In the terminal, he spied a Blue Mountain coffee shop. He would take his chances. A steaming cup of coffee, a banana, a bag of trail mix and a bottle of water refueled him, and he tossed his trash and started out of the terminal. Once he got into the open air, then he’d call her. Not before. Too many eyes and ears around at airports. Too many opportunities for his words to be overheard, misinterpreted, misconstrued.
The air outside the terminal was thin and warm, but he could feel the promise of coolness underneath the easterly thermal flow, the slipstream over the mountains whisking the breeze off the tops of the highest still snow-covered peaks. They’d had a late spring here, with a walloping storm that dumped six feet on the fifteenth of May. Those late-spring storms made him nostalgic; born on the last day of April, he couldn’t remember a birthday that didn’t see the bluebells and larkspurs in the pasture shivering under a thick coating of white.
He got on the rental car bus, went through the indignities expected of him, signed his life away in triplicate, retrieved his vehicle, a Ford Explorer, and once inside the vehicle and out of the garage, flipped open his phone.
A relieved-sounding Sam answered on the first ring. His initial assessment was correct, she was hopping mad.
“Where in the name of hell are you? You’ve been MIA for hours.”
“Hi, honey.”
“No, no, no, no, no, don’t ‘Hi, honey’ me, Xander. You left me in deep shit here. Where are you?”
“What kind of deep shit?”
He heard her swallow, then her tactic changed. Her voice calmed. “I need to know where you are. Things didn’t exactly go as planned this morning.”
“Fletcher wasn’t pleased with you, I take it?”
“He’s fine with me, it’s you he’s furious at. Come on, Xander, no more games. They hauled me down to the JTTF. They aren’t messing around.”
Shit. He was hoping for more time.
“Is that where you are right now?”
“Yes. Now, please. Will you just play ball so I can go home?”
Damn it.
“I’ll call you later, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” He flipped off the phone, quickly disassembled it. They couldn’t have traced it that quickly, but all they had to do was get paper from his cell company to see where the call came from. He was going to have to work fast. Without the battery they wouldn’t be able to nail it down better than that last call. So they’d see he was in Colorado, but nothing more.
He pointed the car toward the mountains, and drove. If his hunch played out, he’d be golden. If not, then he’d face the music. He felt like hell lying to Sam, but it was only to keep her safe, nothing more, nothing less. He just needed a few more hours.
That fool Fletcher must have strong-armed her into telling him everything, playing on their friendship to get more than their planned statements out of her.
Well, no matter. Another couple of hours and he’d be where he was heading, and start stalking his prey. Then together they’d be able to quietly and quickly nail the son of a bitch who thought he could terrorize the nation.
Chapter 18
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens The JTTF was surprising, to say the least. Having been in multiple law enforcement headquarters, Sam was impressed with their setup. Technologically advanced, for sure. A wide cross section of people from all walks of law enforcement, young and determined, old and grizzled. And they had decent coffee, though she’d had so much caffeine by this point that her hands were starting to shake.
She was loosely under watch at Fletcher’s desk. He was sitting next to her, and vibrating with anger still. She hung up the phone and glanced at him.
“He won’t tell me where he is.”
Fletcher snarled at her. “That’s some man you’ve got there, Sam. Willing to let his woman stay in custody rather than share his whereabouts and whatever idiotic plan he has in mind.”
Sam let her hair down; the pins holding her bun were starting to give her a headache. She shook it out and it spilled over her shoulders. That was better.
“Fletcher, lay off it. I get that you’re pissed. But I don’t control Xander. I trust him. If he thinks this is the right thing to do, then it probably is. Why don’t you let me help you while we’re waiting?”
“Help me? You’re in custody.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Jeez, would you two give it a rest? None of us can get our homework done when mommy and daddy are fighting.”
They both turned to see Inez, her glasses pushed up high on her nose, holding her hand up in a universal stop sign.
“Sorry,” Fletcher mumbled.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Inez. This must be terribly disruptive to your workday.”
Inez scowled at Sam. “Don’t try to suck up. You deserve to be behind bars, not sitting here. I don’t approve of your methods.”
Fletcher smiled at his assistant, then turned to Sam. “What she said.”
“Okay, okay. Fine. You’ve got to give me something to do, though. I’m going stir-crazy.”
“Why don’t you type up your autopsy report?”
“I already did that.”
“Then here. Take my laptop and surf the Net. Facebook. Twitter. Write a blog. Shop for some shoes. I don’t care. Just leave me alone so I can get some work done.”
He shoved the laptop across the desk to her, and she demurely said, “Thanks.”