She reached Route 953 and then with only one wrong turn, covered the connecting roads to Route 31. North of Lehigh Acres, she stopped to mail her secret letter; a few miles later she pulled into a deserted construction site to check on Tyler.
“Why did you stop back there?” he asked.
“To get my bearings.”
“Well now that you have them, let’s get some distance between us and the law.”
She soon discovered the advantage of country roads as she inched her way north. Except for the route numbers, they were identical, each with convenient side roads to check on Tyler, who grew testier with each stop. “Tyler, you’ll cramp. Don’t you want to stretch your legs?”
“‘No, for the hundredth time! Now close the trunk!” he growled as the afternoon slipped away.
Route numbers spun in her head as she crossed the Alabama line, and just north of Fadette she stopped to check on him again. It was almost dark as he finally crawled from the trunk, grabbed the map and turned on the flashlight to study it. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Stretching my legs; isn’t that what you’ve asked me to do for the last three hundred miles?”
“I mean what are you looking for?”
“I dug into the records long enough to discover the good sheriff’s fiefdom. Pine County, Tennessee. Mountain country, it appears.” Folding the map, he started into the woods.
“Now where are you going?” she asked, then blushed at his impatient glance. “Oh...” All the water consumed, the miles covered and —phenomenally — this was the first time.
A chill crept into the night as they breezed along the banks of the Choctawhatchee River. The patrol cars, once Florida gray, were now Alabama white. She held her breath as each one passed. Were they looking yet for a leased Prelude? One appeared in the mirror beyond Graball, hugging her bumper as miles were eclipsed along dark, desolate Route 14. Her eyes bounced from the speedometer to the mirror, as she imagined the trooper gushing over the radio, Got a make on that blue Prelude, JP. Yeah boy, I’m gonna pull her over right now. Anxious minutes later, the unit turned off at a truck stop near Edwin, and into the deepening night she sailed on. But she was tired now, her vision blurred from endless stretches of pavement, swaying yellow lines, headlamps like shimmering blobs that jumped out from the darkness. How much longer could she go on?
She pondered this on the desolate stretch between Comer and Spring Hill, then Rutherford, Hurstboro and Uchee, of all places; each eclipsed in the night’s thickening fog. Beyond Marvyn, she stopped again to check on Tyler. He stretched, visited the trees and then studied the map. “You’re doing great,” he nodded. “We’ve covered half of Alabama. But you must be tired. I’ll take over.”
She could do cartwheels at the very suggestion. But she’d gone this far; surely she could go a little farther. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“I know. But if it’s all right, I want to drive awhile. My ass is getting numb like you said it would. Besides... What are you smiling about?”
He was giving her an easy out. “Be my guest.” She handed him the keys.
As he took the wheel, she slumped gratefully beside him. “It’s such a shame.”
“What?”
“That you missed all the beautiful scenery in Graball, Comer, Marvyn, Uchee...” She was asleep in seconds.
She woke later in the parking lot of a pizzeria. “Where are we?” She rubbed her eyes.
“Hollis Crossroads,” he replied.
“Why did I even ask?” She squinted at the thoroughly foreign intersection.
“How does a large pizza with extra cheese grab you?”
She spotted the McDonalds across the street. “Wouldn’t you rather have a Big Mac and fries?”
“No, a pizza with extra cheese.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m Italian and like pizza.”
“No, because I’m a Virginian and a very hungry one at the moment.”
“Tyler, why are you being so nice? No one’s this considerate. It’s just not possible.”
“Please Mayson, it’s too late to start this. Now what do you want to drink?”
“When she didn’t answer, he said, “A coke it is then,” and climbed out.
The pizza was gone by Piedmont Springs; by Pine Grove, she was asleep again. Then came Caloma, Leesburg, and after picking up Route 11, Portersville and Collbran. By Fort Payne, he’d encountered three Alabama whites, a figure that doubled by Valley Head and forced him to leave 11 for a less crowded 117.
They were now deep in the mountains with enough darkness, by his calculations, to reach Pine County. But then what? Wouldn’t the Feds be waiting, just as in Naples? Shouldn’t he find a sleepy little inn where they could take their time figuring out a plan?
“Madonna mia, it’s so cold!” she said as she woke.
He glanced at her hunched against the chill. “The mountains get that way in November.”
As his arm wrapped around her, she snuggled against him gratefully. “So where are we — and please don’t say Alabama?”
“Fifty miles southwest of Chattanooga, Tennessee. How’s that?”
“Yeah, doggies!”
He squinted. “Yeah, doggies?”
“Isn’t that what the Beverly Hillbillies say?”
“Are they from Tennessee?”
