Bennett nodded. “Yessir.”
“Impress me.”
–
The Jeep was doing seventy on the interstate, the engine whining, the steering wheel shaking as if it had dropsy. Don Bennett and the medical examiner’s van were somewhere far ahead.
“Your husband never mentioned having to head out to Dripping Springs?” asked Tank.
“I would’ve remembered Dripping Springs, and I certainly would have remembered the Nutty Brown Cafe. We would have had a laugh.”
“And Semaphore? You never heard him mention it?”
“I told you already. I was looking at these doodles my husband had made on his legal pad and the word just popped out.”
“Out of the blue? Boom…semaphore? Just like that?”
“Yes-all those signal flags. When I figured out what he was drawing, the word flew out.”
“So all we have is Semaphore, secret trips to San Jose, and a receipt from the Nutty Brown Cafe,” said Tank.
“Don’t forget Judge Caruso,” said Mary. “And the fact that you think Joe wasn’t killed by a handgun, which means the informant didn’t kill him.”
“I don’t ‘think’ it,” said Tank. “I know it.”
He guided the car off I-35 onto 290 east. Mary looked out the window. A sign read, AUSTIN-BERGSTROM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 8 MILES. The city had vanished. Untended fields spread to either side of them, dotted with corrugated-tin warehouses, broken fences, rundown farm equipment. She caught a flash of black out of the corner of her eye. “Watch out!” she shouted as a Chevy Tahoe cut in front of them.
Tank hit the brakes and Mary lurched forward, the seat belt preventing her from striking the dash. Tank honked. “Watch it, asshole!” Then, to Mary: “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“Watch it, fucker!” shouted Mary. She looked at Tank’s wide eyes and the two shared a nervous laugh. “Excuse me, sir,” she said.
Tank moved into the left lane and the Tahoe mirrored him, blocking his progress. “Okay, funny guy, we get the picture. Now get out of the way.”
“Pass him,” said Mary.
“I can’t. There’s someone in the next lane.”
Mary looked to her right. Another SUV filled the lane beside them, maintaining the same speed as the Tahoe, effectively boxing them in. “Slow down,” she said. “Go around him.”
Tank slowed to fifty. The Tahoe blocking them slowed too, as did the SUV to their right. “There’s someone behind us, too.”
Mary looked over her shoulder. A third dark SUV sat behind them. The driver wore a suit and sunglasses. She looked at the car to their right. Also a white male in a dark suit with sunglasses. The car looked familiar, too. Joe drove the same model from the FBI’s motor pool.
“Bennett has his men surrounding us,” she said. “I recognize one of them from the hospital. Forget it, Mr. Potter. We’ve made our point. Let’s go home.”
“It’s our chance to get pictures of Bennett moving your husband to Quantico.”
“I’m not sure what good they’ll do.”
“Leave that to me.”
Mary glanced at her watch. It was two o’clock. Jess. “I’ve got to get my daughter from school,” she said. “I’m late already.”
“She can wait.”
“But…” Mary stifled her worries. Jess was fine. The fact of the matter was, she was used to waiting.
Tank continued to drive below the speed limit. Traffic was stacked behind them. He slowed and put on his turn signal. His intention was clear. He was giving up the chase. After a few seconds the SUV to their right accelerated, granting them room to scoot over. Tank changed lanes as they passed beneath a sign that read: AIRPORT FREIGHT ½ MILE.
The lead Tahoe accelerated. The SUV behind them broke off as well. In seconds the FBI’s vehicles disappeared from view. The pent-up traffic rushed ahead, passing them as if they were a rock in a stream.
“Seat belt on?” asked Tank.
“Yes. Why?”
“Hold on.” Tank yanked the car to the left as he downshifted into third gear and rammed the accelerator. Behind them, tires squealed. Horns blared. The Jeep bounded across two lanes of traffic and hit the dirt shoulder, its front tires leaving the ground before landing with a spine-jarring thud. Tank steered down the embankment and up the other side. Both oncoming lanes were empty. He cut across the highway and down the on-ramp.
“Look out!” shouted Mary.
Fifty yards ahead, a big rig was barreling straight at them. All Mary could see was its enormous chrome grille and the headlights, which she swore were staring right at her. The air horn sounded. Mary gripped the armrest and braced for impact. Tank slotted the Jeep left, his door striking the safety barrier, sparks flying. The rig passed within an inch, close enough that the change in air pressure made her ears pop.
Mary covered her head and screamed.
And then the rig had passed. They were down the ramp, turning right and shooting across the underpass and onto the frontage road.
“What was that?” asked Mary, pinned to her door.
“Highway chicken. Old college game.”
“You’re serious? You mean you’ve done that before?”
“I saw it all the way. We weren’t in danger for a second.”
“And the truck?”
“You got me there. Kind of came out of nowhere.”
Mary let go of the armrest as anger replaced fear. “Why did you do it? We’re too far behind to catch them anyway. They’re probably already aboard the plane.”
But Tank appeared unfazed. For the first time that day he didn’t appear as if he were about to throw up. “Trust me, Mrs. Grant. We’ll beat them there.”
45
The FBI’s convoy idled at the entry to the private aircraft concourse at Bergstrom International Airport as the gate rolled slowly open.
“We’re too late,” said Mary.
Two hundred yards separated them. Tank Potter had chosen to use the old construction road running across the back of the airport complex. The route was longer, but there were no traffic signals and few vehicles. She watched nervously as the gate continued on its track. The Tahoe and the other SUVs that had hemmed them in on the freeway pulled up behind the sedans. The last vehicle backed up and turned in order to block both lanes of traffic. They’d been spotted.
Driving much too fast, Tank rounded a last curve and turned into the private aircraft entry. Instead of stopping at the improvised roadblock, he swung the Jeep left, mounted the curb, and accelerated across an expanse of grass before swinging back onto the road.
The gate was three-quarters open. The first sedan nosed forward.
“Slow down,” said Mary.
Tank kept the Jeep on a collision course with the Ford.
“Stop,” said Mary. “You’re going too fast.”
“This may get ugly. Hold on.” Tank braked hard. The Jeep skidded before colliding with the front left wheel well of the Ford.
FBI agents swarmed from their vehicles and surrounded the Jeep, weapons drawn and aimed at Tank and Mary. Don Bennett strode toward them. “Out of the car.”
Tank climbed out, hands high. “It was an accident.”
“Shut up, Mr. Potter,” said Don Bennett. “Consider yourself under arrest.”
“You know me?” said Tank.
A younger agent approached from his rear and slugged him in the kidney. Tank dropped to a knee. The agent yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed him.