At six P.M., Keith checked out of the Hay-Adams and carried his own bag to the front door.
"Taxi, sir?"
"Please."
Keith waited with the doorman under the marquee. The doorman said, "Taxis are scarce with this rain."
"I see that."
"Airport?"
"Right."
"Flights are delayed. Jack's coming through Virginia Beach."
"Excuse me?"
"Hurricane Jack. Tracking up the coast. It'll miss us, but we'll have gale-force winds and heavy rain all night. Did you check your flight, sir?"
"No."
"National or Dulles?"
"National."
The doorman shook his head. "Long delays. You might want to try Dulles, if you can."
A taxi pulled up, and the doorman opened the door. Keith got in and said to the driver, "How's National?"
"Down."
"Dulles?"
"Still open."
"Dulles."
The ride to Dulles, normally forty-five minutes via the Dulles access highway, took over an hour, and the weather didn't look much better inland. As they approached the airport, Keith saw no aircraft landing or taking off.
The driver said, "Don't look good, Chief. You want to go back?"
"No."
The driver shrugged and continued on into the airport.
Keith said, "USAir."
They arrived at USAir departures, and Keith noticed lines of people waiting for taxis. He went into the terminal and scanned the display monitors. Nearly every departing flight was delayed or canceled.
He tried the ticket agents at several airlines, looking for a flight to any city within a few hundred miles of Spencerville, but no one was hopeful.
At seven-thirty, Dulles Airport was officially closed until further notice.
Keith saw that the crowds were thinning out as people left the terminal. Other people were settling in for a wait.
He went to a bar in the terminal concourse. It was crowded with stranded travelers, but he got a beer and stood with a few other men and watched the TV mounted over the bar. Jack had made landfall at Ocean City, Maryland, and was stalled there, and the effects of the hurricane could be felt over a hundred miles from the eye. The general consensus seemed to be that nothing would be flying until dawn. But you never knew.
This was not the first time in his life he'd been unable to catch a flight, and he knew it was no use worrying or getting angry about it. In other times and places, the situation had sometimes been critical, sometimes life-threatening. This time, it was important.
It was now eight-fifteen P.M., and he had a rendezvous at ten A.M. the next day in western Ohio. He considered his options. It was about three hundred air miles, less than a two-hour flight to Columbus, slightly longer to Toledo, longer yet to Dayton or Fort Wayne, Indiana. In any case, if he could get on a flight anytime around five A.M., he'd be in Spencerville in a rental car about ten A.M., but, with a stop at his farm, he wouldn't be at his rendezvous until a few hours later. Still, he could call Annie's sister Terry's house from a public phone, at some point, and say he'd be delayed.
But there was the likely possibility that air traffic would be stacked up in the morning and it might be much later before he could actually fly out of Dulles. Also, he wasn't ticketed out of Dulles.
He left the bar and went to the car rental counters, where there were long lines of people. He stood on the Avis line and eventually got to the counter. The young man behind the counter asked him, "Reservation, sir?"
"No, but I need a car. Anything will do."
"Sorry, we have absolutely nothing here and nothing coming in tonight."
Keith had already figured that out. He asked, "How about your car? I'm going to Ohio. It's a ten-hour drive. I'll give you a thousand dollars, and you can sleep in the backseat."
The young man smiled. "Tempting, but..."
"Think it over. Ask around. I'll be at the pub in the concourse."
"I'll ask around."
Keith went back to the bar and had another beer. The place was half-empty now as people gave up on the possibility of the airport reopening and as the airlines bused ticket holders to nearby motels.
At ten P.M., the young man from Avis walked in and spotted him. He said, "I asked around, but there aren't any takers." He added, "I called our other locations around the area, but there's nothing available. Probably the same all over. You might try Amtrak."
"Thanks." Keith offered him a twenty-dollar bill, which he wouldn't take. Keith went back to his beer. In most parts of the world, greenbacks could buy you the prime minister and his car. In America, money still talked, but not as loudly. Most people actually did their jobs without being bribed or bought and sometimes wouldn't even take a tip. Still, there had to be an inventive and enterprising solution to the problem of getting from point A to point B.
He thought awhile. There were many ways to get out of a city, as Keith had learned over the years. But when the airport was closed because of weather, artillery fire, or rebels on the tarmac, it put a strain on ground and sea transportation.
