Hours later, after he finally drifted into a restless sleep back at his motel, the police burst into his room, guns drawn, shining a bright light into his face. Rough handling and humiliation, plus the sinking realization of his own laxness and stupidity as he saw the cluttered room the way they must have seen it — the camouflage uniform tossed on a chair, the holstered gun on the bedside table, the night vision goggles over by the television, and, worst of all, those reams of paper with their incriminating names and addresses. And him, caught red-handed, the homicidal paramilitary loon with a death wish.
But now, back in the car and turning onto Route 50, Riggleman felt certain he had survived the worst of it. To his relief, the key card still worked in the door to his room. To his further relief, his suitcase was still on the floor. The housekeeper had even made the bed and left fresh towels. Maybe the police had phoned the manager to let him know that everything was okay. Yes, he was going to be fine, which called for a private celebration, courtesy of the minibar.
Riggleman stooped to open the door of the small refrigerator and surveyed his choices. He was about to grab a cold beer when a forearm locked around his neck from behind and a gun barrel poked into his back.
“Don’t make a move! Call out and I shoot.”
“Okay.”
“Drop your hands to your side and lay down on your stomach.”
“Okay.” Meekly, sadly. Was this guy going to shoot him? Was it the guy from last night?
“Hurry up!”
“Okay.” It was the only word he felt capable of speaking.
Riggleman moved slowly, not wanting to alarm the guy. He didn’t dare turn and glance, didn’t dare do anything other than what he’d been told to do, or keep saying “Okay.” He’d never felt more helpless in his life. He stretched out, just as ordered, and pressed his forehead to the motel carpet, which smelled like cigarettes and cleaning fluid.
“Slowly put your hands behind your back. Slowly.”
Riggleman did so and felt plastic handcuffs slip around his wrists and tighten. The toe of a boot dug into the right side of his rib cage, nudging hard enough to roll him onto his back. He felt like an overturned beetle waiting to be smushed. A fairly tall man, mid-forties, black commando sweater and blue jeans, stared down at him. Arctic blue eyes, a five o’clock shadow.
“You owe me for the bail money, but we’ll work that out later.”
These were the most comforting words Riggleman had ever heard. Not only had this man delivered him from the legal system, he was now speaking of some indeterminate future in which Riggleman was expected to play a role. Even the suggestion of a future seemed wonderful right now.
“Sure. Be happy to.” It felt like a big improvement from “Okay.”
“Shut up until I ask you to speak.”
“Okay.”
The man seemed to relax then. Riggleman was pleasantly surprised to realize that he must have been tense as well. The man then put his gun down on the table next to the minibar. Riggleman was beginning to get an inkling of how soldiers must deal with the fears of combat from day to day. It wasn’t courage so much as a matter of becoming inured to it, of moving on from one moment to the next as a matter of instinct. Once you gave yourself over to fate, you could breathe again and be yourself. The realization freed him to speak his mind, come what may, and he said the first thing that popped into his head.
“You’re the guy from the woods last night, aren’t you.”
“So you were there. Just to the west of me, right?”
“Yes. You passed within thirty yards of me coming and going.”
“Damn. I’m slipping.”
“I almost peed my pants.”
“Shut up for a second.”
And that’s when it hit him. Not only had he seen this man before, he had also spoken to him on the phone. He even knew his name. Or the name he worked under, anyway. And at that instant he realized, with feelings of deepest gratitude, that General Hagan hadn’t abandoned him after all. The general must have seen his email late Sunday. And then, through whatever channels and whatever means, he had worked nimbly and quickly to ensure that someone else had been there to watch over him. This fellow had saved his life.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” Riggleman said. “I should’ve guessed it before now. Your voice sounds a little different, but you’ve probably got some kind of special software installed on your phone to disguise what you really sound like.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Harry Walsh,” Riggleman said, smiling now. “Your code name.”
The guy actually laughed at him.
“You stupid ass. You saw Harry, all right. But he’s dead. He’s the other guy.”
Riggleman immediately thought of that dimming blob of light. The twitching body, the stillness. Protoplasm gradually losing its heat while he watched.
“Then who the hell are you?”
“That’s not important.”
“But if—?”
“Shut up and listen. We’ve got work to do.”
“Okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Deaths in a foreign land had drawn them all to this story. And now a death in their own backyard had reenergized them. The reporters got back on their phones and laptops, working as night fell. Cole and Sharpe set about planning their flight for the following morning.
A few hours later they were finally overtaken by hunger. They decided to eat well for a change, as if to fortify themselves for a final, decisive push. Keira headed into town for fish and vegetables. Steve drove to a dockside vendor for oysters. Sharpe retrieved a case of beer from his van and filled the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
They fried the fish, shucked the oysters, popped the caps from the beers, and ate and drank greedily for an hour in the dining room, with its grand view of the darkened bay, a string of lights twinkling on the far shore.
“So,” Steve said. “Four hours of darkness and we’re still alive.”
“I was going to take a walk up to the end of the drive,” Cole said. “Make sure somebody’s out there.”
“I’ll go with you,” Keira said. “I need to stretch my legs.”
Barb looked as if she was about to say something, but Steve warned her off with a frown.
“You children sleep tight,” Sharpe said. “Before I turn in I’m going to do a little more tinkering. Looks like a front might be moving in tomorrow, which could reduce our flying hours. Might as well try and reduce our margin of error.”
“Nice meal, guys,” Steve said. “Barb and I will clean up.”
This time Barb made the face, but she stood and began clearing the dishes. Cole grabbed his coat and waited by the door.
The night was chilly, but it felt as if Sharpe was right about new weather being on the way. The air smelled briny and wet, although there were no clouds. The Milky Way spread out overhead, spilling all the way to the horizon. He heard the crunch of gravel and saw Keira approaching.
“You spend much time here when you were growing up?”
“Most of my summers. Our very own family camp, pretty much. My dad would drive out from D.C. on the weekends.”
“What did he do?”
“Lobbyist. Agribusiness stuff. Back when everybody thought that was a good thing.”
“Well, at least it paid off. Half my neighbors were probably buying his company’s products. Corn and soybeans mostly, where I grew up.”
“Was your dad a farmer?”
“School principal. Mom was a teacher, until I was born. Office romance.”
“And their son had his head in the clouds.”
“Literally. And for most of my life. Until all the clouds ended up being on a video screen.”