe Riley’s innocent. That there’s bigger forces at work here.”
“I don’t care if he is or not. Your interest in the Clayton Riley case ends now, understood? I don’t like being so brusque, but I feel I have no choice. It’s impacting your work. And it’s not under our purview.”
Metzer nodded. Agreed profusely. Hammond seemed satisfied, and a little uncomfortable at the situation he’d been put in. He left the room, and Metzer’s hands went unconsciously back to the metal brainteaser. But his observance of Hammond’s order lasted only about a minute, because a minute later his cell phone started ringing and Metzer looked down to find Renee Throop calling him.
“I can’t talk now,” Metzer whispered, cradling the phone furtively in the palm of his hand.
“Just thought you’d like to hear the good news,” Throop said. “They found the Oldsmobile in Knoxville, Tennessee. Outside a homeless tent city. Seems like Riley ditched it recently. God only knows what he was doing down there.”
“They find him?”
“Not yet. But the Staties and local cops are running a dragnet on that whole area. Only a matter of time.”
Metzer looked down at the iron contraption in his hands. He turned the thing aimlessly, and heard a click. The welded pieces fell apart. Clattered against his desk, like they’d never even been attached in the first place. He stared down at them in wonderment.
“Metzer?” Throop’s voice, still on the line. “You there?”
“We need to meet,” Metzer said. “Tonight, if possible.”
“Why?”
“I can’t discuss it over the phone.”
“They’re going to get him,” Throop said, her voice laden with tempered excitement. “If you still have doubts about it, Riley can explain himself when he’s in custody. The woman, too. I just thought I’d give you the heads up.”
“We need to meet,” Metzer said again.
“Fine with me. I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight anyway. Not until they reel him in.”
“Grissom’s diner. Jackson and Fifth,” Metzer said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Sure. I’ll get some apple pie. To celebrate.”
She hung up. Metzer stared once more at the separated puzzle, the pieces lying askew on his desk. He swept the parts into the trash, and got to his feet.
***
Metzer pulled his bulky Buick into the parking space, staring unhappily at the throng of people gathered outside. Grissom’s diner was crowded in the dinner hour, and there was a line out the door, much to Metzer’s chagrin. The food was large-portioned but mediocre, the lower end of greasy diner fare. He waited in line with growing impatience. Throop showed up eventually, and used her badge and a little sweet talking with the owner to secure them a prime corner booth. They sat down, their presence basically invisible among the hungry throng. Throop’s hair was tied in neat little rows of pointed spikes, and she was infused with a smiling energy that Metzer hadn’t seen before, at least in the short time he’d known her. She ordered coffee and he got water. He wasn’t very hungry.
“Hello again,” she said. “Feels strange with just the two of us. No Hennessey around.”
“I’m overcome with emotion at his absence.”
She waved a hand. “He’s all right. He’s doing his job, in the way he knows how. Probably likes the fact that he riles you up.”
Metzer shrugged. He was indifferent to Hennessey one way or the other.
“So,” Throop said, raising her mug of coffee. “To a sharp-eyed passerby in Knoxville.”
“I can’t toast with water,” Metzer said. “Bad luck.”
“Whatever.”
“And aren’t you jumping the gun a little bit with the celebration? They haven’t even caught Riley yet.”
“He’s got no car. He can’t have much money left. And if the Dumont woman is still with him, that’s two people traveling together. Makes escape much harder. They’ve got the area locked down. I think he goes down sooner, rather than later.”
“He’s lasted this long. Who’s to say he can’t find another car? Or get a ride from someone?”
“Who does Riley know in Knoxville? And stealing a car is not so easy these days. Any car from the last ten years has all sorts of electronic safeguards and measures. When every cop in a ten-mile radius is looking for you, it might take some work.”
Metzer considered. Sipped his water. Looked around at the patrons of Grissom’s, wondering how easy it would be for a fugitive to blend in with the crowd. People could be blinded by appearances. A new hat, a shaven beard. That split-second of confusion might be all that was needed for someone to slip away.
“What was Riley doing in Knoxville in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” Throop admitted. “We just got the call that they found the Olds with matching plates.”
