The Hunted (12 page)

“Find out what you can on Agents Jonathan Waller and Scott Haviland. They’re out of WFO,” he said, referring to the Bureau’s Washington Field Office. “SAC Lindsey should be able to tell you everything you need to know about them.”

“With all due respect, sir, I disagree.” It was the exact language and tone she had used with each of the prior directors, and it always seemed to work.

“Who do you think you should speak with?”

“Their squad supervisor, Sam Gardner.”

“Gardner. Yeah, you’re right. He’d have a better feel for these two than Lindsey would.”

“And he’ll tell me a lot more than SAC Lindsey.”

“You’re too good, Liz, you know that?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll have that information for you shortly.” She turned and walked out, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

An hour later, after having met with the Lab Section chief and deputy assistant director, Knox was still pacing by the window, running his fingers through his hair. First the left hand, then the right. When he finished one stroke, he would start again with the other hand. He had a trump card to play, and he was thinking hard about using it. Two men, Hector DeSantos and Brian Archer, members of the elite Operations Support Intelligence Group—known as OPSIG—were at his disposal should he need them. But timing was everything. And in this case the big question was when to bring them on board.

Just then, his intercom buzzed. “I have that information for you, sir.”

“Bring it in, Liz.”

She walked in and headed for the window, positioning herself in Knox’s path, as she always did, to prevent him from pacing. “According to Mr. Gardner,” Liz reported, “Agent Waller has an impeccable record. He heads up the division’s Fugitive Squad. He’s dedicated, bright, committed, and very driven.”

“And off the record?”

She glanced down at her notepad. “He can sometimes be a little volatile, get swept into the emotions of a case and take it personally. If it’s a case he feels strongly about or gets frustrated with, he has a tendency to disregard procedure.”

“To the point of jeopardizing the success of the mission?”

“He’s never crossed the line, at least according to Gardner. No reprimands have made it into the file, so Gardner is either telling the truth or he’s handled it internally.”

Knox turned and again looked out his window at the cars moving along Pennsylvania Avenue. “What about Haviland?”

She consulted her notes again. “More cerebral and by the book than Waller. He takes his work seriously and doesn’t take chances. Gardner likes to partner them up whenever possible because Haviland has a calming influence on Waller. My take is that Haviland keeps Waller in line when he’s dangerously near the edge of crossing over it.”

“So why did Lindsey send these two over?”

“Mainly because Agent Waller heads up the Fugitive Squad. His specialty is tracking down difficult-to-find people. Also, according to Gardner, they knew Agent Payne fairly well. They worked with him for a while before he went undercover.”

Knox nodded, turned, and began to pace in the opposite direction. He had heard enough, and it was his way of telling Liz that he did not require her presence anymore.

“Fugitive Squad or not, Agent Waller may not be the right person for this assignment,” she said.

Knox stopped and looked out over the District again. He remained there for a moment, stoic and silent. Liz took the hint and placed her notes on the director’s desk.

“Nice work,” Knox said to the glass.

“Yes, sir. Let me know if you need anything else.” Liz closed the director’s office door on her way out.

After hearing the lock click, Knox walked over to his desk and picked up Liz’s notes. He made one more run through the information, then shoved the pages through the shredder.

“Shit.”

Michael Chambers broke out into a cold sweat. If the men in suits were indeed coming for him, he didn’t have much time. He turned his attention to the keyboard and began tapping out a message.

Rose—
I need your help. I was in a car accident and I can’t remember who I am, where I’m supposed to be, or even who you are. For some reason your name kept popping into my head, and then I remembered what I think is your email address. Can you tell me who I am? There’s not much I can tell you about me, other than what I look like. I’m about six feet tall, medium build, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes I think. My waist is a 33.

He paused, glanced back to check on the approaching men. His eyes found them, no more than thirty yards away now. But they didn’t have the appearance of store security personnel, and they obviously were not the cops who had been searching for him in the hospital.

Maybe they weren’t looking for him after all.

