Thirst No. 5 (8 page)

The war he refers to is the Civil War, the only war that matters to people of Jim’s persuasion. He’s technically correct, the Democrats did everything they could to hinder President Grant’s Reconstruction. But the modern parties have totally swapped roles since those days, which I happen to know for a fact since I lived in Washington DC after the Civil War.

I tell Jim as much—about the politics—and he studies me with fresh appreciation.

“How did a young thing like you get to be so smart?” he asks.

“By flirting with intelligent men like you.”

He blushes. “You’re too sassy for your own good, Lara. I love it, but I’ve got to warn you, it’s going to get you into trouble one of these days. The world’s a hard place and not all the men are as civilized as old Jim.”

“I hear ya. I’ll give it some thought.”

“That’s all I ask. Just watch your back.”

We run into a roadblock five minutes later.

The fact that it exists means that Brutran didn’t kill the pilot who ejected soon enough. It also confirms that those chasing us have an extraordinary network at their disposal. Only thirty minutes have passed since Matt and I landed in the grass field and already the area is being cordoned off.

I feel a wave of despair, something I seldom experience.
It’s as if a huge net has been thrown over all our heads and it’s just a matter of time before the powers that be tighten it. We can’t pursue the veil with everyone else pursuing us. Somehow, we have to throw the government and its many agencies off our trail.

Even this simple roadblock could cost us.

“Shit,” I whisper, and Jim looks over.

The checkpoint is manned by a local sheriff and his deputy. Their vehicles are parked in an open
V
position that barely allows enough room for a car to pass, never mind Jim’s truck. The cops probably didn’t expect a vehicle of Jim’s size to come by, since the road we’re on is narrow and isolated. From talking to Jim, I know the only reason he’s not on the interstate is because he swung off the road to visit an old friend.

We pull up to the roadblock alone. The sheriff moves toward Jim’s door, the deputy toward mine. I give Jim a quick glance, let a note of fear enter my voice.

“Don’t tell them about my friends in the back,” I say softly.

Jim hesitates. “You folks in trouble?”

I bite my lower lip. “We messed up some but we didn’t hurt anyone.”

Jim nods. “Don’t worry about a thing, honey.”

The sheriff peers up at Jim before squinting in my direction. He has a half dozen faxed sheets in his left hand. His right hand stays near his gun.

“License and registration,” he says briskly. The sheriff is
near sixty, obese but strong-looking. He is a tough SOB, obviously someone who’s used to barking orders and having people jump. Jim hands over his documents without an argument and the sheriff studies them closely.

“Mr. James Jackson,” he says. “Who’s that traveling with you?”

“My niece,” he says.

The sheriff hands back Jim’s license and registration. “I need to see her ID.”

“I’ve got my driver’s license,” I say, handing over the Lara Wine ID Brutran gave me in Las Vegas. I didn’t jump out of the sky with nothing in my pack or pockets. I have a fully loaded .40-caliber four-inch short-barrel Glock in my bag, which I drop between my legs and smother out of sight while I dig out my license. Even though Jim sits by my side, I move too fast for him to see the weapon. The cops, of course, even the nerdy deputy staring up at me on my right, don’t notice a thing.

I hand my license to Jim, who gives it to the sheriff.

“Lara Wine,” the sheriff says as he studies my ID. “How come you two don’t have the same last name?” The man’s not dumb, he’s trying to trick us with the question. But Jim answers smoothly.

“Lara’s my niece on my sister’s side,” Jim says.

“She don’t look anything like you.”

“My sister thanks the Lord for that every day.”

“Ain’t you on the job? Why she’s traveling with you?”

“She’s got a boyfriend in Florida she’s missing. I’m heading that way so I offered to give her a ride.”

“Do her parents know she’s with you?”

“Excuse me, Sheriff,” I interrupt. “You’re holding my license. You can see I’m twenty-two, legally an adult anywhere in this country. I don’t need my parents’ approval to travel.”

