The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

  This may sound strange given my condition, but I can’t wait to see you.

  He logged off, not bothering to take the time to reread what he had written. He checked his watch: 12:05. So far, so good. He stood up and let his eyes roam the busy station as he headed toward the escalators.

  Before he had walked ten steps he saw four men in dark suits approaching, twenty feet away. Their faces, dress, and demeanor said “FBI.” Their pace was quick, their strides firm and determined. How could they be looking for him already?

  Although he had the fleeting thought of putting his head down and walking right past them—he had changed his physical appearance significantly—he did not want to chance it. In a pinch with no other options, he would risk it and feel good about his ability to succeed. But at the moment, he had safer alternatives. He stopped by a garbage pail, pretended to throw something in it, and then reversed direction, walking toward the west end of the station. He caught sight of a security guard heading toward him, prompting him to turn right toward the tracks.

  His watch read 12:09. Shit. He wasn’t going to make it, not if the cab was going to be prompt and leave if he was not there. If it did strand him, he could always take the Metro. But that was fraught with potential delays, and it made it easier for the Bureau to track him once they located him. It would be as simple as sending out an immediate alert to the station managers at each stop along the line so that the moment his train arrived, undercover transit officers would be ready and waiting for him.

  At the moment, however, he had no choice. He pulled a couple of dollar bills from his pocket and fed them into the fare kiosk. A small card emerged from the machine and he headed toward the train tracks.

  As he boarded a waiting Metro subway car, he noticed a couple of empty seats toward the rear. He sat down and picked up the newspaper that was lying across the chair.

  A moment later, a man in a gray suit rose from his seat and looked out. “Something’s gotta be wrong. Why are we just sitting here?”

  The man’s friend bent forward to look out the darkened window. “Not a good day for this,” he said, pushing back his shirtsleeve to check his watch. “I’ve got a meeting...”

  Payne’s pulse began galloping again. Had the Bureau put out an alert to search all trains before departure? Perhaps that passenger was right—something was wrong.

  He craned his neck around and saw two men in dark suits approaching the car. He rose from his seat and headed for the doors, hoping to reach them before the agents did. But even if he was able to get out before they arrived, they would surely stop him to check his ID. As he passed the window to his right, he saw another grouping of agents dispersing, preparing to check the trains on the adjacent tracks. There was now no doubt as to what was going down.

  They were looking for him.

  With few options and no time to implement them, he decided to confront the agents head-on. He pulled out his credentials, left the subway car, and walked toward the approaching men. Payne looked the lead agent directly in the eye, held his case low, and used his middle finger to partially obscure the last name on his Bureau identification. “Special Agent Thomas,” he said, reasoning they might have been alerted to his cover name of Thompson. “He’s not in this car. I’m going to head on up to street level, start with the shops.”

  The other agent nodded. “All station exits are covered. We’ll find him.” The man squeezed past Payne and boarded the subway car parked on the opposite side of the platform, to his left.

  As Payne turned and headed away, he heard the man speaking to the passengers: “We’re federal agents. Please remain calm. We’ve got orders to inspect everyone’s identification, so please have photo ID available...”

  Payne walked away from them at a fast clip, passing the fare machines on his way out. As he approached the brown steel doors that led to the main part of the depot, he began to run. He hit the door with his right shoulder and blasted through it. Ahead of him was an escalator that stretched up to the lower concourse but it was a down escalator and it was full of people intent on reaching their trains.

  He thought about turning around and heading back into the metro, but just then, he heard shouting from behind him. He whipped his head around and saw several agents running in his direction.

  “Freeze! FBI!”

  Payne was paralyzed with a sudden flush of adrenaline-charged fear. The air suddenly turned murky; his head became light and he felt dizzy. He continued to push forward, but he was caught in a nightmarish haze that made him feel as if he were moving in slow motion.

  The agents’ guns came out of their holsters and a collective scream erupted from the commuters, whose concern, only a moment ago, was whether they would make their trains on time. Like a trail of ants whose single-file line had just been disturbed by a falling pebble, the people scattered in every possible direction.

  Payne turned his head and began pushing his way forward, swimming through the sea of cowering humanity. He burst through a crowd and nearly fell forward, but got bumped and driven upright. He pushed forward again, climbing over the backs of the crouching commuters, attempting to make his way up the down escalator. “FBI, let me through!” he shouted as he shoved and wormed his way around and between them, finally disappearing into the confused mass of terrified travelers.

  “Thompson—give it up!” he heard as he made it onto the lower concourse. The agents’ voices were muffled, but frantic. “...Agents on every level!”

  He began to run again, passing an upscale pharmacy and the Metro Market food court, nearly knocking several people down as he went. Ahead of him was another bank of escalators—these traveling in the correct direction—and he hit the moving steps in stride.

  A few seconds later, he emerged on street level beside a Barnes & Noble bookstore. He turned right and walked quickly past the shops, trying to blend in with the swirling mass of activity.

  He glanced behind him—he didn’t see any agents or security guards—and headed toward the First Street Metro exit. He caught the time on the large clock face near the revolving doors: 12:25. Would the cab still be waiting for him?

