“Ms. Evans,” he began politely, “I thought you were simply going to drive Mr. Fiske to his car and maybe get a little dinner, not engage in filming a James Bond movie.”
“But you see, his car was towed and — ”
Chandler’s tone quickly changed. “I don’t appreciate you two making my job even more difficult. Where are you?”
“About a mile from Michael’s apartment.”
“And where are you headed?”
“To Richmond. To tell John’s father about Michael.”
“Okay, then you drive him to Richmond, Ms. Evans. Don’t let him out of your sight. If he wants to play Sherlock Holmes again, you call me, and I will come directly over and shoot him myself. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Detective Chandler. Absolutely.”
“And I expect to see both of you back in D.C. tomorrow. Is that also understood?”
“Yes, we’ll be back.”
“Good, Tonto, now put the Lone Ranger back on.”
Fiske took back the phone. “Look, I know it was stupid, but I was only trying to help.”
“Do me a favor, don’t try to help anymore unless I’m with you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“John, any number of things could’ve happened tonight, most of them bad. Not only to you, but to Ms. Evans.”
Fiske rubbed his shoulder and glanced over at the woman. “I know,” he said quietly.
“Give my condolences to your father.”
Fiske put down the phone.
“Can we go to Richmond now?” Sara asked.
“Yes, we can go to Richmond now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
* * *
In his friend’s pickup truck, Josh Harms drove along the deserted country road. The dense forest bracketing the narrow lanes gave him a certain comfort. Isolation, a buffer between himself and those who would hassle him, had been Josh’s one constant goal in life. As a carpenter of considerable skill, he worked alone. When he was not working, he was either hunting or fishing, again alone. He did not desire the conversation of others, and he very rarely offered any of his own. All of that had changed now. The responsibility he had just acquired had not yet fully sunk in, but he knew it was considerable. And he also knew his decision had been the right one.
The truck had a camper and his brother was back there supposedly resting, although Josh had doubts as to whether the man could really be sleeping. The back of the camper was also filled with a month’s worth of food and bottled water, two deer rifles and a semiautomatic pistol in addition to the one he had tucked in his belt. That arsenal was insignificant compared to what would soon be coming after them, but he had faced long odds before and survived.
He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke cleanly out the window. They were already two hundred miles from Roanoke and he was putting as much distance between it and them as he could. The escape would have been discovered by now, he knew. The roadblocks would be set up, but not out this far, he figured. They had gotten a head start, but that gap would quickly close. The boys in green had a big advantage in manpower and equipment. But Josh had fished and hunted around the area for the last twenty years. He knew all the abandoned cabins, all the hidden valleys, the smallest opening in otherwise solid forest. His survival skills had been honed as much from scraping for an existence in America as from dodging death halfway around the world in Vietnam.
Even with his outright distrust of all authority, he didn’t break the law lightly. He had never figured his little brother for some crazed killer. Rufus never should have joined the Army, wasn’t cut out for it. Ironically, Josh had been the decorated war hero, and he had been drafted. His brother had volunteered and had spent his career in the stockade. Josh hadn’t been too thrilled about taking up a rifle for a country that had largely failed him and anyone his color. But once in the service he had fought with great distinction. He had done it for himself and the men in his company, and for no other reason. He had no other motivation to fight and kill men with whom he had no personal quarrel.