The Survivors (36 page)

“Bowles?” I said. “Sure.” He'd had his shoes off the whole time we were with him, and there was a hole in the toe of one sock.

“I could barely keep my eyes off it,” Scottie said. “There was a guy I worked with once who had a glass eye. It was the same thing with him. I could never stop staring.”

“Not quite the same. The knot in Bowles's tie was all wrong, too.”

“You're right,” Scottie said. “That's weird.”

“No, that's stagecraft.”

One of the horses in the field cantered by, and Scottie turned to watch. “You mean that hole in his sock was planned?”

“Do you think a guy like Ned Bowles would go to a fancy dress party with a hole in his sock and his tie messed up?”

“I guess not. Then it was all a set-up?”

“Some of it was. His tie was straight when he came out on the balcony, and I'll bet he had a fresh sock on, too. Then there's that ‘stick to her guns' crack, and their ‘special relationship.' A man who raises millions of dollars for the President doesn't make slips like that. Bowles wanted us off balance, not sure where the story would go. Then it all came out so smoothly, we were supposed to buy right into it.”

Scottie said, “If all he did was lie—”

“Don't take it too far. Like they say, the best lies are mostly made up of the truth. I don't think they lied about my patient files. They don't have copies. And I'll bet Bowles trusted my mother the way he said. I like to think she was smart. It's the ending I'm not sure about. Was he as torn up as he let on about what happened to her, or was that an act? And that was a good question you asked him—what plans did she take. That knocked him sideways for a second or two.”

I'd been driving slowly, avoiding the ruts in the road. “Did I make a wrong turn?”

“I don't think so. I'll check.” Scottie reached in the back for his tablet. As he switched it on, he said, “Do you think Bowles was telling the truth about those plans being for a digital camera?”

“My gut reaction—yes. Anyway, something made them overplay their hand.”

Scottie didn't follow me.

I said, “Think of Pete Sorensen. He stirs up trouble for Braeder with a lawsuit, and they buy him out for life with a nice cushy nonprofit to run. They offer me new patients, one right off the rack named Elyse. If I take one, there could be others, and pretty soon I'd be stuck on the gravy train. You—” I patted his shirt pocket. “They gave you a get-out-of- jail-free card.”

“What jail?”

“If the FBI picks you up, who are you going to call? Maybe your new friend Howie. He'll get you off the hook, the first of their favors for you. It seems like their way of doing things. Everybody scratches everybody else's back, and they're not subtle about it.”

“Damn!” Scottie said. “If they think they can buy me, they don't know what they're dealing with.”

“I suppose they don't.”

He shot me a look and we both laughed.

“We're on the right road,” he said, fingering his tablet. “You'll turn in half a mile.”

I negotiated another rut, and we both looked back, attracted by the glare of headlights. “Where did they come from?” Scottie said.

“I don't know.”

I edged to the side of the road, which was very narrow there. The car kept coming.

“Why are they going so fast?” Scottie said. “Weston's people, you think?”

“No. If it was FBI, the lights would be flashing.” As I spoke they picked up even more speed. There was no room for them to get by. I punched down a gear and spun through a tight corner.

The headlights roared up within a foot of my bumper. It was a dark SUV. My car had plenty of power, but with the ruts and our low clearance, I couldn't reach top speed. The SUV didn't have any problem with the road. It gunned left, and I felt a lurch as it tapped my bumper. It hit a second time, much harder.

“Who the hell is it?” Scottie yelled.

“I don't know. How far to the turn?”

He checked the tablet. “About two hundred yards. It's a sharp right.”

“I remember.” I'd opened up a little space and was feeling better. If we could make it to Route 50, we'd be able to outrun them.

“Here comes the turn,” Scottie said. “Right there.”

At that moment, the SUV clipped my bumper again. I nearly lost control, and, by the time I had the wheel straightened out, we were past the intersection.

“What's up ahead?” I said.

“It dead-ends at a creek.” His hand zipped over the screen. “Wait. There's another turn. You'll need to slow down. Fifty yards, left side.”

I tapped the brakes. If I slowed too much, the truck would plow us into the ditch.

“Turn,” Scottie said.

I didn't see any new road.

“Now!” he shouted.

I spun the wheel over.

Scottie grabbed the dashboard. “Fence!”

There were two slat-board fences, one on either side. I aimed between them, onto an overgrown path. Despite the weeds, it was level and hard. I floored it.

In the mirror, I could see the SUV. It had overshot the turnoff. The backup lights came on.

“Where does this road go?” I said.

“It's not a road.” He scrolled down the tablet screen. “It's a service path to a barn. It ends—no there's a real road beyond that. We'll only have to make it around the barn somehow.”

“Dammit,” I said. There was a gate blocking the path.

Scottie, of course, had to make excuses: “That wasn't on my screen. See?” He shoved it in front of me.

I threw the car in park and ran for the gate. If it wasn't locked, we might still be all right. The SUV was at the turnoff, and it lurched over the shoulder, down onto the path.

The headlamps from my car gave me good light. There was no lock, but a knotted chain. I started wrestling with it. Scottie was out of the car, and I yelled for him to get back in. The SUV was coming fast. We had less than a minute.

The chain was rusted. I grabbed a rock and hit it, and it came loose. That's it. I could swing the gate open; we'd be on our way.

Crack
. I knew instantly it was a gunshot. I dove to the ground, looking to make sure Scottie was in the passenger's seat. I couldn't see him anywhere. The trunk was open on the car.

Crack
. With the second shot, I could pinpoint it. I ran back, yelling, “Scottie, stop it!”

The SUV had pulled up thirty yards away. Scottie was on his knees with the old revolver thrust in front of him. He fired again and some glass broke, probably one of the wing mirrors. Whoever was in the SUV wasn't in the mood for a gunfight. He found reverse and rolled flat out back up the lane and onto the road. In half a minute, even the sound of the engine was gone.

Scottie stood up. “Man, that was—”

I grabbed the gun and tossed it in the trunk.

“That was what?”

“Close?” he said.

I slammed the trunk lid, and the bumper fell off the car.

THIRTY-SEVEN

I
drove north through the farm and onto a country lane, trusting Scottie's map program to show us the way out. For a while, we zigzagged on back roads, making sure we weren't being followed. Near Leesburg, I turned onto a real highway and headed toward Washington.

“Would you like to stop for something to eat?” I asked Scottie.

“I guess so.”

He hadn't said much since I took the gun from him. “You're worried about what happened back there,” I said.

“I dunno. You think I might have shot somebody?”

“You had your eyes closed Scottie. You're no Annie Oakley.”

“It doesn't count if I wasn't aiming, right?”

“That's one way of looking at it.”

We pulled in at an IHOP and ordered dinner. After fussing with his plate and glass and silverware, Scottie dug in. He finished off a cheeseburger and two orders of fries and a slice of pie. “I like this place, all lit up and wide open.” He downed the last of his lemonade. “So what do we do now, go back to Felix's house?”

“I don't want Felix involved any more than he already is. We can't go to my place either. It would be too easy for someone to find us there. I know a hotel in Crystal City. It's cheap. They'll let us pay in cash.”

“How do you know about that?”

“A patient of mine had to stay there for a few weeks.”

“He was on the run like us?”

“His wife threw him out and cut up his credit cards. And I don't think we're on the run. We just need to keep a low profile.”

He pushed the last french fry into the exact middle of his plate. “Are we going to be OK?”

“We've made progress already. That's why that SUV came after us. We're going to keep pushing buttons until something really breaks loose. Are you up for that?”

He popped the fry into his mouth and grinned. “It's what I always wanted.”

The hotel was the Castle Inn off the Jeff Davis Highway. My patient had liked it because, besides being cheap, it was close to a Metro stop and the airport, both good for his job. The desk clerk had the tired look of somebody who'd seen every kind of person in every kind of bad situation. He shuffled the paperwork to me to sign, then twice counted the fifty dollars I handed over. He even held one of the bills up the light to make sure it was legit.

The room was on the third floor, looking out on parking lots and another hotel. Scottie opened the windows as wide as they would go and flopped down on the bed on that side. It was only a few minutes after eleven, but I was dead tired. I took a shower and stretched out on my bed. Scottie had his tablet out, with three different programs running. I turned out my light.

“Who do you think was in that SUV?” Scottie said.

“I don't know. It had a Ford logo, and there was a six and an eight in the license plate number. Did you catch any of it?”

“I was too busy closing my eyes and shooting.”

I smiled. “Mmm.”

“Markaris?” Scottie asked. “It could have been him.”

“Maybe.” I drifted for a few moments. “Don't you ever rest?”

“It's because I'm not drinking. It's hard to fall asleep.”

I rolled over to look at him. He kept his eyes on the tablet. “Don't worry. I'm fine. Get some sleep.”

At one forty I sat up, coming straight from a dead, dreamless sleep to wide awake. The light was on by Scottie's bed, but he was gone. His tablet was on the nightstand, and he'd left a note.
I've gone for a walk. Check out what I found. Just open the browser
.

I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Before I settled down, I shut the windows to keep the cool breeze out.

The browser opened to paragraph after paragraph of dense text. There were phrases like “initial focusing prism,” and “metering sensor.” I scrolled down and saw, “sub mirror/AF mirror.” All Greek to me. I zipped my finger up the screen and pages and pages of technical material rolled past. Like a roulette wheel, the frame slowed until it stopped on a red box.
Images
. I tapped it.

Up popped a set of drawings, finely detailed schematics. I increased the scale, and something in the corner of the screen caught my eye. It was titled “Lens Array,” and there were three views: front, side, and exploded. They were in black and white, but I thought,
they should be colored, purple and red
. What made me think that? I tilted my head to see it from a different angle. The exploded view was like Mickey Mouse. Round face and two ears, big round nose.

That's where I'd seen it before.

It was the house in Damascus, the last summer we were together. I woke up one night, hot from having too many covers on me, and decided to go downstairs for a glass of milk. After I put the jug back in the refrigerator, I wandered into the dining room to drink it. On the table some photographs were laid out. I was leaning over to look, only mildly curious, when I bumped a glass that I hadn't seen sitting there. Red wine spilled everywhere, and the glass smashed on the floor.