  Payne emerged outside beneath an arch-covered patio and noticed a couple of agents eyeing the exit, two-way radios up to their ears. He ducked into a crowd and moved along First Street toward the front of the station, where the taxi stand was located. To his left, a lone cab was parked at the curb. Was it his? He didn’t care if it wasn’t—he was taking it.

  Payne jumped inside and slammed the door shut. “Fredericksburg,” he said, panting out of fear as much as from his sprint out of the station.

  “I’m waitin’ on a fare,” the heavyset man said.

  “I’m the guy you’re waiting for. Barry Simon. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Another minute and you’d a been stranded,” the cabbie said, yanking the gearshift into drive. “Wait policy’s ten minutes, then I can take any fare comes my way.”

  Payne tuned out the driver and craned his neck to look out the back window as the taxi pulled away.

  “Fredericksburg, you said?”

  “Yeah.” Payne ducked down behind the rear seat as the agents that had been pursuing him came running out into the street. They were rotating their bodies and rubbernecking their heads, turning round and round.

  Lost sheep without their dog.

  Payne leaned back and closed his eyes as the driver turned the corner and accelerated.

  55

  It was noon when Lauren returned to her motel room. She grabbed her suitcase and began gathering her clothing, fighting back tears and struggling to keep her composure. She stopped, a pair of jeans in her hand, and looked down at the garbage can near her foot. She kicked it and sent it careening across the room into a wall. The jeans went flying after it, and as if that weren’t enough, she shoved everything off the desktop with the swipe of her hand.

  “Are you done yet?” Bradley asked, standing safely a few feet behind her.

  She grabbed the phone and
heaved it at the door. It ripped from the wall and smashed to the floor.

  “I understand you’re upset, frustrated. Angry.”

  She suddenly stopped, turned, and faced Bradley. “Upset? You think I’m upset?” she screamed.

  “Lauren, please, calm down.” He took both her hands in his, but she twisted away from him.

  “I don’t want to calm down!” She grabbed the end of the suitcase and yanked it off the bed, then seized a glass off the nightstand. As she brought her arm back to throw it, he reached out and stopped her.

  “Enough!”

  She wrestled her arm away and swung at him. He ducked and the follow-through spun her around. He threw his arms around her torso, capturing her arms and pinning them against her body. She continued to writhe and jump, pushing them both backward onto the bed.

  They landed face up, Lauren atop him, still squirming. He tightened his grip, then rolled them both over, burying her face into the covers. They remained prone for a moment, her body finally relaxing into submission.

  But he felt her chest heaving and realized she was sobbing. He pulled his arms out from beneath her and sat up. “I’m glad you got that out of your system,” he said gently. He waited for her to respond, but she did not move. “Lauren, think about what you’ve been through this past week. Your husband’s missing, you’ve been followed, kidnapped, tortured... and as if that’s not enough, you killed someone in self-defense. If a patient came to you with that recent history, you’d probably admit him to the hospital for round-the-clock counseling.”

  A few seconds passed before she pushed up onto her elbows and wiped some fingers across her moist eyes. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I’m a damn Ph.D. and I don’t, I mean, I can’t... I don’t know what to do to help myself.”

  “Doctors make the worst patients. My brother was a doctor, and he always got sicker than he needed to because he was so stubborn. If he’d treated himself the way he treated his patients, he would’ve been a lot better off.”

  “You talk like he’s dead.”

  “Might as well be. Haven’t talked to him in years.” Bradley sat there staring down at the bed for a moment, then stood up. “Point is, Lauren, you’ve been through a hell of a lot and I think you’ve done an incredible job of handling whatever’s been thrown at you.”

  “Speaking of throwing,” she said, sitting up on the edge of the bed, “sorry about the mess.”

  Bradley waved a hand and bent over to lift the suitcase off the floor. “I hope you’re not still thinking of leaving.”

  Lauren knelt beside him to help clean up. “I don’t know what to think, Nick. We’ve been here four days and we’ve got nothing to show for it. We’re no closer to finding Michael than we were before we got on the plane. How long should we stay here running into dead ends? A week, two weeks? Three weeks?”

  “If that’s what it takes, yes. He’s here, in this town, Lauren. Do you really want to fly three thousand miles away from him?”

  She looked away. “No. Of course not.”

  “Then let’s do something constructive.” Bradley picked up the handheld PC from the nightstand and handed it to her. “You’ve got a direct link to Michael. Let’s use it.”

  Lauren started the computer and opened her browser. She selected RETRIEVE AND READ MAIL and began tapping her fingers on the table while waiting for her little computer to download any messages she had received. Although she knew she should hope there would be one from Michael, her emotions were spent. She was numb. To her, it was a clear sign that, deep down, she had given up. She walked over to the window, leaned against the wall, and stared out at the parking lot.

  Bradley sat down on the bed and hunched over the tiny computer screen. “Don’t you want to read your messages?”

