McGregor said, “Sure,” and left the room.
Around the corner, Mark was being situated in another room. McGregor walked in and went through the same ritual. They sipped coffee for a while and talked about the Miranda rights. With a warrant, they had searched Mark’s bag and found all sorts of interesting items. McGregor opened a large envelope, pulled out some plastic cards, and began arranging them on the table. He said, “Got these from your wallet, Mr. Mark Driscoll. Maryland driver’s license, bad photo but with plenty of hair and even eyebrows, two valid credit cards, temporary hunting license issued by Pennsylvania.” More cards for the display. “And we got these from your bag. Kentucky driver’s license issued to Arnold Sawyer, again with lots of hair. One bogus credit card.” He slowly produced more cards. “Bogus Florida driver’s license, eyeglasses and beard. Mr. Luther Banahan. And this really high-quality passport issued in Houston to Clyde D. Mazy, along with driver’s license and three bogus credit cards.”
The table was covered. Mark wanted to vomit but clenched his jaws and tried to shrug. So what?
McGregor said, “Pretty impressive. We’ve checked them out and we know you’re really Mr. Driscoll, address uncertain because you move around.”
“Is that a question?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good, because I’m not saying anything. I have the right to a lawyer, so you’d better find me one.”
“Okay. Odd that in all these photos you got plenty of hair, even some whiskers, and always the eyebrows. Now everything’s gone. You hiding from something, Mark?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Sure thing. Say, Mark, we haven’t found any papers for Professor Neville Manchin, from out at Portland State. Name ring a bell?”
A bell? What about a sledgehammer to the head?
Through one-way glass, a high-resolution camera was aimed at Mark. In another room, two interrogation experts, both trained in the detection of untruthful suspects and witnesses, were watching the pupils of the eyes, the upper lip, the muscles in the jaw, the position of the head. The mention of Neville Manchin jolted the suspect. When Mark responded with a lame “Uh, I ain’t talking, and I want a lawyer,” both experts nodded and smiled. Got him.
McGregor left the room, chatted with his colleagues, then entered Jerry’s room. He sat down, smiled, waited a long time, and said, “So, Jerry, still not talking, huh?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Sure, right, we’re trying to find you one. Not very talkative, are you?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Your buddy Mark is far more cooperative than you are.”
Jerry swallowed hard. He was hoping Mark had managed to leave town on the Amtrak. Guess not. What the hell happened? How could they get caught so quickly? This time yesterday they were sitting around the cabin playing cards, drinking beer, savoring their perfect crime.
Surely Mark was not already singing.
McGregor pointed to Jerry’s left hand and asked, “You got a Band-Aid there. Cut yourself?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You need a doctor?”
“A lawyer.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll go find you a lawyer.”
He slammed the door as he left. Jerry looked at his wrist. It couldn’t be possible.
16.
Shadows fell across the pond, and Denny reeled in his line and began paddling toward the cabin. As the chill off the water cut through his light jacket, he thought about Trey, and, frankly, how little he trusted him. Trey was forty-one years old, had been caught twice with his stolen goods, served four years the first time before escaping and two years the second time before going over the wall. What was so troubling about Trey was that in both cases he’d flipped, sang, ratted on his buddies for lesser sentences. For a professional, that was a cardinal sin.
Of the five in their gang, there was no doubt in Denny’s mind that Trey was the weakest. As a Ranger, Denny had fought in wars and survived the gun battles. He’d lost friends and killed many. He understood fear. What he hated was weakness.
17.
At eight o’clock Thursday evening, Denny and Trey were playing gin rummy and drinking beer. They stopped, pulled out their Sat-Traks, pecked in their numbers, and waited. Within seconds, Ahmed chimed in with a “Clear” from Buffalo. Nothing from Mark or Jerry. Mark was supposed to be on a train, enduring the six-hour ride from Rochester to Penn Station. Jerry was supposed to be in his apartment.
The next five minutes passed very slowly, or perhaps they raced by. Things weren’t clear. The devices were working, right? They were CIA quality and cost a fortune. For two to go silent at the same time meant . . . well, what did it mean? At 8:06, Denny stood and said, “Let’s take the first few steps. Pack our bags with the essentials and plan to haul ass, okay?”
“Got it,” Trey replied, obviously concerned. They ran to their rooms and began throwing clothes into duffel bags. A few minutes later, Denny said, “It’s eleven minutes after eight. I say at eight-twenty, we’re outta here. Right?”
“Agreed,” Trey said as he paused to look at his Sat-Trak. Nothing. At 8:20, Denny opened the storage room door and unlocked the gun safe. They stuffed the five manuscripts into two green Army duffels padded with clothing, and carried them to Denny’s truck. They returned to the cabin to turn off lights and make one last frantic inspection.
“Should we burn it?” Trey asked.
“Hell no,” Denny snapped, irritated at his stupidity. “That’ll just attract attention. So they prove we were here. Big deal. We’re long gone and there’s no sign of the books.”
They turned off the lights, locked both doors, and as they stepped off the porch Denny hesitated a second so Trey could move a step ahead. Then he sprung, slapping both hands tightly around Trey’s neck, his thumbs jammed into the carotid pressure points. Trey—older, slightly built, out of shape, and unsuspecting—was no match for the ex-Ranger’s death grip around his neck. He wiggled and flailed for a few seconds, then went limp. Denny tossed him to the ground and took off his belt.
18.
He stopped for gas and coffee near Scranton and headed west on Interstate 80. The speed limit was seventy miles per hour. His cruise control was on sixty-eight. He’d had a few beers earlier in the evening but all was clear now. His Sat-Trak was on the console and he glanced at it every mile or so. He knew by now that the screen would remain dark; no one would be checking in. He assumed Mark and Jerry had been nabbed together and their Sat-Traks were being taken apart by some very smart people. Trey’s was at the bottom of the pond, along with Trey, both waterlogged and already decomposing.