I would still be able to fire the rifle or the revolver, but probably couldn’t reload either of them without tearing the foil off the left hand. Well, if it came down to shooting, I wouldn’t be worried about radio waves.
I’d worked out a vague plan. Might as well get going.
A county road paralleled the interstate for two dozen miles, so I’d follow that. I put the cell on the passenger seat, in case I had to do dangerous stuff, like driving while talking on the phone, or shooting at people. Started the car and moved out.
The road was almost deserted. After a few miles, the cell buzzed, and I picked it up. “What?”
I resisted the urge to laugh into the awkward pause. “Your… car is moving,” the woman said.
“It’s your car, I think, and it’s headed for Washington,” I said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Why aren’t you on the highway?”
“I have three days. It’s an unfamiliar car, so I’d rather not speed. Why is that a problem?”
“Take your next right. Get back on the highway.”
“Okay.” He didn’t say, We seem to have lost your hand.
Maybe time to confuse things more. Steering with my elbows, I unwrapped the foil from my hand. Then as I drove along, I covered it up for a few seconds at a time. Then I left it uncovered. Let them think that the battery inside my hand was failing.
My half-formed plan was to set them up so they wouldn’t panic if the signal from my hand flickered on and off. Over the next three days, I wouldn’t cover it up for more than a minute. But if I ever did want to drop off their radar screen, I could do it, and the first thing they’d think was battery failure.
Of course they could track me anyhow, as long as I stayed in this car. That was okay for the time being. Since I didn’t know where Kit was, my only hope was that their directions would lead me to where she was being held.
I did take the next right, and obediently got back on I-85. The screen button said I was 980 miles from Washington. What could I do in 980 miles?
Sleep a couple of times. I picked up the phone and thumbed it. “This car doesn’t have Supercruise. How long do you think I can drive before I fall asleep at the wheel?”
“We will tell you when to stop.” The woman again.
“What if I have to pee?”
“Go ahead,” she said, a trace of amusement in her voice. “It’s not your car.”
I drove along eight or ten miles, until the next exit sign. Picked up the phone: “Seriously, I need some coffee if I’m going to stay on the road. There’s a place in two miles.”
“All right,” she said. “Use the facilities. Treat yourself to a candy bar.”
I would, actually; get the blood sugar fired up. I pulled into the rest stop and parked. I watched for a few minutes, and no black SUV followed me in.
Well, if they could assassinate a president, or someone important, they could probably afford a second car.
On impulse, I opened the back door and took the rifle out of its box. I propped it up diagonally across the passenger’s seat, then left the car unlocked and went to get my coffee.
I took my time in the bathroom, then got a coffee and a pastry. I stood and enjoyed the block of crumb cake with apricot filling, watching the car from the rest-stop foyer, in air-conditioned comfort. Just as I finished the crumb cake, a fish took my bait.
A stern-looking state trooper watched me saunter out with my half-finished coffee.
“Is this your car, sir?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You left it unlocked with a weapon in the front seat.”
“Really?” I took out the keychain and pushed the button twice. The car honked. “Good grief. Careless of me.”
“Well, be more careful, sir.” He walked away, without asking for my license and registration. What kind of a police state is this? How do you know I’m not headed to Washington to shoot the god-damned president?
I hoped he at least had written down the license plate number or taken a picture. Maybe he had one of those microcameras in his hat.
But I put the ignition key in and turned it, and nothing happened. Took it out and tried it again. Then a big dark shape pulled up behind me and stopped.
A state police tow truck.
The cop came back with a friend, a very stern-looking woman with a Smokey-the-Bear hat and her left hand on the butt of the automatic pistol that rode too high on her hip. The other hand hovered over a spray can on the right side.
Her voice was a staccato chirp: “Sir, we have to ask you to come out of the car and keep your hands visible please.”
“Sure.” I opened the door slowly and eased my tired bones out. “What else can I help you with?”
“Are there any other weapons in the car?” he asked.
“No—yes! I mean, not in the car. In a suitcase in the trunk, there’s a gun.”
“Would you please open the suitcase and show us? We won’t confiscate it without reason.”
Even with reason, I wondered whether they were on shaky legal ground. Could they make you open a suitcase without a warrant? The rent-a-cops at airport security did it routinely, so maybe they were covered.
I opened up the suitcase and stepped away before she could order me to. “Take a look.”
The snub-nosed revolver was in sight on top of the clothes. She searched through them anyhow, and didn’t find anything else interesting.
“Have I broken a law here?” My half-formed plan was to get the police suspicious enough to follow me. Hopefully without throwing me in the slammer.
The male officer took off his sunglasses, revealing soft features in a big round face. “There is a law against creating an ‘attractive nuisance,’ sir. A nice rifle begging to be stolen qualifies, I think.”
“So I could be arrested for somebody else’s theoretical lack of moral fiber.”
“You’re not being arrested, sir,” the woman said. “Though I will issue a warning to you.” She reached for a notebook very slowly, I guess so as not to spook me in case I had yet another gun squirreled away. She asked the other officer what the code was for “attractive nuisance,” and he didn’t know either, so they settled on 999. They gave me the warning and abjured me to have a good day, and please put the weapons where they weren’t in plain sight.
The warning wasn’t a citation. It was somebody’s brilliant PR idea—a smiley face with “Friendly Warning” printed across the top. No name or license number involved, how friendly. I probably wasn’t in any state police computer for it.
The tow-truck door slammed and then there was a solenoid click down by my starter switch. So they could turn off this car’s engine by remote control, which I’d known was true in a couple of states. Another reason to stick to bicycles.
I did put the rifle in the trunk but also, perhaps unwisely, took the .38 from the suitcase and slipped it into the front door pocket, tucking a map over it for camouflage. Not that I was going to quick-draw it from the driver’s seat, with my left arm incapacitated.
It was right next to the plastic wallet with Grant Harrison’s identification. Maybe I should have used it. Remember this name, officers. It will be in the papers soon.
My fingers tingled and so did my toes, a not-completely-unpleasant feeling I remembered from combat. Like feeling a change in the weather: a shitstorm may be gathering, but at least it won’t take me by surprise.
I studied the parking lot, feeling a little sheepish, and didn’t spot any tanks or snipers. I touched the EST. TIME button on the map, and numbers appeared under route lines. I was five hours from Huntsville. Figure on stopping there for dinner and a rest.
As I pulled out of the parking area, I told the phone to recharge itself from the car’s system while I drove. It had one message, which had come in while I was being interrogated by the Smokies.