“Is that a fact?” the sheriff asks before looking down at his faxed papers. He rifles through them and I catch a glimpse of several blurred photos. One looks like me, another like Matt, but the quality is extremely poor. It’s possible the sheriff doesn’t recognize me. Still, he’s suspicious and I’m forced to contemplate another round of violence. It doesn’t matter how I try to live my life, I think, blood follows me like an extra shadow.

“May I have my license back?” I ask.

The sheriff ignores me, glances toward the rear of the truck. “What you carrying?” he asks Jim.

“Levi blue jeans, the originals, five hundred cartons.” Jim pauses. “You want to see my paperwork?”

The sheriff takes a step back and waves his hand. “I want to see what you’ve got in the back. Open her up.”

“No, sir. Not until you give me a legitimate reason why I should.”

The sheriff shakes the papers in his hand. “I have a fax here from the Federal Bureau of Investigation that contains
a photograph matching the young woman seated beside you. She’s said to be in this area, and I want to know if her partners are traveling with her, in the back of your truck. Does that give you a good enough reason to do what I say? Because if it doesn’t, we’re going to have a problem.”

Jim turns to me and his eyes are worried. “Lara?”

I shake my head and pat his arm. “It’s not going to be a problem. Sit tight and let me take care of this. Okay?”

His eyes stray downward and he finally catches sight of the Glock wedged between my legs. “What are you doing?” he says in a tight voice.

“Trust me, it’ll be fine,” I reply as I throw open the door on my side of the truck and smash the face of the deputy, who has enough sense to land on his back in the thick grass that lines the road. An instant later I have my gun in my hand and point it at the sheriff. I fire a single shot that takes off the tip of his left ear. The sheriff drops his papers and staggers back a step, going for his gun.

“Not so fast!” I snap in a voice Jim has yet to hear. My ruthless tone, the sheer power of my order, makes it impossible for the sheriff not to obey. He freezes with his hand on his revolver’s handle, blood flowing freely from the side of his face. I continue. “Now Sheriff, listen closely. Your partner’s unconscious, he’s out for the count, and you’ve just been given a vivid demonstration of my shooting ability. That’s right, I nicked your ear on purpose, when I could have put a bullet in
your forehead. The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m letting you live. Understand?”

The man looks startled but far from ready to surrender.

“Go to hell,” he says.

“Been there done that,” I reply before I shoot off the tip of his right ear. This time the sheriff staggers back several steps and turns as white as the fax papers in his hands. Blood drips from both sides of his head. Yet he has the nerve to reach for his gun. “I’ll blow off your hand!” I shout.

He freezes. “What do you want?” he demands.

“Remove your gun from your holster and throw it in the grass. Move slow, Sheriff, like you’re in a dream, and you may live to see tomorrow.”

“Lara,” Jim gasps. A pity for him the tip of my gun is only two feet from where he’s sitting.

“It’s all right, Jim. No one has to die here. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

He has his gun in hand, pointed toward the ground, but he’s reluctant to give it up. “You’re not going to get away with this,” he says.

“Throw it in the grass. You have two seconds. One . . .”

The sheriff tosses his revolver into the tall grass.

“Stand perfectly still. Don’t move an inch,” I say as I climb down from my seat and circle the front of the truck. I move faster than is humanly possible, but both the sheriff and Jim are so shaken they don’t notice. In a moment I’m
standing three feet in front of the sheriff, my Glock pointed at his head.

I’m not surprised Matt hasn’t rushed to my aid. He can hear and understand everything that’s going on and knows I have the situation under control. He also knows it would be a mistake to reveal that the others are with me.

The sheriff stares at me with scorn. “Put a gun in your hand and you think you’re hot shit,” he swears. “You’ll get life for this.”

“That would be a very long sentence. Longer than you can imagine.” I pause. “Do you have a video feed on the front of your vehicles?”

His chest swells in defiance. “Everything you’re doing right now is being taped. In fact, bitch, it’s being watched live back at headquarters.”

