Heads in the crowd turned. Maxwell heard a voice boom into his ear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t ride that thing in here.”
The voice belonged to a cop. He was a heavy-set, African-American man with a mass of wiry gray hair jutting from beneath his uniform cap.
Maxwell stopped the bike. “I’m here to see Claire Phillips.” He held up the single rose. “And to give her this.”
“Yeah, right. Get outta here or I’ll have you and the noisy damn bike hauled away to the station.”
Still watching the commotion off the set, Claire finished her remarks for the camera. She removed the clip-on microphone and walked over to the cop.
“Miss Phillips, this guy says he’s here to see you. Do you know him?”
“No. Who is he?”
He turned to Maxwell. “That’s it, pal. You’re outta here.”
“She’s saying that because she’s in love with me.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. He looked Maxwell over, taking in the uniform, the three gold stripes on the sleeves, the rows of campaign ribbons. He turned to Claire. “This guy thinks you’re in love with him. That true?”
“Not any more. He’s an idiot.”
The cop nodded and turned to Maxwell. “Sounds like you blew it, buddy.”
“Yes, I know. I came to apologize.”
“Ah.” He turned to Claire. “Does it help if he apologizes, ma’am?”
“No. Why didn’t he answer my mail?”
He looked at Maxwell. “You got an answer for that?”
“I was away on an assignment.”
Claire said, “What kind of assignment?”
“I can’t tell you.”
The cop said, “Ma’am, this might be a misunderstanding. Maybe you oughta give the guy another chance.”
“Why? So he can tell me to have a happy life again?”
“He probably needs a little help. Some guys aren’t real good at expressing feelings, you know.”
“Probably why they call him ‘Brick.’”
The cop shook his head. He said to Maxwell, “Sounds like you messed up big time, buddy. You better think of something good to say.”
“How about if I tell her I love her?”
“Yeah, that might work.” He took the single rose from Maxwell and handed it to Claire. “He says he loves you, ma’am.”
She studied the rose. “How do I know he means it?”
He looked at Maxwell.
“She knows I love her. Always have, always will.”
The cop shrugged and said to Claire, “Okay, maybe the guy’s not real smooth, but I think he means it.”
“What’s he going to do about it?”
He looked at Maxwell. “Well?”
“I’m taking her to dinner.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere romantic. A place on the river.”
“Good call. Maybe one of the waterfront joints in Alexandria? Go for an outside table.”
They both looked at Claire. She wasn’t buying it. She stood there twirling the rose in her fingers, regarding the two men with her hazel eyes.
A crowd had gathered. She twirled the rose, saying nothing. Seconds ticked by. In the distance hummed the sounds of traffic. Time stood still.
She reached a decision. She hiked her skirt up over her knees, showing a length of tanned, freckled legs. She climbed onto the back seat of the motorcycle and put on the spare helmet.
The crowd burst into applause.
She clasped her arms around Maxwell’s waist. “Okay, sailor, this is your lucky day. You get one last chance.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He buckled his helmet, then gunned the Harley’s engine and kicked it into first gear. As he pulled away, he looked back over his shoulder and waved to the cop.
Standing with his hands on his hips, Sergeant Grover watched them motor down the slope, over the sidewalk and onto the street. A nice couple, he thought. The guy was a klutz with women, but he was okay. He’d get it right sooner or later.
Then he noticed something else. An automobile creeping out into traffic behind the motorcycle. It was a plain white something, one of those bland-looking Japanese rental cars. A Virginia tag. Nothing out of the ordinary except—
Grover had been a D.C. cop for twenty-one years. During that time he had learned to listen to his instincts. Now his instincts were gnawing at the edge of his awareness, whispering some kind of subliminal signal. Something he wasn’t getting. What the hell was it?
The driver of the white car. For just an instant the cop had glimpsed the face of the driver, and the image was still stuck in his mind’s eye. It was not an ordinary face. The man’s eyes were burning like embers. The face of a man filled with rage.
Grover removed his cap and scratched his head, watching the white car disappear in traffic. What did it mean? He didn’t know. Nothing, probably. Nothing at all.
Maxwell toed the shift lever into third and accelerated down the two-lane state road. They had left the commuter-clogged metropolitan area and were entering the suburbs on the southeast shore of the Potomac. Along both sides of the road, stands of ash and maple were glowing in the first tinge of autumn. Long rays of evening sun slanted through the trees, casting shadows on the gray surface of the road.
He could feel her arms clasped around him, Her chin was resting on his shoulder.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Anywhere you’d like.”
“I like this, wherever we are. Can we just ride for a while?”
He nodded. Conversation was tough on the bike. The deep-throated rumble of the two-cylinder engine reverberated from the pavement, drowning out their words. There were a hundred things he wanted to tell her. Questions he wanted to ask. Later.
Traffic had thinned to a trickle. They were in a wooded section, between bedroom communities in the flatlands of northern Virginia. The Harley was purring like a well-fed lion. He passed a slow-moving panel truck, then crested a small hill and saw open road ahead.
A car was overtaking them. He saw it in the rear view mirror and slowed back to fifty, thinking it might be a police car. It was moving up fast, doing well over seventy. He moved over to the outer half of the right lane.
It wasn’t a police car, and it didn’t pass. It was a white car — a Toyota, he guessed. It slowed down and stayed behind him, two car lengths back. There was no oncoming traffic.
Maxwell slowed to forty and signaled for the car to pass. The car didn’t pass. He stayed behind, following them around a gradual turn.
Maxwell watched the car in the mirror. There was a man behind the wheel, no passengers. He signaled again for him to pass. The car still didn’t move.
Angling toward the road from the right was a railroad track on an elevated mound. Ahead Maxwell could see a tunnel where the high bed of the railroad track crossed the road. A brick wall covered the outer face of the tunnel.
When they were still two hundred yards from the tunnel, Maxwell saw the white car swerve out into the passing lane. This guy was a nutcase, or drunk, he thought. It wasn’t possible to see any oncoming traffic coming at them through the tunnel.
The car vanished from Maxwell’s mirror. Where did he—
There. In the left lane, close, pulling alongside them. Too damned close. Close enough for Maxwell to reach out and touch. The side mirror was only inches from his elbow.
Claire’s fingers were digging into his sides. “What’s he doing? Why is he so close?”
Maxwell didn’t know. He only knew that some crazy bastard was shoving his car into their lane. He looked through the open window on the Toyota’s passenger side, directly into the driver’s face. For a second that seemed to drag on for a minute, Maxwell and the driver locked gazes.
In an instant of comprehension, it came to him. It was the same face he had seen back at Groom Lake.