He considered calling Terry and explaining the situation, but that would be premature and an admission of defeat — or worse, a failure of the imagination. "Think." He thought. "Got it."
He left the bar and went to the public telephones. There were lines there, too, and he waited.
At ten-thirty, he got to a phone and called Charlie Adair's home number but got the answering machine. He said, "Charlie, I'm stranded at the airport. There's a hurricane outside, in case you haven't noticed. Send a car to take me back to the hotel. Page me here. I'm at Dulles, not National."
Keith read a newspaper in the waiting area so he could hear his name paged. He knew that Adair would get the message, because in that business you checked your answering machine by remote from wherever you were at least once an hour. The free world depended on it. Or once did.
At ten fifty-five, the public address system informed Mr. Landry to pick up a courtesy telephone. He'd already located the closest one and picked it up. A man's voice said, "Mr. Landry, this is Stewart, your driver from this morning. I got a call from Mr. Adair to..."
"Where are you now?"
"I'm here, at Dulles. I can meet you right outside of the USAir departures area."
"Five minutes." Keith walked quickly to the USAir departures doors. He saw Stewart, a gray-haired man in his fifties, standing beside the Lincoln and went over to him. Stewart put Keith's bag in the trunk, and Keith got in the front seat. Stewart asked, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the back, sir?"
"No."
Stewart got in, and they pulled away from the curb and down the ramp.
Keith said, "Thanks."
"My job, sir."
"Are you married, Stewart?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is your wife an understanding woman?"
He laughed. "No, sir." The driver proceeded slowly through the driving rain and followed the airport exit signs.
Keith asked, "What are your instructions?"
"To take you to the Four Seasons, sir. They're holding a room for you. Everything's filled up because of this weather, but Mr. Adair got you a room."
"He's a great guy."
"Mr. Adair sent me out to National as soon as he heard it was closed down, and I paged you there."
"I appreciate that."
"Then I got a call at home, and Mr. Adair said you'd gone to Dulles, so I came here."
"Modern communications are a miracle. Everyone's in touch."
"Yes, sir. I have a beeper, a car phone, and a radio."
"Did Mr. Adair say where he was calling from?"
"No, sir. But I have to call his answering machine and tell him I found you."
"I can do that." Keith picked up the cellular phone, punched in Adair's number, and said into the answering machine, "I'm in the car, Charlie. Thanks. I'll try to be there tomorrow night, but I'll go back to Ohio first. Call me on this phone." He gave him the number and said, "Talk to you later." He hung up and asked Stewart, "You ever been to Ohio?"
"No, sir."
"The Buckeye State."
"Yes, sir." Stewart glanced at him but said nothing.
They approached the entrance to the Dulles access road, and Keith said, "Take 28 north. We have to make a stop before we go back to D.C."
"Yes, sir." Stewart got onto Route 28.
Keith looked at the dashboard clock. It was a quarter past eleven P.M. He looked out the windshield. "Nasty weather."
"Yes, sir."
"I guess we knew this hurricane was on the way."
"That's what they've been saying all week. This morning they said it would touch Virginia Beach, then hit the Eastern Shore, and we'd get gale-force winds and rain by tonight. They were right."
"They certainly were. Hey, when you get to Route 7, go west."
"Okay." A few miles later, Stewart asked, "How far west are we going, Mr. Landry?"
"Oh, about... let's see — about five hundred miles."
"Sir?"
"Stewart, you're finally going to have the opportunity to see the great state of Ohio."
"I don't understand."
"It's real simple. I have to be in Ohio. No aircraft are flying out of Washington. We are driving to Ohio."
Stewart glanced at Keith, then at his radio and telephone, then said, "Mr. Adair didn't... he said to..."
"Mr. Adair is not on top of the situation, but he will be when I can speak to him."
Stewart stayed silent. In his many years as a government driver, Keith knew, Stewart had learned to do what he was told, regardless of how inconvenient or bizarre it may have seemed to him. Still, Keith thought he should say a few words to the man. Keith said, "You can call your wife and explain."
"Yes, sir. Maybe I should speak to Mr. Adair first. I don't know if I'm authorized..."
"Stewart, I just had a chat this morning with the secretary of defense and the president of the United States. Would you like me to call either of them now and get authorization?"
"No, sir."
"I'll speak to Mr. Adair in due time. You pay attention to the road. I'll dial your wife. What's the number?"
