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Bourton-on-the-Water, UK
The credit card reports for the current period were delivered electronically to the Practice Leader’s desktop. He was more than a bit surprised to see substantial charge card activity for train transport, lodging, and meals in London and Bath.
“Bath! What the devil were they doing in London and Bath?” he muttered aloud to no one in particular.
He reviewed the prior month’s report containing the air travel charge to Edinburgh. Yet there was no charge activity to explain how they made their way from Scotland to London and Bath. He dashed off a quick note to the travel coordinator to verify the absence of charge activity between Scotland and England.
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Later that morning he received a response.
“The flight on Virgin Atlantic was to London—not Edinburgh,” the note stated. “Why do you believe this was not so?”
A telephone call to Virgin Atlantic’s customer service line eliminated the confusion. The flight numbers change from one month to the next. A flight number for travel to London one month became a flight to Edinburgh the next.
If he had any lingering doubts about the involvement of Alice Linda and Joe McRory in the deplorable demise of Sir Alec, those doubts were erased. This explained Gwyneth Baldwin’s continuing inquiries into the Todd Adams commission. Baldwin knew. He had not. She must think him a dunce.
His time for action was suddenly at hand.
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The old saying that if you want something done you must do it yourself was never more true. The PL had dispatched two hitters to resolve the Linda/McRory matter—both unsuccessful. As a result, he was on a plane, midway across the Atlantic, to Atlanta, Georgia. According to the latest charge card detail, Linda and McRory purchased several hundred dollars in equipment and supplies from an outfitter at a north Georgia town near the Appalachian Trail.
Fourteen hours later, the PL emerged from the store fully equipped and confirmation from the proprietor that Linda and McRory had indeed purchased their equipment at the same store. He reviewed the situation with an experienced trail guide. They both agreed hiking south for 79 miles to the southern end of the trail made little sense, especially given the supplies Linda and McRory purchased.
With a younger, stronger customer in tow, the guide would recommend a pursuit starting from their current location. The PL was no spring chicken even though he appeared to be in excellent physical shape. So, they decided to travel north via the PL’s rental car and enter the trail north of the North Carolina border. They could wait for Linda and McRory to hike toward them. Or, they could advance the search and start walking the trail south.
The guide found this urgent need to locate these two rather odd, especially since his client was an older, distinguished looking English gentleman who looked like he could have walked right out onto the Appalachian Trail from a BBC police procedural series. But the guide was happy for the work and knew better than to become too involved in someone else’s personal business.
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Along the Appalachian Trail
The PL invited the guide to drive from the store to the point where North Carolina’s route 441 intersected the Appalachian Trail. This was his neck of the woods, so to speak, and the PL found driving on the right side of the road somewhat unnerving. It took most of the remaining day light to finally land on the trail, and the guide suggested they establish camp.
The guide knew there was a creek nearby and the prospect of a fresh mountain trout dinner was too good of an opportunity to miss. Previous clients found this additional bit of local color the best part of their trip. So, the two set off the trail in search of the creek—a distance somewhat more than a mile. The detour covered some hilly terrain and offered the guide the circumstances to assess the old guy’s level of physical fitness and stamina. He was favorably impressed.
It was well past dark when the PL returned alone to the camp site with the fish. In the morning, he’d gather up the equipment and supplies the guide left unattended and properly dispose of them down by the creek. If the guide was ever found, it would appear an inopportune slip on a wet rock came between him and the fish. Bad things do sometimes happen to good people.
The fish cooked over a fire proved to be delicious. The only thing missing was a good wine.
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A lifetime of walking the rolling hills of the Cotswolds’ in south central England didn’t offer the mountain beauty of this part of the Appalachian Trail. But a walk is a walk and the PL was in fine spirits.
By the third day, the PL was traversing a ridge trail. He spotted a camp site below almost hidden under a substantial hemlock tree in the middle of a small meadow. After securing a secluded position, he spent ten minutes observing the two men below. One was kneeling by the small spring holding a mirror to shave his head. The second man was preparing to break camp.
The image of the man in a private act of hygiene in the middle of nowhere reminded him of his time in the military. It didn’t matter into which hell hole King and country sent him, a proper English gentleman always found the time to maintain his appearance. Here in America? On a mountain trail with no civilization nearby? How unusual and truly remarkable.
He moved on.
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Five days earlier, Alice Linda stood pawing at the ground with her new hiking boots. The disagreement over the seemingly simple issue of direction—north or south—might as well have been a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon. Joe McRory argued to hike south, to leverage the southern assets the task force was moving in their direction. Linda countered with yet another of her fact-free, out-of-the-box positions insisting they head north instead.
“Right so far? Are you kidding me!” spat a now livid McRory. “How do you figure?”
“I’m telling you, even two rookie hikers would be farther along than the 79 miles between us and the southern trail head.”
“We don’t even know they’re on this trail. We aren’t entirely certain they’re hiking anywhere.”
“That’s not what you said back at Camp Peary.”
“Look, Eddy and I just threw in the towel rather than argue and argue—like we are now—on your irrational notion Adams and Al Hami are hiking. You are so stubborn that everyone gives in to you eventually. It just doesn’t pay to fight.”
