Although he wasn’t sure where he was going, he wasn’t exactly flying blind. He knew this stretch of highway, because the HQ of the Goon Squad had been in Norfolk and he’d lived in Virginia Beach, both just to the southeast. He’d driven up I-95 to D.C. from time to time on training evolutions, either to practice surveillance in Old Town Alexandria or around the National Mall near the Capitol building.
He passed Prince William Forest Park on his right, the marine barracks of Quantico on his left, and he continued another few minutes until he saw a turnoff for the Stafford Regional Airport. Instantly an idea came to him. Court had learned to fly light aircraft here, a long time ago, admittedly, but he remembered the facility, more or less. Security had been lax around the airport at the time, so he thought there was a chance he could hide out somewhere on the property, either in a hangar or a utility room, or perhaps even in the comfort of a private aircraft. It was a thin plan, because he hadn’t visited the location in some fifteen years, but he knew if he continued on too much longer he’d be in Fredericksburg, and he had no intention of setting up his new hide in a developed area.
He exited I-95 and headed towards the airport.
As soon as he began riding along the chain-link fence to the airport property he decided his impromptu plan wasn’t going to pan out like he’d hoped. It was a small airfield with only one runway and just a half dozen or so buildings, and security appeared much tighter than what he remembered. He knew he could wait till nightfall and gain access to the grounds, but it wasn’t yet nine a.m. and he did not want to waste an entire day lying low, only to spend the whole evening developing a new hide. No, Court had things to do; he needed to find a new home right now so that tonight he could act.
Once he passed the airport he started to turn around to head back to I-95, but a lonely gravel road off to his right caught his eye. He didn’t see a single structure on either side of the road, only oak and pine and thick brush, but he imagined the road led to someplace where no one would be looking for him, and for now, at least, that was good enough.
Court remembered flying low over these woods, all those years ago. His flight instructor, a retired Air Force jet jockey who taught single-engine piloting to CIA operators, had pointed out the roofs of a few wooden houses, far away from any noticeable roads. He’d told Court there had once been a Civil War camp in the woods, and a few broken-down battlements and other structures remained from that era.
Now Court wondered if he could find the old buildings and use them as some sort of shelter.
After only a few minutes of driving north on the gravel road the sky opened up and heavy rain began to fall again.
He saw a narrow gravel footpath that led off the road, and not a soul in sight, so he made the turn, driving deeper now into the forest. Another two minutes on the road and he found himself looking for any access into the dense woods so he could get under the protection of a tree and out of the rain. But as he peered deep in the woods he saw, on both sides of the footpath, low stone fences that looked like they were at least from the Civil War era, if not well before. He continued on because he wouldn’t be able to get his bike up and over the stone barriers.
The path ran along a creek and then ended at the remnants of a washed-out wooden footbridge over the water. A sign on a pole told Court this was Accokeek Creek, and the 11th Union Army had spent the winter of 1863 camped nearby. Court’s interest in the Civil War was surpassed by his interest in survival, so he worried he might have wandered into some sort of historic park that attracted visitors. But if he had, he was all but certain he’d come in through a back entrance, and he had the distinct impression there was no one around for miles.
Court turned off his bike’s engine and rolled it to the creek’s edge, then began pushing it upstream along the bank to get around the stone fence and find some cover from the storm.
He found the woods thicker here than he’d first thought, so he continued moving on the creek’s edge, knowing he had succeeded in finding a remote location in which to hide, but wondering if he had overachieved by getting too far away from civilization to be practical. He’d been in search of a roof, and it seemed now he’d have to settle for a fallen tree or maybe just foliage with thick leaves.
His mood darkened with the frustration growing in him.
After a time he found evidence of an old set of stone stairs rising out of the creek and up a hill. They were barely visible under the brush along the creek bed, but it made him wonder if more development was close by. He pushed himself and his motorcycle up into the woods and away from the water.
As he climbed he saw that, although this path had long ago been cleared of trees, it had not been used in some time, and the farther he got from the creek, the deeper the grasses and foliage grew.