Stewart gave him the number, and Keith dialed. It took him several tries to get through because of the weather, but finally a female voice came on the line, and Keith said, "Hello, Mrs...."
Keith looked at Stewart, who said, "Arkell."
"Mrs. Arkell, this is General Landry of the National Security Council, and I'm afraid I've imposed on your husband to work a little overtime tonight... Yes, ma'am. Let me put him on." Keith handed the phone to Stewart, who took it without enthusiasm.
Stewart listened for a full minute, then got a few words in. "No, I don't know how late..."
Keith said, "Figure this time tomorrow night, to be safe."
"Yes, dear, I..."
Keith watched the rain out of the side window.
Stewart said to his wife, "I'll call you later," and hung up, grumbling something.
Keith said, "Everything okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"Here's Route 7. We take this to I-81, northbound."
"Yes, sir."
"Take it slow. We'll try to make up the time later, when we get out of this weather."
"Yes, sir. I can't go over the speed limit. That's the rules."
"Good rules. Long day?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll drive later."
"It's not allowed, General."
"Colonel. Sometimes I say general. For the ladies."
Stewart smiled for the first time.
As they traveled slowly west on Route 7, the phone rang, and Keith took it. "Hello, Charlie."
"You're still in the car?"
"No, I'm running alongside."
"Stewart found you okay?"
"Yes, I'm in the car now. That's where you called me."
"You should have been in the Four Seasons by now. Where are you?"
"Still in the car."
"Where in the fucking car?"
"Route 7."
"Why? What's wrong with the Dulles road?"
"Nothing, as far as I know."
There was a silence, and Keith could hear music and talking in the background. Charlie asked, "Where are you headed, Keith?"
"You know where I'm headed."
"Jesus Christ, man, you can't hijack a government car and driver..."
"Why not? I've hijacked other governments' cars and drivers. Why not my own?"
Charlie took a deep breath and asked, "Is Stewart with you?"
"He is. We took care of his wife, you take care of the authorization. I'll try to get back tomorrow night. Enjoy your party or dinner or whatever. Thanks, bye..."
"Wait. Listen, can't you just call her and tell her you'll be flying out of D.C. tomorrow?"
"No. I have a morning rendezvous."
"Tell her to fly here in the morning."
"We're eloping together."
"You're being difficult, Keith."
"I'm being difficult? You shanghaied me to Washington. You knew about the hurricane."
"No, I didn't. Well, it was supposed to blow out to sea. Look, why can't she just fly..."
"Charlie, you met her husband. This is a bad guy. She'd like me to be there when she breaks loose. Also, I've got things I have to get from my house. Okay?"
"Okay. No use arguing with a man who's following his dick. You going to make it?"
Keith looked at the dashboard clock. It was twelve-ten A.M. He said, "Close."
"Good luck, buddy. Tell Stewart I owe him one. Call tomorrow."
"Will do." He hung up and told Stewart, "Mr. Adair owes you a big favor."
"He owes me lots of them."
"Me, too."
They drove another half hour and picked up I-81 north. Keith said, "Pay attention to the route. You're coming back alone."
"Yes, sir."
Keith settled back in his seat. "So, what did you think of the Orioles this year?"
"Not much. The only way they'll get to the Series is if they buy tickets."
"You follow college football?"
"Sure."
"The Buckeyes look great again."
"They sure do."
They drove and talked sports. The rain tapered off as they moved away from the hurricane activity, and Stewart agreed to do ten miles an hour over the limit after they crossed into Maryland.
At Hagerstown, Keith told him to pick up I-70 westbound. It was a good road, almost devoid of traffic at that hour, but it wound through the Appalachian Mountains, and Stewart, who had been an aggressive urban driver, became very timid.
Keith asked him to pull over at a rest stop, where Stewart made a quick trip to the John and returned to find Keith behind the wheel. "Sir, you're not authorized to drive this car."
"Except in an emergency, which is you nodding off behind the wheel. Lie down in the back, Stewart, and get some rest, or I'll leave you here."
"Yes, sir." Stewart got into the rear and lay down on the wide seat.
Keith continued on. Within fifteen minutes, he heard snores coming from the rear. He played the radio at a low volume and listened to country music from a Wheeling, West Virginia, station. There was a funny song about a divorced guy who sang, "She got the gold mine, I got the shaft," that Keith found a welcome break from all the heartache-and-misery songs.