“If that’s the case, why aren’t you willing to go north?” she said in a softer voice and pointing along the path in a northerly direction. “The task force guys already moved south from here. We’re too far north of them now. It will take us several days to catch up to them. So, it makes more sense for us to head north.”
McRory dropped his head in defeat. She was right. Heading south would make them late arrivals to the party, if the two perps were caught in the vice formed by the task forces converging from both north and south.
“Let’s go, north.”
“You are such a girl.”
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McRory wasn’t a hiker. He was a gym rat who had a periodic fascination with the rock climbing wall. Despite his inexperience, he realized the virtue of starting at a slower pace on the first couple of days out. Tell that to Linda. As soon as he threw in the towel and agreed to head north, she was like a greyhound out of the gate with a rabbit to catch.
Dusk came early on this part of the trail. There was a mountain west of the trail blocking the fading sunlight. The long shadows presaged the coming nightfall. McRory argued to stop and establish camp for the evening. Linda insisted they continue moving north, because it wasn’t evening, yet.
After only two days out, they were on a 20+ mile pace. Every muscle and ligament in his lower body screamed out in pain. His lower back didn’t fare any better saddled as it was with the ruck frame and its contents. Linda looked fresh and eager. She never stopped, let alone slowed the pace. He managed to cope and never fall behind by concentrating his vision on her ass. He dreamt of kicking it from one end of the trail to the next. In fact, the visions of the pain he intended to inflict were so real that he was beginning to worry about his sanity. Then he’d remember her now familiar refrain, “You are such a girl.” Every time he heard it echo inside his head, his body would draw on his reserves to keep him going.
A little over two hours later she finally stopped. Slipping out from her ruck frame and dropping its contents to the ground, she reached into one of the pouches and withdrew a spool of clear fishing filament. She tied one end to a tree pushing into the right-side of the trail. Walking backward, she strung the filament across the trail and tied it off on another tree on the opposite side.
“What the hell are you doing?” McRory challenged.
“I don’t want anyone getting by us while we’re sleeping.”
“You’re willing to clothesline innocent people to capture these two?”
She looked up at him while testing the trap, “Of course.”
“That is so wrong.”
“Face it. You’re not a hiker. So, you have no way of knowing that few people—especially at this time of year in the snow and ice—are willing to hike on an overcast night where there isn’t a star in the sky. Most hikers won’t incur the risk of personal injury with no way to call for help. Unless, of course, we’re talking about Adams and Al Hami who have every incentive to try to outrun us.”
“But you’re convinced they’re north of us. You believe we’re chasing them.”
She stood facing him violating any reasonable notion of personal space. “You’re the one who believes they might be south of us. This is my way to hedge the bet.”
McRory contemplated her logic. He had to admit. It sounded reasonable. If Adams and Al Hami came from the south, they wouldn’t get by so easily.
Then he watched her slip back into harness and step off the trail in the direction of the mountain above them. “Where are you going?”
“To set up camp where we can watch who gets caught in the trap without exposing us.”
“Damn,” he thought. “She is good at this.”
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The PL broke camp well before daybreak. He was on the trail for an hour in the eerie low light announcing the impending arrival of daybreak. The trail wasn’t adequately lighted, and he stumbled over a tree root that ran across the trail. So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he never saw the transparent filament at ankle height before he found himself flat on his face under the burden of his rig.
At that time of day, he was unable to see the two strands of transparent filament. He finally stood, brushed himself clean of the sticks and mud now slathered from his neck to his feet. It would be several hours before anyone would notice the mud on his forehead and hair.
Hidden above, Linda pulled apart the flaps of her tent and peered down over the hill. Approximately 100 feet below, she saw the image of an older man struggling to regain his footing. She looked at McRory’s tent to see if he was awake. He wasn’t. Otherwise, he’d be running to the hiker’s aid apologizing for his partner’s behavior. What’s one innocent bystander in the pursuit of two bad guys? she thought to herself justifying her trap. Looking back at McRory’s tent, He is such a girl.
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First light was coming on strong as the PL continued moving in a southerly direction. Ahead, the trail curved to the right with a slight rise. He could establish a safe place to observe who, or what, arrived to check the trap.
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Unlike prior days on the trail, McRory awakened on his own too sore to move. He swallowed two Ibuprofen with a swig from his water jug. Peeking out his tent flap he saw Linda sitting on a rock ready to go.
It took him the better part of a half-hour to pull himself together, and the Ibuprofen was finally doing its job. The two of them carefully made their way down the incline separating last evening’s camp site and the trail below. As he stepped onto the trail he saw the filament was broken.
“Did we catch someone or something?” he asked.
Linda looked down, “Well look at that. I guess we did.” Looking back to him, “Did you hear anything last night?”
“No.”
“Well, what do you know,” and she turned away to start the day’s northerly hike.
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The PL lowered his field glasses. They didn’t seem to take much notice that someone sprung their trap. Instead, they started out at a brisk pace heading from the direction he’d come.
He had to admit he had no idea what they were doing on the Appalachian trail. Was all this related to the Adams commission?
He decided to lag and follow for a while. He needed to obtain a better grasp about what was going on.