“How should I know? Are we getting close?”
“A couple hundred miles.” He now shared his dilemma — go to Pine County or not?
“We’d be safer somewhere else,” she said. “But how much? And even if we don’t know what we’re looking for, it must be in Pine. Hopefully the records will tell us more. If not, Naples was a complete waste of time.”
“Not entirely,” he smiled. “You experienced your first tropical storm. So what are you saying?”
“That sooner or later we must go to Pine. Why put it off? Whenever we go, the Feds’ll be waiting.”
She was right. There was nothing to gain by delaying the confrontation. Stopping in Hindon for gas, he charted their northeastern course. She slept again as he negotiated an intricate network of highways around Chattanooga. By four, they reached Waterville and the first Pine County posting. “Hallelujah!” He kissed her head. “Thirty miles to go!”
“Great.” She burrowed into his neck. “You need a shave.” As they rounded the next bend, a cluster of lights suddenly jumped out from the darkness. Hitting the brakes, he quickly shut off his lights. “Turn around!” she shrieked. Instead he crept forward until spotting a side road on the right. The moonlight vanished as he ducked into it.
Creeping through the darkness, he was guided only by the grinding pavement beneath him. When he finally turned on the lights again, he discovered what he already knew; they were on a back road that snaked into the Tennessee woods. “I wonder where it goes?” Mayson asked the question of the minute, one remaining unanswered miles later as they crossed the same twisting creek three times on a steady climb up the mountain. “Are we at least heading towards Pine?”
He shook his head. “It’s thirty miles north of that roadblock. We’re heading east... and up.”
An abandoned pickup soon appeared on the right; Tyler nodded at the logs in back. “Paul Bunyan, maybe?”
A mile later they came upon a large woman in boots and bulky coat, hiking up the shoulder. Turning, she squinted into the approaching headlights. “Mrs. Bunyan?” Mayson mused.
Tyler stopped and climbed out. “Is that your pickup back there?”
“Sure is, sonny. You wouldn’t happen to have a jack, would you? I got a spare but no jack. That’s ‘cuz Earl never puts it back. I’m gonna give him the dickens, too, only it won’t do no good. He’s deaf as a door. Dumb as one, too, since he can’t remember to put the jack back in the truck. So you got a jack or not?”
Tyler was totally absorbed by the large mountain woman with the square face and feisty tongue who spoke to him on this dark road as if she’d known him a lifetime. Her scarf and coat were badly tattered, her boots large enough to fit his own feet. “A jack? I don’t know...”
“What you mean you don’t know? Everybody knows if’n they have a jack or not.”
He hadn’t checked but certainly they had one. Opening the trunk, he quickly discovered both jack and lug wrench.
“So you have a flat?” Mayson asked the woman.
“Course, gal. You don’t think I’d leave my truck back yonder if’n I didn’t?”
“Well, you shouldn’t be on this road alone at night.”
“And what road you figger I should be on? This here’s the only one that runs down to Mill Creek.”
“I meant you shouldn’t be on any road. Anything could happen; things far worse than a flat tire.”
“If’n I wasn’t to use a road,” she glared at a much smaller Mayson, “how else was I supposed to get to Sara Jackson’s place? I ain’t got wings, you know.”
“You don’t need wings, just the sense to visit Sara Jackson during the day.”
“My sense ain’t got nuthin’ to do with it. Sara’s water done decided when I’d be going.”
“Her water?” Mayson asked.
“It done broke. And when Sara called, there weren’t no dad-blamed choice but to go.”
“You’re a midwife?”
“When I ain’t cookin’ and cleanin.’ Say, do I know you two?”
“No ma’am,” Tyler replied. “We’re the... Comptons. I’m Bob and this is my wife... Lucy. We’re...”
“On our honeymoon,” Mayson picked up the tale. “We just got married in... Dothan. We’re on our way to...”
“The Great Smokies,” he added. “We’re real nature lovers.”
“If’n that ain’t a crock!” she huffed. “The only nature you two’d be lovin’ is each other’s. Name’s Bessie Lou Adkins.” She extended her hand. “Just call me Lou. Everyone else does... So Bob, you got that jack or not?”
They returned down the road to her truck. Inspecting the flat right front tire, Tyler dropped in the gravel with his tools. “Bob, I can do that,” Lou protested. “I ain’t no invalid, you know.”
“I don’t mind. Just keep Lucy company and I’ll be through in a minute.”
“He’s a sweet one,” she nodded as he began working. “Goodlookin’ too. And you ain’t so bad yourself, Lucy, ‘cept you could use some fat on them bones.”
Removing the flat, Tyler reached for the spare. “Maybe we’ll fix that on the honeymoon.”
“That’d do it,” she nodded. “Did for Clara Bradley, anyhow. She came back from her honeymoon carrying a young’un. Delivered it myself.”
“I’m not quite ready for young’uns,” Mayson said.
Lou squinted. “That’s a funny accent you got, Lucy. What part of ‘Bama you from? Dothan?”
The blood rushed to her cheeks as Tyler explained, “We were married in Dothan but we’re actually from Shreveport.” Grabbing the wrench, he fastened the spare. “You know us Louisiana Creoles, Lou. We all talk funny. Wrestle gators and eat crawfish, too.” He deftly twirled the wrench.
“If’n you ain’t a mess!” she giggled like a schoolgirl. “How does Lucy put up with you?”
Charming Tyler had won over another, Mayson realized. As a neutral observer, she’d seen his effect on women many times, but she wasn’t neutral any longer. Genuine feelings flowed through her now - feelings she should ignore and that certainly could never be fulfilled. If her heart didn’t know it, her head surely did. It recalled life’s lessons well: the world is filled with doors that don’t open and songbirds that fly off in the night.
“Bob, you better get Lucy to bed,” Lou said now. “The skinny little thing’s so tired, she’s crying. You know our camp’s just sit-tin’ there, empty and all. Will be ‘til spring when Colonel Masters returns with them rich Nashville kids — bus loads, just itching for mischief after being cooped up all winter in them fancy boardin’ schools.
“Babysittin,’” she snorted. “That’s all Masters and his counselors do on this dadblamed mountain from May to August. Babysit a bunch of spoiled kids whose parents don’t want’em around, or else they wouldn’t have sent’em off to boardin’ school in the first place. By August they’re gone. Then it’s just Earl and me to look after the place. There’s the lake and cabins - ours here and a few others for the counselors nice enough to make you forget about them Smokies. Big, soft beds, full baths, color TVs. You and Lucy can stay as long as you like. Nobody’ll bother you.”
He looked up hopefully. “What do you think, Lucy?”
“Could we, darling?”
Everyone attended the Monday night meeting in Georgetown. Nine days into the crisis, there were no assurances that it would end any time soon.
Harrington studied the solemn group huddled around the coffee table: Thomas Streeter, the lanky, silver-haired Attorney General; Larry Chapman, the balding, bland-faced FBI Director; Supreme Court justices Mann and Falkingham; and the recent nominee, Lamp. Despite their powerful positions, or rather because of them, these men owed him an allegiance that transcended all others. Perhaps it was wise, as he began the meeting, to remind them of this. “Each of you I have blessed with the highest position in your respective disciplines. I’ve elevated you to the pinnacle of power, fame, and influence. And yet look at how you repay me.” He shook his head miserably.
“This crisis has exposed your woeful inadequacies.” He glared at Mann, Lamp, and Falkingham. “And your abject professional incompetence,” as he turned to Streeter and Chapman. “It should never have happened and yet it drags on, deepening every day as we sit helplessly by, a shameful reality that leads me to wonder whether you’ve forgotten your loyalties and what’s at stake here.”
Falkingham spoke for the sad lot. “Our presence here tonight would seem to confirm both our loyalties and our appreciation of the stakes involved. So let’s not waste more time with pream- bles and move on to the meat of this conference. It’s late as it is.”
“It’s late all right.” Harrington bristled at his impertinence. “Let’s just hope not terminally late, if my meaning’s clear. Now what’s the latest on the fugitives? Are we to assume they’ve slipped out of Naples with those court records?”
Streeter nodded. “After checking the rental agencies, we learned that one Jonathan Cartwright, matching Waddill’s description, leased a blue Prelude this morning. Unfortunately, by then that same Prelude, driven by one Marcia Cartwright, had slipped through our checkpoints. A DMV search quickly established her license as a fake, albeit an excellent one that fooled the Florida troopers who let her —meaning Corelli — pass through. We assume Waddill was either stowed in the trunk or else waiting to be picked up and that they’re now headed for Tennessee. All primary roads north have been blanketed and roadblocks set up on every artery leading into Pine County.”
Chapman added, “Agent Nicholas has established a command post in Pine and will soon begin a reconnaissance of the region. Authorities not only in Tennessee but Alabama and Georgia as well, have been briefed, although it’s taking longer than expected to get word out in the more remote jurisdictions.”
Falkingham flicked a long ash. “There are a lot of those remote jurisdictions in the Deep South, Larry. And back roads, too. Do you plan on covering them all?”
“As many as possible,” he confirmed. “At this hour, most if not all law enforcement officers below the Mason-Dixon Line are on the lookout for two subjects in a leased Honda Prelude, traveling under the identities of Jonathan and Marcia Cartwright of Orlando, Florida. We can assume the identities were provided by ex-Bureau Agent Harvey. How else could Corelli have obtained a Florida driver’s license so genuine-looking it fooled state troopers?”
“The Naples hotel records confirm several contacts with Harvey over the weekend,” Streeter added. “Certainly the IDs were arranged during these calls.”
“While we’re making all these assumptions,” Falkingham said, “are we sure Harvey’s aware of the Crenshaw Estate and is acting in concert with the kids to try and connect it to Mendelsohn and Rogers?”
“Of course he is!” Harrington barked. “The question is what to do about it?”
“As we’ve said,” Streeter replied, “roadblocks have been established. There’s no way these young hotshots can penetrate Pine County.”
“Haven’t we learned not to say no way?” Harrington scowled. “The lessons of New York and now Naples?”
“What’s Leopold’s role in this?” Falkingham asked.
“He’s compiling a list of people who recall the 1954 murder,” Streeter explained. “Hopefully there are very few left. Those who do, he’ll talk with to determine if they remember enough to be a threat, and if so, put them under surveillance in case the fugitives approach them.”
“What about Waddill’s family?” Harrington asked.
“Thus far, there’s no indication they know where he is.”
“How do we know Harvey or the kids aren’t on their way to Minnesota?” Mann asked.
Chapman replied, “If a subject resembling any of the three sets foot within a fifty-mile radius of Snow Peak, we’ll know immediately.”
“We should also keep the White House insulated from this mess,” Lamp reminded them.
Harrington nodded. “I assure you, neither Longbridge nor anyone on his staff has the slightest suspicion of what these three are up to. The sooner we stop them, the better our chances of keeping it that way.”
“It’s not just Longbridge.” Falkingham snuffed out another Dunhill. “Don’t forget the Senate investigation that’s just begun. As we speak, those who oppose Greg’s nomination are putting a microscope to every detail of his life. The media’s doing the same.”
Harrington grimaced. “We must never allow a connection to be made between the fugitives and our mission. The first hint may create a snowball effect we’ll be unable to stop.”
“Nevertheless, we’ll be prepared,” Streeter replied. “Should it become necessary, we’re formulating a response to charges of a connection between the Longbridge Administration and the crisis we’ve been addressing these last nine days - one implicating Mendelsohn, Harvey and the fugitives in an elaborate criminal conspiracy, the details of which are being manufactured now. Actually, it’s the same one used to explain Swanson’s suicide. We’re just expanding it to connect the others.”
Harrington offered a rare smile. “Thomas, it’s refreshing to see you thinking ahead for a change. If the public accepted the explanation once, it should again, with the proper embellishments. Let’s just pray we don’t have to use it.”
“But we will, Chairman, once Harvey’s found,” Streeter replied.
“Not necessarily. The response you and Larry are working on is very promising, but also dangerous. If, when the time comes, a safer one will work as well, we’ll use it.”
“What’s the situation with Harvey, anyway?” Mann asked.
“He’s vanished without a trace,” Chapman replied. “There’s been no contact with any known associates, friends or family, all of whom have been questioned. Neither have his office or Long Island home turned up any leads. But the investigation’s less than forty-eight hours old. Clues will surface.”
“What about his bank accounts?” Lamp asked.
“He cleaned them out; close to eighty grand, we estimate.”
Falkingham laughed. “That kind of money could make him hard to find for a while. He’s a shrewd SOB. I’ll give him that.”
“Why applaud a man whose resourcefulness could bury you?” Harrington asked. “Anyone else want to praise the foresight of our slippery adversary?” He studied their grim faces. “I didn’t think so. Sorry Chase, you’re a one-man peanut gallery as usual.”
The day had begun with Corelli and Waddill trapped in Naples. Exuberant, he’d waited for news of their capture, but instead learned to his horror that they’d escaped. An hour later, he’d been on a plane to Dulles. The long day was now ending with this Georgetown meeting. Grimly summarizing their dilemma, he asked, “Am I the only one to see the irony?”
“What irony?” Streeter asked.
“That while our vast resources permit us to chase these three albatrosses across the country, watch their families, blanket the roads and seal off states, there’s one point we can’t seal off.”
“What point, Chairman?”
“The one where lies a ticking bomb with enough explosive power to destroy us all. Crenshaw’s blessed chest. We can’t seal it off because we don’t know where it is!”
“We’ll find it, Chairman, we will.”
“If not,” he sighed, “we may all very likely burn in hell.”