His first remark is true. His cars are equipped with cameras. Also, he’s probably right to call me a bitch. He’s going to need plastic surgery to reconstruct his ears. But his last comment is false. He’s all alone with his unconscious deputy.

I allow a degree of my persuasive power to enter my voice.

“Listen closely. Jim picked me up as he was driving down the road,” I say. “He thought I was an ordinary hitchhiker but I’ve kept him hostage since I climbed in his truck. He’s innocent and has nothing to do with me. Remember that.”

“Bullshit,” the sheriff mutters, but I can tell he believes me, which means I’m finished with him. In a blinding move, I
strike him on the sweet spot on his jaw with the short barrel of my Glock. He’s out before he hits the ground.

“Sweet Jesus,” Jim whispers behind me. “Who are you?”

Putting my gun away, I turn and look up at Jim. “It’s not what you think. We’re not terrorists or anything evil. It’s true the government is after us, and you might even find us on the FBI’s list of wanted criminals. But all that’s going to get cleared up in the next few days. You’ll see, we’ll vanish from the list and you’ll realize we were innocent after all.” I pause. “Are you okay, Jim?”

He’s turned his own distinct shade of gray, I’m afraid. I suppose my shooting would make any man feel less tall. “I believe you,” he mumbles. “I don’t know why but I do.”

“Because I’m telling you the truth and you’re not easily fooled. You’ve been a good friend and a big help. If you’re too freaked out and want to leave us here, I’ll understand, no hard feelings. Drive on down to Miami and deliver those jeans. All I ask is that you don’t talk to the cops about us for the rest of the day.”

Jim considers before shaking his head. “I’ll take you to where you need to go,” he says.

“Are you sure? I can’t guarantee we won’t get stopped again.”

Jim forces a smile. “If we do, Lara, I’m not worried about who’s going to come out on top. Climb in.”

“Thank you. Give me a minute.”

Moving fast, I locate the cop’s cameras and tapes and destroy the lot. Then I drag the police into the grass so they cannot be found off the bat. I put a hand on their bloody heads and suggest they stay unconscious for the next six hours. It doesn’t matter that they’re not awake to hear me. They’ll obey me, and we’ll be long gone before they can report to anyone, high or low, what Lara Wine did to them.

N
inety minutes later we sit in a restaurant in Chapel Hill, only five miles west of Clearglade and 134 Tree Leaf Lane—the address Brutran plucked from her database for Mrs. Sarah Goodwin, the granddaughter of Harrah and Ralph Levine.

Outside, it’s dark; the night feels early for all of us. Traveling from the West Coast to the East has pushed us through three time zones. Brutran, Jolie, and Seymour are tired and hungry, or they were hungry. Seymour has just devoured four pieces of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Brutran and her daughter have shared a piece of swordfish and a bowl of rice. Even Matt and I have fed. Matt ate a hamburger and fries while I shared some of Seymour’s chicken.

Jim dropped us off in Chapel Hill an hour ago. We’re holed up in the restaurant as much to think as to eat. None of
us can be sure we’ve thrown them off the scent. I’ve stretched out my hearing as far as possible. The best I can tell, no one is talking about us in the immediate area. But I fear the eyes in the sky, the network of earth-orbital satellites, more than the agents on the ground. For all we know their mechanical vision has followed us from the roadblock. A pity I can’t see what their cameras see.

“The question remains,” Brutran says as we discuss our next move, “should we risk approaching the Goodwin house when we know our foe knows we’re in the area?”

“I think we’ve lost them for the time being,” Matt says.

“Your reasoning?” Brutran asks.

Matt shrugs. “We’ve hardly moved in an hour. They should have come after us by now.”

“There’s just as much chance they’re waiting for us to move,” Brutran says. “So they can learn our destination, what we’re looking for.”

“We’re going to have to pay the Goodwins a visit at some point,” Seymour says. “How long do you want to wait?”

“At least overnight,” Brutran says, glancing at me. “Sita?”