“You said he was at a homeless camp,” Metzer said. “I think he was looking for Andrew Fletcher. Radical Muslim from Minnesota, arrested by the FBI on terrorism charges before the case was suddenly dropped. Fletcher and Pete Saccarelli were meeting.”
“What does that have to do with Riley?”
“Everything,” Metzer said, exasperatedly. “Agatha Dumont knows Saccarelli who knows Fletcher. It’s all connected. They’re all missing. It’s not a coincidence.”
“You’re pretty solidly convinced that Riley’s innocent. He ran after Ramirez was shot and didn’t explain himself for a second. Now you’re telling me there’s some terrorism case lumped into all this that Riley’s trying to solve while on the run. I’m not buying it.”
“What’s Riley’s motive?” Metzer asked. Elbows on the table, leaning forward. The waitress came over with their food, a slice of apple pie for Throop. They barely glanced at it. “What does he gain from shooting Ramirez?”
“He doesn’t need to gain anything. It’s a product of panic. Anger. If he was holding Dumont against her will, he knew he was about to go down.”
“And what if I’m right? Riley was set up. He’s in Knoxville, the cops are closing in. What if he kills himself and the girl? Then you’ll never find out what really happened.”
“I don’t think he will,” Throop said. “He doesn’t seem like the type.”
Metzer took another sip of water.
“Who are you talking to in Knoxville? Who’s your contact?”
Throop shrugged.
“City PD. They’re keeping me apprised of the situation.”
“All right. That’s good.”
“Is there anything else you want to ask me, agent Metzer?”
“I know Ramirez was your partner. And I know you want to get the guy who did it at all costs. But we’ve got to look at this thing from all sides here. I don’t think Riley’s your guy.”
Throop looked down at her pie. Tapped it with her fork, then ate a bite, like the conversation was ending.
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You hear anything, you let me know, okay? No matter the hour. Give me a call.”
Throop raised an eyebrow, but nodded.
“Okay.”
Metzer got to his feet.
“Not even going to order anything?” she said.
“Can’t,” Metzer said. “Work to do.”
“I’m sure the Bureau will be happy to hear Riley’s going down.”
“I’m sure they will,” Metzer said, forcing a smile. “So long, Detective Throop.”
He paced out of the diner, past the line which had grown even longer. Checked his phone, but there were no new calls. Not from Riley, or anyone else. Put it back in his pocket and thought hard about what he was going to do next.
27.
It was after three in the morning w
hen Riley finally heard the low rumble of tires in the distance, saw the dim illumination of headlights pulling toward them. He reached over and shook Agatha, who roused rather ungracefully from her slumber, conking her head against the passenger’s side window. She got her bearings and stretched out her arms, making fists. Her attention turned to the approaching headlights.
“Dallas?”
“I sure hope so.” Riley had his hand clasped around the Smith & Wesson, low against the seat, just in case. He saw the shadowy form of what looked like a black Lincoln Town Car roll into the clearing in front of them. They were about thirty miles outside Knoxville, in a small, covert depression of trees and shade not far from the highway off ramp. Far enough to have shaken the bloodhounds, but as far as they could go without risking capture. Riley was sure the APB was out everywhere for a green Ford Taurus. They’d had no choice but to hole up and wait for Dallas. And he’d arrived, relatively close to when he’d said. A real friend, sticking his neck out. Riley was struck by a surge of appreciation, a strange battlefield emotion that made him feel like he was back in Iraq. The horn honked once, a small blip, just a tiny tap on the center of the wheel. Riley emerged from the Taurus cautiously, until he saw a ream of smoke trailing from the town car's window and finally confirmed Dallas’s broad shape in the driver’s seat.
“This is the part where the cops swarm out from the woods and arrest all of us, yeah?” said Dallas.
“Wouldn’t that be a kick in the teeth.”
He waved Agatha over and they got in. Dallas peeled away, leaving the Taurus in its lonely spot among the overhanging trees.
“Don’t thank me or nothing,” Dallas said, once he had navigated back to the freeway. He had the radio tuned up, the Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin’ Man,” playing, trebly guitar wafting through the Town Car’s interior. Almost too fitting. Riley was sick of rambling. Wanted nothing more than to be back at his cabin, sipping a bottle of Jim Beam in his recliner and reading some book about the Crusades or ancient Rome or the Byzantine Empire.