I’m in Virginia, in a mall near Virginia Presbyterian Hospital. If you know who I am, please write me back ASAP.

—Lost in Virginia

Chambers entered a few other variations on the “rose” theme of the e-mail address in case his jumbled memory was incorrect. He quickly scrolled down, hit SEND, and received the MESSAGE SENT confirmation.

He logged off and peered around the edge of the kiosk. The men—whoever they were—were now a few strides away. He pulled the bill of the hat lower on his face and slid out of the seat, strolling casually down the other side of the mall, in the opposite direction of the men.

He had walked no more than twenty paces when he realized he had left Ellen Haskins’s MasterCard at the GlobalNet kiosk. He stopped and turned to look in the direction from which he had just come and noticed the two suits huddling over the Internet terminal.

Okay, store security. All they want
is
the credit card. Slap on the wrist probably. I’ll explain the amnesia and that’ll be that.

Chambers turned and headed off in the direction of Dillard’s, where he would leave the mall and grab the taxi that was waiting for him. He had gone another five yards when two other men in navy blue suits suddenly stepped out in front of him. As one of them held up a two-way radio to his mouth, Chambers spun and ran off, back in the direction from which he had just come.

Within seconds, his path was blocked by the original two men, the tall one holding Ellen Haskins’s credit card in his hand. The shorter man locked eyes with Chambers and pressed the button on his two-way.

“We’ve got him.”

Chambers could feel his heart pounding in his ears. This was not mall security. This was trouble. Big trouble. Those instincts he had had in the hospital emergency room kicked in again, and he instantly felt he had to find a way out.

To his immediate right was the flower stand he had passed earlier. It was now his only means of exit. With a store to his left and the men in front of and behind him, there was no other choice. He bolted right, jumping and grabbing on to the post of the ornate display wagon. Under all his weight and momentum, the cart started to tip over. With a huge crash, the potted plants and floral arrangements spilled across the floor behind him, blocking the entire walkway.

Chambers darted down that side of the mall, the two men who were not blocked by the downed cart in close pursuit. They were frantically shouting orders into their radios, no doubt attempting to line up coverage in and around the area in anticipation of their suspect’s next move.

Chambers turned and headed into Dillard’s, suddenly becoming aware of the pulling pain in his thigh. Limping slightly, he moved in an irregular, weaving manner through men’s sportswear, suits, and casual wear. Angles and distance, he told himself, were the most effective ways of eluding a pursuer. But how did he know that?

He fought off a swell of dizziness, then dumped the baseball hat, grabbed a windbreaker off a hanger, and ripped off the tags. After slipping the jacket on in one motion, he moved left toward the exit—and slammed into a man in a suit. They both fell backward, Chambers landing against a display table of jeans, on his left, sutured thigh. He let out a low grunt, then realized he was in trouble as the man parted his suit coat.

Is he reaching for a gun?

Chambers leaned back on the table and fully extended his right leg in a swift uppercut, his tennis shoe connecting hard with the man’s jaw. The man reeled backward, striking his head on a coat rack before crumpling to the floor. Blood oozed immediately from a gash on the left side of his face, where Chambers saw a coiled wire connected to an earpiece that had become dislodged.

Chambers stepped around the fallen man and continued on toward the exit. Nothing at the moment made any sense, but for now all that was protecting him were his instincts.

With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his windbreaker, Chambers walked briskly toward the cab, which was still waiting at the curb where he had left it. As he approached from behind the first line of parked cars, he noticed that the driver was now wearing a baseball hat. The top two buttons of his pea coat were open, revealing a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

And he no longer had a mustache.

Chambers immediately turned right and headed down the next aisle, attempting to lose himself amongst the cars. He was reasonably sure that the driver had not seen him; if he had, he would have radioed his suited buddies, and another car would be waiting for Chambers as he emerged from the aisle.

He turned right again and moved through the lot. A moment later, with apparently no one following him, he reached the edge of the mall’s property. He crossed a small maintenance driveway and headed toward what appeared to be a main street a block away, where a Mobil station occupied the nearest corner. But before he had gotten far, he heard the swerve of tires moving quickly on pavement. He ducked down behind a brick wall that was part of an adjacent building and watched as three dark sedans sped by.

After they had passed, Chambers moved out from the cover of the wall and continued on, crossing the street. He walked quickly, the pain in his leg stinging with each stride. He entered the station’s minimart and caught sight of the very visible video surveillance cameras mounted near the ceiling in the corners of the store. They all appeared to be aimed at the cash register, which is where, he figured, most of the substantial crimes occurred. He grabbed a small bottle of Excedrin off a shelf and sauntered around the shop, pretending to browse. He glanced out the window, scanning the area. He then palmed the bottle and shoved it deep into his pocket.

Chambers headed outside and nonchalantly walked past three of the cars that were parked around the same island. He caught a glimpse of keys in two of them, so he had a choice. A burly man was standing by a Ford Escort, while a young woman was leaning against the back of a Chevrolet Tracker SUV. The decision was easy.

Chambers sauntered up to the Tracker, grabbed the door handle, and yanked it open. He turned the engine over and was shifting into drive when he heard the woman scream. In the side-view mirror, he saw the large Escort owner turn and head toward the SUV. Chambers accelerated hard and swerved out of the station, gasoline spewing into the air as the hose twisted and writhed like a snake.

He entered the interstate and took the Tracker up to sixty-five. There was about a half tank of gas, so for the moment that was not a concern. His priority was putting some distance between himself and those men at the mall, before they could zero in on him. He also knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the state troopers were alerted to the stolen Tracker. The faster he got off the main drag, the better, but only after he could first gain some distance.

He exited at the first opportunity, took the loop around, and headed back onto the interstate in the opposite direction. If anything, those witnesses who had seen him entering west would cause the police to look in that direction. If he was now headed east, it might buy him some time. Time and distance... and soon he would add angles.

Tooling along at the speed limit—he did not want to get caught on a routine moving violation—Chambers reached into his pocket, pulled out the Excedrin bottle, and ripped off the protective plastic wrapping with his teeth. He popped a couple of the tablets into his mouth and dry swallowed them.

After driving for another fifteen minutes, he jughandled off the interstate and found a quiet two-lane switchback that curved abruptly around a hillside. As he negotiated the turns, a hard rain began to slam against the windshield. He searched for the wiper control, a difficult task since the truck’s interior, and the winding road, were both dark.

Chambers turned on the interior lights, quickly bent his head down, and found the wiper switch. When he looked up, another bout of dizziness struck and his vision faded to a hazy gray, like a television tuned to an off channel. He slammed on the brakes and felt the vehicle swerve. The front tires skipped and groaned along the slick, wet asphalt, finally gripping just before the wheels slid off the edge of the roadway.

He knew he would be better off pulling into the next available turnout and resting. But he wanted a little more distance, and the farther he went along this road, the narrower and less traveled it got. He continued on for another few minutes, trying hard to focus and maintain control of the vehicle. Lightheaded, hungry, and tired, he breathed a sigh of relief as he finally spotted a dirt turnout along the embankment. He carefully edged the Tracker off the road and shut the engine. He reclined the seat and glanced at the dashboard clock: it was five minutes after seven. He could rest for an hour or so, drive back toward a populated area, dump the SUV, and hitch a ride.

As he was going over the plan in his mind, he drifted off to sleep.

Lauren awoke with a start, bolting up in bed as if a gunshot had been fired outside her window. The sun was just starting to bathe the sky in orange light, and the house was quiet. Tucker stood up and walked over to her side of the bed, placed his head on her hand, and waited for her attention.

Lauren realized she was wearing her clothing from last night.
Last night...
she tried to remember what had happened, where she was. She noticed the rough floral sheets, then thought of Deputy Matthews and Nick Bradley.