Finding Kenton Ashland proved easier than he anticipated.
Namir searched for him randomly on the Internet, and there he was.
The journalist was in Erilyn, a small town in Idaho, population 2,000. He was chief editor for The Erilyn Tribune, the local weekly.
He went to the newspaper’s website and clicked on Ashland’s bio.
His blood pounded as he read that the journalist was highly respected. He had received several awards for his reporting. The president had awarded him some kind of medal for his role in putting away Namir.
The terrorist slammed his laptop shut and rose.
He got a medal for putting me in prison.
I will see just how brave he is.
When he’d calmed down, he looked up Erilyn.
It was a small dot on the map close to something called the Frank Church Wilderness. The town was not far from the Montana state line, and south of the Canadian border.
He lay on his bed, thinking. The journalist could have had a job in any large city. Why Erilyn?
He went back to the newspaper’s site and, in an archived story, found his answer.
In an interview, Ashland had said he wanted to bring up Sara Ashland, his daughter, in a small town. In the same place where his father lived.
Namir searched some more, but there were no other details on Ashland’s family.
It didn’t matter. Family or no family, Kenton Ashland was a dead man walking.
It took three days to get from Houston to Erilyn. From the south of America to its north.
As he drove, Namir began to realize how vast the country was. Miles of nothingness would pass, as their vehicles drove over blacktop.
In the distance, there would be a farmhouse, surrounded by fields of wheat or some other crop.
There would be large swathes of barren land before a town appeared.
There was traffic. Large eighteen-wheelers that trundled past them, occasionally sounding their horns.
On the evening of the third day, after Namir rented a new set of wheels, they rolled into Erilyn.
On the fourth day, he spotted Ashland.
The journalist was in a coffee store, seated with another man, laughing, as Namir walked past.
The town wasn’t large. It had a Main Street, from which several branches sprang. Most of the houses were on the smaller lanes.
Main Street had a few banks, a few grocery stores and hotels, and it had the newspaper office.
Namir was strolling on the pavement when he saw the journalist. He recognized him immediately.
The same reddish beard, the same green eyes. Ashland hadn’t changed.
He liked the color of the journalist’s hair.
It will match the color of his blood. Once I spill it.