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Reports of sightings rolled in by the tens of thousands. The pair was seen in every state and territory and most countries. Many sightings came complete with car descriptions and license numbers. Hundreds of people identified motels or houses where the two had been seen or supposedly were living. Too many people, perhaps seeing dollar signs, took it upon themselves to follow their particular suspects, leading to more than a few altercations. One woman truck driver spotted two men she was sure were the terrorists and followed them to a rest stop, where she cut the tires of their car. She was arrested after the car’s owner, who was not amused, called the highway patrol.
Stickman and Maple listened to coverage on the radio, plagued by static, in their room at the B&B. A hot breakfast was available, but so was continental fare for travelers wanting to get on the road. Maple filled a bag with yogurt and fruit and a cinnamon roll and they continued west, now on I-70. They opted for that busy route believing the almost-certain roadblocks would so tie up traffic that searches would be done in haste.
At the first rest stop, Maple parked in the last available space and put their handguns in the false chamber of the back seat. Stickman put his billfold in the pocket of a jacket, which he carefully arranged on the back seat. If pressed for his ID, and feeling threatened, he would plead the need to retrieve the jacket – and possibly get to a handgun or two.
The car radio gave up nothing of value. Law officers at every level continued to drown in reported sightings. And it was clear that all law enforcement resources were being applied – for roadblocks, checking out motels and campgrounds, watching airports and train and bus stations.
“Until we get down the road a piece and this panic starts wearing off,” Stickman said, as much to himself as to Maple, “we just have to be smarter than the cops at the roadblocks.”
They reached the National Freeway – I-68 – an all-too-short stretch of broad, delightfully open sweeping turns through Maryland and West Virginia’s timbered farmlands and state forests. After little more than an hour they rejoined I-70 with regret, sticking with their judgment that the interstate’s heavy traffic and long-haul trucks made it their best choice. That was tested shortly when a bevy of highway patrol cars flew past them and somewhere ahead found a large enough gap in traffic to block both westbound lanes. Break lights fashioned a stream of red.
Creeping along, they passed a car stopped on the shoulder, officers cautiously searching as its two male occupants looked on. “Dog probably sniffed out some drugs,” Stickman said. “They need to teach those canines what righteous terrorists smell like.”
“Right now, that is not funny.”
Only a dozen cars separated them from a checkpoint and Stickman suddenly had a worrisome question: Would an explosives-trained canine react to ammunition?
Teams of officers made their way down the row of cars, letting all but those with two males proceed. If we get out of this, Maple thought, maybe we should pick up a hitch hiker. A squatty patrolman in starched uniform, backed up by a huge colleague, waved them to the shoulder of the interstate.
“Identification, from both of you,” he said officiously, peering through cheap sunglasses with brown plastic frames.
“Yes, sir,” answered Maple.
The officer squinted at the licenses. “Where are you going?”
“Tennessee.”
“Why?”
“We’re going bass fishing.”
“Great state for bass, but there’s plenty of good fishing much closer to, ah, New Jersey,” the officer said, glancing at a license.
“We wanted to put some distance between us and the wives.”
“What are you going to fish for?”
“Bass, mostly. It’s early enough that we may want to go a little farther south.” He was relieved that his voice was remaining calm.
“You, Mr. Henry,” the patrolman said, peering in at Stickman. “What kind of bait do you like for bass?”
Stickman’s throat went dry, trying to recall the names of bass lures from Maple’s lessons. “Well, that depends ...A Mopps is an option.”
“It’s Mepps, dummy,” Maple admonished. “I started teaching him last night, but we haven’t gotten far. He’s never been.”
“Okay expert,” the officer said, turning his attention back to Maple. “What bait do you like?”
“I’ve always used a Mepps or a Rapala, but a friend told me he’s done well with the Little Cleo Kit. I’m going to pick one up.”
“What test line are you guys going to use?”
“Depends on the weather and where we end up, but something pretty standard for dummy. I’ll use my ultra-lite whenever I can.”
“Good for you,” the squatty patrolman said. “Not that it means anything, but I’m a Little Cleo man. Enjoy your trip.”
Rejoining the stream of cars, Maple allowed, “Hey, who ever heard of fishermen being terrorists? I bet that dude has the big-ass bass boat with the captains’ chairs and the depth finder and the whole nine yards.”
Stickman cleared his throat. “Dummy, is it?”
Maple broke into a self-satisfied grin.