  Lauren kept her gaze on the landscape. “Please, Nick, I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  Her head whipped over in his direction. “What?”

  He nodded at the small device. “Come look.”

  Lauren hurried over to the desk and saw the YOU HAVE 1 NEW MESSAGE prompt. She clicked OK and saw the “lost_in_virginia” moniker in her inbox. “Michael. We’ve got something from Michael!”

  With Bradley leaning over her shoulder, she opened the message and began reading. “Thank God,” she said under her breath. Tears glazing her eyes, she glanced up at Bradley. “I don’t understand. The FBI was looking for him, right? So he could testify against Scarponi. They need him. Why would he be a fugitive?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to cooperate.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t he want to testify and put this guy back in jail?”

  Bradley turned away and did not answer her.

  Lauren sat there for a second, then shook her head. “Something’s very wrong.” She found the small gold key around her neck and squeezed it in her hand, then sank down onto the edge of the bed.

  Bradley sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, drew her body close to his. “I wish I could tell you this all makes sense. But I can’t, because it doesn’t. Right now, I think we need to keep focused on meeting up with him tomorrow. We can’t worry about what other people are doing. Let’s take things a day at a time. Hell, even an hour at a time. Okay?”

  She sat there for a long moment before speaking. “You’ve become such a great friend, Nick. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  He handed her a tissue and gently rubbed her back. “I’m here for you, for as long as you need me to be. I promise.”

  “You’re more than a friend, Nick. You’re kind of like the big brother I never had. I can tell you anything, whatever’s on my mind. I’ve never had that feeling about anyone ever, not even my therapist. Just Michael... and you.”

  Bradley creased a corner of his mouth into a smile. “I’m honored.”

  She could feel the tension leaving her muscles. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  “Not a problem. But I’m worried about your health. With all you’ve been through, with all the stress you’ve been under, I think it’s important for you to get some sleep.”

  “Now you’re acting like my doctor.”

  Bradley laughed. “I’ve learned that in my line of work you’ve got to be a little of everything. Least of all what people expect you to be.” He brushed the hair back off her face, then stood up. “Get some rest.”

  “But it’s the middle of the day; I can’t just go to sleep—”

  “You can and you will. Meantime, I’ll snoop around and see if I can find out what Michael did to land himself on the FBI’s fugitive list. It might affect the way we handle your meeting with him tomorrow.”

  She closed her eyes and he covered her with the blanket. “Think good thoughts about seeing Michael again. Before you know it, it’ll be five-thirty and you’ll be in his arms.”

  “This whole thing will be over, right?”

  “It sure will,” Bradley said with a smile. “It’ll all finally be over.”

  56

  The wind had picked up and was blasting everything and everyone in its path, slamming against the fifty U.S. flags flapping in the bright floodlights at the granite base of the Washington Monument.

  DeSantos stood in darkness outside the ring of flags, surveying the general area. After the latest tour bus had pulled out of the parking lot five minutes ago, he had nodded to the park ranger, whose four-to-midnight shift was over.

  A moment later, Archer completed his walk around the perimeter and nodded. “Clear.”

  “Good, then all we’re missing is our host.”

  Another blast of wind hit them head-on, and they turned their backs to shield their faces. “I wish he’d get here already. It’s fucking cold out here,” DeSantos said. “I don’t know why we couldn’t just meet in a car, or at my house or something.” He rubbed his gloved hands together.

  “It’s Knox. You never know what the guy’s thinking. And we’re in his g
ood graces. Imagine everyone else.”

  “My toes are starting to go numb.” DeSantos stomped his feet. “Must be twenty-five below with the wind. I’m leaving in ten minutes if I can still walk.”

  “Want some gum?” Archer asked, chomping away on his Juicy Fruit.

  “No, I don’t want some gum. Gum ain’t gonna make my body warm.”

  “The cold is all in your head, Hector. Just ignore it.”

  “This isn’t more of that mind-body bullshit, is it?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. You can bring blood to your extremities—”

  “I know how to get blood to one of my extremities. Does that count?”

  Archer shook his head. “I can’t believe we asked you to be Presley’s godfather.”

  “Hey, I warned you, bro. I y’am what I y’am.” DeSantos began to jump up and down. “So much for mind-body bullshit. I’m still freaking cold.”

  “Then take your mind off it. Guess how many people visit the monument each year.”

  “I don’t want to guess.”

  “Just go with me on this, will you?”

  DeSantos rubbernecked his head into the darkness, then checked his watch. “Fine. Eight hundred thousand.”

  Archer looked at him, his eyebrows bunched together. “You’re so damn lucky, you know that?”

  “What I don’t understand is why so many people are fascinated by a big stone dick sticking up from the ground.”

  Archer glanced sideways at his partner, then shivered as another blast of air wormed around his pants.

  “Don’t tell me you’re cold, too. It’s all in your head, Brian. Remember?”

  Archer started moving his legs, dancing without music, and said, “Trish and I took a tour about four years ago. You wouldn’t believe how many granite blocks—”

  “Gentlemen.”

  Archer and DeSantos spun, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons.