"You mean you haven't got a clue."
"I'm afraid not."
"We're already frying."
33
Roger did all the driving, kept alert by adrenaline. They ate in the car and stopped only for fuel and rest rooms. He preferred the self-serve stations to avoid attendants.
But there were no self-serves in Fairfield, Iowa, and they were on empty. Roger pulled into a Mobil station. A guy about twenty came out and put in twenty-four dollars worth of gasoline.
It wasn't until it was time to pay that Roger spotted the hand-written sign in the window: "SORRY. No Fifties or Hundreds."
Big bills were all they had left, which meant having to pay by credit card. Roger was not too worried the attendant would recognize him out here between endless corn fields, especially in his disguise. But he had not counted on an overdue balance.
The kid returned from inside to say that payment was denied.
While Brett slept and Laura tried to doze off, Roger got out of the car and returned the card to his wallet then pulled out another.
But as the guy headed back into the station, Roger suddenly realized that the second card was made out to Peter Cohen, while the first said Harry Stork.
If the attendant was alert, he'd catch the discrepancy and wonder why two names. If he reported it, that could prove disastrous since Harry Stork was the name Roger had used as Wally's attorney-a name that was surely in the police network. In fifteen minutes every road within fifty miles would be blockaded.
Roger had about ten seconds before the guy reached the credit card machine.
If he jumped into the car and took off, the kid would pounce on the phone. If he did nothing and the kid caught on, there'd be a flag on the field. Even if the discrepancy were missed, there would be an American Express record of Harry Stork traveling east into Illinois.
Roger dashed into the office and snatched the card from the kid's hand just as he was about to run it through the machine.
"Hold it, but I'm overdue in payments on that too. You know how it is." He flapped a fifty in the kid's face. "I know it's against company policy, but it's all I've got, and it's real." He held the bill up to the light to point out the water mark and the hidden thread. "See? can't duplicate that."
The kid inspected the fifty, then looked at Roger, wondering if that beaming smile was the front of a fast-talking counterfeiter.
"And, I'll tell you what. For being such a good guy, you can keep the change."
"You serious?"
"You betcha."
The kid inspected the bill in the light again, thinking about the twenty-six dollar tip, weighing that against the manager finding a fifty in the till. The tip won.
"Thanks, mister," he said. And Roger was out the door before he could change his mind.
For the next couple miles his insides felt like gelatin. He was losing his grip, he told himself. That was a double slip-up-pulling the wrong card, and not keeping up with account balances. He should have been more careful.
What made it worse was that Roger Glover had now gone the way of Chris Bacon-right to the top of the wanted lists. So had Harry Stork. He was down to three different cards-under three different aliases, different addresses, different birthdates. Christ! He was beginning to wonder who the hell he really was. Peter Cohen? James Hensel? Frank D'Amato?
He rode into the graying light feeling schizophrenic.
A few hours later, they stopped at a truck stop where Brett bought them breakfast. They ate in the car then took turns using the rest rooms. Roger was dying for a hot shower. They all were.
At about ten, Laura called Jenny to double-check directions. Laura could hear the relief in Jenny's voice that they were only a few hours away.
But when she said they were bringing Brett, Jenny's reaction turned bizarre.
"Oh, no. That won't do. No visitors. We can't have visitors."
Laura didn't want to spell out the importance of their meeting, not with Brett in earshot. "What's the problem? You said we can stay for the night."
There was a pause as Jenny muttered something inaudible. Then she seemed to find herself. "Some other time. Abigail is sick in bed, and the doctors said no visitors because her resistance is low to infection."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Ooops. I have to go," Jenny declared and hung up.
So Brett wouldn't suspect anything, Laura continued to fake conversation. "I see, well I'll drop by myself then. I hope she gets better soon. We should be there about three. Bye-bye."
Roger looked at Laura for an explanation.
"Abigail's sick."
"So where we going to stay?"
"I don't know."
Around two-thirty they reached the driveway of number 247 Farmington Road, Prairie, Indiana.
Roger drove by, then circled back looking for signs of police. The nearest house, about a quarter mile away, looked dead. But that didn't satisfy Roger. He found a back road behind Jenny's place to check for signs of a stakeout. There were none. It was farming country consisting of open fields of low-growing corn and wheat, and devoid of human life.
Roger pulled into the driveway. From a distance it looked like a Jenny place-a neat little farmhouse in pink and green located at the end of a long drive set back in some trees from the main road and miles from the festering social diseases of big-city America.
But up close, shutters were broken, shingles were missing, half the chimney had lost bricks, and the paint had faded to a yellowy flesh color and was peeling badly. The place looked diseased. The lawn hadn't been cut in weeks. Yet, beside the garage was a small power mower-one that looked manageable by Jenny or a teenage girl.
The plan was for Laura to find out what the story was with Jenny while Roger drove Brett to a store for provisions. If there was a problem, they had a police scanner and cell phones. Jenny was irrational, but not enough to blow the whistle on her own private savior.
Roger pulled up to the front door. All the shades were drawn. No sign of Jenny. No sign of life.
Laura got out and went to the door. A small handwritten note on the bell said OUT OF ORDER. Another said NO SOLICITORS.
Taped to the door was an envelope on which in small fastidious script was the name "Wendy."
Furious that Jenny had posted her name, Laura tore open the envelope. Inside was a note in tiny meticulous handwriting done in pink: "Please leave orchids in mailbox. Good Luck."
That was it? Laura thought. Drive sixteen bloody hours with every law enforcement agency on their ass, and what Jenny wanted was for them to drop the stuff off then beat it. Find a motel someplace or hole up in a cornfield. No way! If Jenny was dumb enough to plaster her name up, what else would she pull?
Laura banged on the door.
Nothing.
And standing in the open like this only heightened her anxiety. She waved for Roger and Brett to wait in the car, then went around back.
The kitchen door was also locked. But one window was open and the screen was up a few inches so she could get her fingers under it.
Laura slid up the window. Then she went around front and waved Roger and Brett off. Around back again, she climbed inside.
The immediate impression was how dark and lifeless the place was-like a house whose occupants were away on vacation.
Although the curtains were drawn, the small kitchen appeared tidy. It was done in white and pink. Magazine pictures of kittens were magneted to the refrigerator. Also some baby photos.
On the table sat a bowl of overripe fruit with some tiny black flies buzzing around it. Beside the bowl was a small pile of mail. On the top sat an electric bill addressed to Jennifer Phoenix, 247 Farmington Road. Under that were other bills and some toy catalogs all made out to Jennifer Phoenix.