“I dunno.”
Jake used the flash again, shining it on the lawns and shrubs and tree trunks. “Probably in one of these houses, but he could have kept going. We’re going to have to get the troops to surround this area and search it. If we can get them in position quickly enough, we can bag this guy.”
“You think this man is the assassin?”
Jake didn’t answer. It was a possibility. One thing was for sure — whoever it was didn’t want to stop and chat.
From the bedroom window Henry Charon saw the flashlight on the street as he searched the closet for clothes. He pulled out some men’s shirts and tried one on as he watched the two figures on the street. Much to his disgust, the man of the house was a fatty.
The second bedroom down the hall bore evidence of a male presence. A radio-controlled plane hung from the ceiling, some large posters of scantily clad pinup girls adorned the walls. Charon checked the closets. Yep. And the shirt fit. He rooted until he found a sweater and added that. The jeans were a little big, but he had a belt.
And there was a decent coat. Not a parka, but a warm one with a Gore-Tex surface.
When he had his boots back on, he went back to the master bedroom for the weapons and rucksack. Those two outside had walked fifty feet or so north and were obviously waiting.
Henry Charon had no doubt they were waiting for soldiers to arrive.
He went down the stairs and paused in the kitchen. The refrigerator. Pretty empty. Nothing but a loaf of bread and a half pack of baloney. The owners must be gone for the holidays. He stuffed the loaf in his pocket and wolfed down the baloney. The blood loss had made him ravenous. And food would help his body manufacture new blood cells.
He went into the front room and stood peeking through a crack in the drapes as he chewed and swallowed bread. He explored the bandage with his right hand. It wasn’t sodden yet, but it would be after a while. He had extra sheet strips in the duffle bag.
Time to go.
Out in the backyard with the door pressed shut, he walked down the concrete walk to the swimming pool, which was covered for the winter. He was going to have to cross the grass.
He did so. The back fence was six feet high. He threw his bags over, then jumped and hooked a heel over the top. The pain in his side almost made him fall off. He struggled, then fell over the other side.
It was several seconds before he could move. It was so pleasant lying here on the soft ground, with the rain falling gently on his face. If he could just rest, sleep maybe, let this pain subside …
He struggled upright and got the bags positioned on his shoulders just as a dog in the nearby house began to yap.
He trotted past the left side of the house and got out on the street and kept going in a long, easy, ground-covering lope.
“What’s that noise?”
“Dog barking somewhere,” Toad said. He still had perfect hearing, much better than Grafton’s.
“You stay here. Get the troops spread around, maybe out ten blocks if you have enough men.”
Jake went down along the house they were in front of, trying to figure out where that dog was that was barking.
The backyard had a pool. He walked through the grass, looking for tracks with his flashlight. His boots sank into the soft earth. He went on toward the fence. That barking dog seemed to be across it and down a house.
He saw the tracks in the wet earth. Galvanized, Jake slung the rifle on his back and swung up. It occurred to him as he went over that he could have just made a fatal mistake.
The shot never came. He stood on the other side of the fence breathing hard, trying to listen. The dents in the grass went alongside the house.
Following, he stopped at the edge of the street and listened intently. He heard the faint sound of a man running, his boots hitting the pavement.
Jake Grafton ran in that direction. He was huffing badly, overheating from too many clothes. And he was sadly out of shape.
The street turned ninety degrees right in a wide sweeping turn. On both sides of the street were houses set well back from the pavement and partially obscured by yards full of huge bushes and evergreens.
As he rounded the curve Jake saw the man ahead. And the man ahead glanced back over his shoulder and saw him. Jake tried to run faster.
The man ahead broke like a sprinter. And he’s got a bullet in him!
He was going to have to shoot. No question. He would never catch him. As he ran he flipped the safety off and thumbed the selector to full automatic. The distance between them was growing.
The man ahead was coming to a streetlight. Now!
Jake stopped and flopped down on his belly in the street. Too late he realized a gentle crown in the road obscured the lower half of the fleeing man’s body.
Panting desperately, Jake aligned the sights as best he could. He squeezed the trigger and held it down as he fought to hold the weapon on target.
He let the entire clip go in one long, thunderous three-second burst.
Half blinded from the muzzle blasts, he rose into a crouch and stared, blinking his eyes desperately, trying to see.
The man he had been chasing was gone.
Disappointed beyond words, Jake sank into a sitting position in the middle of the street and tried to catch his breath. Oh God! Forty-five years old and tied to a desk. He still couldn’t get enough air. His heart was thudding like he was going to die.
Three minutes later an army truck rounded the curve with a roar and squealed to a stop beside him. The sergeant on the running board leaped down and covered him with the M-16 while two men piled out of the rear of the truck and faced away with their weapons at the ready.
“Drop it.”
Jake let the rifle fall. “I’m Captain Graft—”
“On your face, Jack, spread-eagle, or I’ll cut you clean in half.”
He obeyed. Wearing khaki trousers and a green coat, he sure didn’t look like a soldier. Rough hands searched him and found his wallet, which they extracted.
“Sorry, sir. You may stand up now.”
Jake rolled over and accepted an offered hand. When he was standing he asked, “You guys with Bravo Company, Second Battalion?”
“No, sir. Charlie, First Battalion. Sorry about—”
“Forget it. Let me use your radio.”
Bravo Company was still assembling in Rock Creek Park. It would take another ten minutes or so, Rita estimated. She told him that the troops had removed all the equipment from the cave.
“Take it to the FBI. Special Agent Hooper.”
Jake deployed the Charlie Company soldiers in the truck and searched the neighborhood where the fugitive had disappeared.
Nothing. The man was gone.
At one a.m. Yocke came by with Toad and Rita, and Jake climbed into the car. He was exhausted.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jake Grafton picked up Toad Tarkington at eight the next morning. They then drove over to the Post building to get Jack Yocke. He was wearing the same clothes he had had on last night.
“You sleeping up there?” Toad asked.
“You know how it is in the big city. Public transportation is the pits and if you drive you have to fight all the traffic.”
“Want to borrow a toothbrush?”
“Thanks anyway. A guy in the newsroom had one and we all shared. You won’t believe who is up there right now talking to Ott Mergenthaler.” Without pausing, Yocke added, “Sam Strader.”
That piece of news didn’t seem to impress the two naval officers.
“And the powers that be have been on the phone more or less continuously with the White House. They want passes for our delivery trucks. Without them we can’t publish.”
Jake grunted. He was thinking about a cup of coffee, wishing he had one. None of the fast-food outlets or corner delis were open; their people couldn’t get to work. Banning cars had shut this town down.