by David Grace
“Thanks.”
Virgil started to hang up then heard Fineman say, “Marshal, do you think you can take him alive?”
“That’s up to him.”
“I knew the Samuelsons, through my job. What he did to them, to all of them . . . . I’m just saying . . . you know what I’m saying, don’t you Marshal?”
“You’re saying that you want to see this bastard brought to justice.”
“Justice, yes, that’s what I want. I want that very, very much,” Fineman said and hung up the phone.
Chapter Fifty
The cell signal was flickering in and out. Virgil said, “Say again.”
“. . . . just missed him,” Trey Carlson repeated. The signal faded then seemed to get stronger. “. . . about six.”
“Six? Is that when he left his motel?”
Virgil had assumed that a corporate jet would have built-in cell service but that apparently wasn’t the case. The speaker made a crackling sound, then picked up again.
“Yes,” Trey repeated, “He checked out around six. You think he’s still heading south?”
Virgil checked his watch. Neddick had been on the road for about an hour and a half, assuming he hadn’t stopped for breakfast.
“My guess is that he’s doing something between sixty and seventy. Can you contact the State Police and the county sheriffs along that stretch of the 69 to look for him?”
“You got it,” Carlson said before fading out again.
“I need to check something with the pilot,” Virgil half shouted to Kudlacik over the sound of the engines then went forward and stuck his head into the cockpit.
“Can you land us someplace near the eastern edge of Indianopolis?”
The pilot pulled out a loose-leaf book and pointed at a symbol on a map.
“Noblesville?” he asked.
“Do it,” Virgil shouted over the engine noise then returned to his seat.
“Stan, I’m going to try to reach State Police Operations. Can you see if you can get somebody to have a rental car waiting for us at the Noblesville, Indiana airport?”
“I can try,” Kudlacik said, squinting at the one and a half bars on his phone.
* * *
Kyle held his speed to a steady sixty-five, blending in with the rest of the traffic. More out of habit than any real concern, every few seconds he checked his mirrors for signs of pursuit. He still hadn’t decided how long he’d go before taking a chance on clearing airport security, until the end of the day at least and probably through tomorrow as well. Hell, maybe he’d drive all the way to L.A. or San Diego. With a clean car and a clean ID he was as anonymous as an ant in a line of thousands of other ants. Across the highway he spotted an Indiana State Police cruiser heading north toward him. Like a man at a picnic who has noticed a bee, he tracked it as it drew even with him then appeared in his rear-view mirror.
Suddenly the cruiser’s brake lights flashed and it quickly changed lanes. Kyle twisted around in his seat and watched it accelerate into the right-hand lane. He turned back to the traffic ahead of him but kept a fitful watch on the cruiser as it grew smaller in his rear-view mirror. Just before it disappeared around a slight bend its brakes flashed and it dove onto an exit ramp.
It could be nothing, Kyle thought, just a radio call, just some cop emergency. The road had rounded a slight bend and he’d lost sight of the interchange. Had the cop headed east or had he circled around on the overpass and was now coming up on his tail? The Infiniti was clean. He was clean, he kept telling himself, but now there was this tingling in the middle of his back as if someone was watching him.
A sign offered food, fuel and lodging two miles ahead. Kyle pressed a little harder on the gas and moved the needle up to seventy-five. If the trooper had spotted him, was looking for him, would he accelerate and try to pull him over or just follow behind until a bunch of his buddies joined the show?
Kyle pushed it up to eighty and slipped into the right-hand lane. He peered again into the mirror but couldn’t see any sign of pursuit. The exit was coming up. Leave or stay? The tingle in his spine was growing stronger. If the cop wasn’t following him all he would lose by getting off would be a little time. If they were after him then Kyle knew that he had to lose them right now. He hit the brakes and swerved onto the exit ramp.
* * *
Somehow Stan managed to have a Ford Fusion and a State Police cruiser waiting for them when they exited the jet.
“Marshal Quinn? Matt Rawlings, Indiana State Police,” the trooper said, holding out his hand. He looked to Quinn like a kid playing a cop in a high school show. Virgil could just as easily imagine him surrounded by cheerleaders with a football helmet neatly tucked beneath one arm. Virgil took the trooper’s hand and didn’t bother to correct the “marshal” part of the welcome.
“Virgil Quinn. This is Detective Stanley Kudlacik, Detroit PD. Anything new on our fugitive?”
“Yes, sir. About half an hour ago one of our units spotted his vehicle southbound on the I-69. Our officer was going north at the time and by the time he’d circled around the subject had disappeared. We’ve got units patrolling the 69 all the way to Indianapolis but no luck so far.”
Virgil thought about that for a second or two, then asked, “Can you show me on a map?”
Rawlings pulled an old paper map from his cruiser and spread it on the Fusion’s hood.
“Here’s where we spotted him,” he said tapping a stretch of the 69. Virgil ran his finger southwest to the next exit. To the north there was nothing but farms and small towns for a hundred miles, but twenty miles to the south Interstate 70 led straight to Indianapolis.
“We need to look for him heading west on the I-70,” Virgil said, tapping the map. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll call it in. Do you want to take a stretch of road for yourself?”
Virgil frowned and stared at the map as if it held some secret clue, then shook his head.
“I want to go back to where he disappeared. I want to see what he saw when he got off the 69.” Virgil could tell that Rawlings wanted to ask him why, if that was part of some special U.S. Marshals’ trick, but he was too polite, which pleased Virgil because, of course, it wasn’t. It was just an old hunter’s instinct of wanting to follow the target’s trail, to try to put yourself inside his head and guess where he’ll jump to next.
* * *
Kyle turned left over the highway, and as quickly as possible put a couple of miles between himself and the interstate then, head spinning, he pulled into a strip mall parking lot and tried to think.
Either the cops were on to him or they weren’t. If they weren’t then he had nothing to worry about. If they were that meant they had made his car. How could they have made the car? The plates were clean. The registration had no connection to him. Except for the junkie no one even knew that he had it. As hard as he tried he couldn’t come up with any scenario where the cops could know who he was or what he was driving, which meant that it was probably all nothing.
The cop had probably just gotten an emergency call about some stick-up or crash or something someplace off that exit. Kyle knew he was almost certainly over-reacting. But the tingling in his spine wouldn’t quit and he was starting to sweat.
Kyle glanced around the massive parking lot. People, mostly women pushing shopping carts, scuttled between the SUVs and mini-vans like hard-working little ants. I’m just another ant in a crowd of ants, he reminded himself. The anonymity made him feel good, safe. So, now what? he asked himself. Get back on the interstate as if nothing was wrong or . . . what?
Just the thought of leaving this parking lot almost made his hand shake. Something was out there. Someone was looking for him. He could feel it. You’re just a pussy, the voice in his head taunted. You used to have balls and now you see one nothing cop car going the other way and you turn into a punk.
Kyle reached for the start button, then pulled his hand away. Better safe than sorry, a different little voice whispered
in the back of his brain. He took another deep breath, looked around, muttered, “Fuck it!” and slumped back in his seat. If they were on to him it was because they’d made the car. He didn’t know how, but it was that or nothing. Probably nothing, he thought, then pushed that idea aside.
OK, he would need a new car. Steal one? No, that would be the worst thing he could do. Buy one or rent one? Buying one from a dealer would generate too much paperwork and buying one from a private seller would take too long and too much of his cash. He had a back-up ID. He hadn’t wanted to burn it so soon, but if he was going to dump the car he had no choice.
He pulled out his phone and asked Google for a list of rental car places near his location. The third one was an Enterprise, 5.6 miles away. “We’ll pick you up,” the listing said right underneath the name. Kyle hit the “call” button.
“Hi,” Kyle told the girl a minute later, “my car just died and I’ve got an important meeting I have to get to. Can you pick me up from the Food King parking lot in Anderson? . . . . Fifteen minutes? Yeah, that would be perfect. I’ll wait for you at the front doors.”
* * *
It took Virgil twenty minutes to reach the exit near where the trooper lost Neddick’s car which meant that Kyle was an hour or more ahead of them. That was plenty of time to get him to the I-70 and within twenty miles of Indianapolis. From there he had his choice of five interstates – southeast on the 74, south on the 65, southwest on the 70, and northwest on the 74 or the 65. That’s what he could do, Virgil thought, but was that what he would do?
Virgil stared at the map and tried to put himself into Neddick’s head. He had been heading southwest. He had some sort of a goal in that direction. Either he was still on the 69 and the troopers had just missed him or he’d spotted the cruiser and he’d gotten off the 69 at the next exit. If he was still on the 69 eventually the troopers would get him or they wouldn’t. Whatever Virgil did wouldn’t affect that one way or the other. If he had gotten spooked he might have taken the next exit. But would it have been enough to make him abandon his plan and turn in a completely different direction? Virgil didn’t think so. When an animal starts to run it usually keeps running in the same direction unless it’s got a damn good reason to change. And so far Kyle didn’t have a really good reason to change. So, he’s still heading more or less west or southwest, Virgil decided.
OK, then he’s probably on the I-70 and . . . . Virgil studied the map he’d borrowed from Rawlings. If he stayed on the 70, Neddick would skirt Indianapolis on the 465, the Ring Road, then continue southwest on the 70. Except that didn’t feel right. Again, Virgil tried to dive into Neddick’s brain.
I’m driving along and something spooks me, he thought. I get off the interstate at the next exit. I’ve been heading southwest on 69 which runs into the 465. Do I just go west on the 70 and then get on the 465 anyway? If they’re looking for me heading southwest on the 69 and they can’t find me won’t they just send some more cruisers ahead of me on the 465 and try to pick me up again? The 465 is a choke-point. Getting off the 69 before it merged with the 465 only to get on the 70 and still merge with the 465 wouldn’t make any sense. Of course, no one said Neddick was a genius, but he’d been smart enough to avoid getting caught for this long.
What would I do if I were him? Virgil asked himself. Would I change direction, go south instead of west? No, that didn’t feel right. Why not? Why not? How does a hunted man think? What does a hunted man think? They’re after me, Virgil whispered to himself. I have to get away. I have to hide. How did they find me? How did they find me? They must have IDed my car! I have to get rid of the car!
“Shit!” Virgil said.
“What?”
“He thinks we made his car.”
“How could he know that?” Stan asked, momentarily taking his eyes off the road.
“All right, he doesn’t know it, but he suspects. If he was spooked enough to get off the 69 then he’s afraid we’ve made his car which means he’s going to dump it and get himself another vehicle.”
“He won’t steal one,” Stan said after a moment’s thought. “If he really thinks we’re after him then he knows we’d be on any stolen car report in a New York minute. . . . Unless he car jacks someone.”
Virgil shook his head. “Then he’d have to deal with a hostage which is more trouble than it’s worth. That’s a huge escalation in risk when he can’t be certain we’re even on to him at all. No, he’d only do that as a last resort. Right now he’s just being cautious. What would you do if you were in his place, if you suspected that we had made your car and you wanted to get a new one, just in case?”
Stan thought about that for a moment then asked, “Do I have a clean ID and credit card?”
“Let’s assume you do.”
“Then I’d rent one.”
“Yeah,” Virgil said, “that’s what I think too.” Quinn pulled out his phone and called up a list of car rental outlets near the exit where Neddick disappeared.
* * *
It took them only a few minutes to check the ten rental car outlets nearest the I-69 exit they suspected Neddick had taken. Enterprise was the only one that had rented a vehicle to a lone, adult, under-forty, white male within the last hour.
“We rented a white Dodge 200 to a man matching that description about half an hour ago,” the Enterprise clerk told Virgil. “His name is Philip Siefert.”
“Is that vehicle equipped with a satellite tracking device?”
“Yes, but we only use it if the car is not returned or is reported stolen.”
“Your Mr. Siefert is an armed and dangerous, multiple-murder suspect. We have to find him.”
“Do you have a warrant?” the clerk asked uneasily.
Instead of shouting orders, Virgil took a breath and politely asked him for the name and phone number of whomever in the company had the authority to turn on the tracking system. Once he got it he called Trooper Rawlings and asked him to have his boss call the Enterprise people and get the thing activated. Fifteen minutes later a blinking green dot appeared on the Google Map screen on Virgil’s phone.
“How do you want to handle this,” Rawlings asked as soon as the tracking software went live.
“I think it’s too dangerous to try to pull him over. If we do that we’ll have a high-speed chase on our hands. My suggestion is that we keep the cruisers back and follow him with unmarked units. When he stops for gas or a bathroom break we can disable his car and grab him when he returns to the vehicle.”
“Makes sense. I’ll pass it on and get back to you,” Rawlings said and hung up.
“He’s heading west on the 70,” Virgil told Stan a few moments later, “about thirty miles ahead of us.” Having anticipated a continued westward course, they were also on westbound I-70. “Hold on, he just turned south on the 465.” Virgil zoomed the screen and started the timer on his watch. “It looks like he’s keeping it right around the speed limit.”
“On it,” Stan said and pushed the Fusion up to ninety.
* * *
The queasy feeling in Kyle’s gut faded as soon as he cleared the rental-car lot. Still not wanting to draw attention to himself, he kept the Dodge’s speedo at exactly sixty-five and let the faster traffic pass him by. He felt one nervous shudder when a State Police cruiser raced up on him from behind but the cop kept right on going, blowing by him at seventy-five before disappearing in the distance. If anyone had been after him, Kyle decided, he’d lost them for sure now.
Someplace near the edge of Putnam County, half an hour or so east of Terre Haute, Kyle spotted a Marathon station next to something called The Great Plains Café. The last thing he’d eaten had been the microwave waffle in his motel room and he was more than ready for lunch. He turned on his blinker and took the exit at a sedate forty-five. He figured he’d fill up the tank after lunch and then drive straight on until dark, maybe stop someplace between Springfield and Tulsa. Kyle parked in front of the café then stretched and strained to loosen his tight legs a
nd back.
Quinn and Kudlacik pulled over on the frontage road until they saw Neddick enter the building. Virgil called Rawlings and asked him to have the unmarked car pull around to the back.
“You can’t go in,” Stan told Virgil when he parked the Fusion in front of the mini-mart next to the pumps. “Your picture was in the papers when that drug lab blew up. There’s a chance he might recognize you.”
Virgil thought about it then nodded. “I’ll stay in the car and cover the front door. The locals can split up, one with me in front and one covering the back. You want to be the inside man?”
“I’ve never had my picture in the papers,” Stan said with a grunted laugh. “I’ll let you know when he’s not looking at his car so you can take out his tires.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Virgil hit Rawlings’ number on his speed dial. Two minutes later Stan entered the restaurant and tipped the waitress to give him a table where he could watch Neddick. After Kudlacik ordered a couple of minutes later he got Virgil on the phone.
“He’s in the rear corner where he can watch both doors. I think he’s planning on going out the back if he sees anybody heading in his direction. He’s got a view on the passenger side of his car but not the driver’s side. If you stay low and come in around the corner of the building you should be able to let the air out of both driver-side tires without him noticing.”
“Got it,” Virgil whispered. “Stay on the line in case he makes a move.” Stan put the phone on the table and pretended to read an abandoned newspaper. Three minutes later Virgil said, “Stan?” in barely more than a whisper.
“Here.”