South of Pittsburgh, on I-70, Keith stopped for fuel. It was four-twenty A.M., and Columbus was about five more hours, he knew, then another two hours on secondary and country roads to Spencerville and about an hour to Chatham. He wasn't going to make his ten A.M. appointment in Chatham County, or the two-fifteen flight out of Toledo. But he should be close enough to go ahead with the plan in some modified form.
At seven A.M., still a few hours out of Columbus, Keith tried to dial Chatham County information to get Terry's number, but he had no luck getting the car phone to connect. He pulled over at a rest stop and went to a pay phone. Stewart woke up, got out, and stretched.
Keith got the area code operator and asked for the number of Terry or Lawrence Ingram in Chatham County. A recording gave him the number, and he used his credit card to make the call.
A female voice answered, "Hello?"
"Terry?"
"Yes?"
"This is Keith Landry."
"Oh, my God! Oh..."
"Is everything all right there?"
"Yes. Where are you? Are you coming? What time is it?"
"Terry, listen to me. I'm on the road, east of Columbus. I'm going to be late. I won't be there until... sometime early afternoon. Okay? I have to go to my place first. You got all that?"
"Yes... Annie will be here at ten. What should I tell her?"
Keith took a deep breath. Clearly, not everyone in the Prentis family was sharp. "Tell her what I just said."
"Oh. Okay. Keith, I'm so excited for both of you. You don't know how unhappy she's been. This is wonderful, like a dream, I can't believe this is happening."
Keith let her go on for a while, then interrupted. "Terry, do not call her. Listen, I think her phone may be tapped. Your call may wind up at police headquarters. Understand?"
"Yes... but she'll be coming here at ten..."
"Fine. Tell her in person. Have lunch. I'll be there as soon as I can. We'll catch a later flight. Okay?"
"Yes, I'll tell her. What time?.."
"About one. I won't call again. Just tell her to wait."
"I can't wait to see you again."
"Me, too. Thanks, Terry. Thanks for being the middleman all these years. Just this one last time. Okay?"
"Where are you now?"
"Near Columbus, Ohio. I'm driving in from Washington. There was bad weather, and I couldn't get a flight back. When Annie gets there, tell her I'm on the way and I apologize. Also, tell her not to call my house. My phone may also be tapped."
"Your phone?"
"Yes, my phone. By her husband."
"He's a bastard. I hate him."
"Right." Keith went through it one more time, then said, "See you later." He hung up and got back in the car. He said to Stewart, who was now sitting in the front passenger seat, "You want to call home? I'll give you my credit card."
"No, thanks. I'll call from Ohio."
"We're in Ohio."
"Oh... I'll call later. It's too early."
Keith started the car and got on the road, taking the circular highway north around Columbus, then headed north and west on Route 23.
It was a sunny day, cool, with scattered white clouds. There was some early Saturday traffic, mostly campers and recreational vehicles, heading up to the lakes, probably, or to Michigan.
Stewart seemed fascinated with the countryside. "It's all farms. What's that stuff? Corn?"
"Yes, corn."
"Who eats all that corn? I eat corn maybe once a month. You eat a lot of corn out here?"
Rather than explain about field corn and sweet corn, cattle feed and people food, Keith said, "We eat corn three times a day."
Stewart was wide awake now and enjoying the scenery. He pointed out barns, cattle, and pigs to Keith.
They made good time, but not great time, and it was almost eleven A.M. when they crossed into Spencer County.
Keith slowed down and took it easy the last fifteen miles. He saw no county or municipal police on the roads, and they wouldn't recognize this car anyway, but he didn't want a problem this close to the end.
Keith pulled up to his driveway and took a few pieces of mail out of his box, nipping through it as he pulled up to the house. It was mostly junk mail, but there was also a summons for him to appear in Spencerville traffic court for a variety of parking violations that he didn't recall getting tickets for. Petty harassment, but he realized he could be pulled over by the police anytime if he didn't answer the summons by the appearance date, which was Monday. He'd be long gone by then.
Stewart asked, "You live here?"
"I do." Keith stopped near the front porch and got out. Stewart got out, too, and was busy looking around, so Keith got his bag from the trunk and said, "Come on in and wash up."
They entered the house through the front door, and Keith led Stewart up the stairs. "Bathroom's there. Meet you downstairs. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator."
Keith went into his room and threw his garment bag on the bed, then took the packed suitcase out of the wardrobe cabinet. His overnight bag was always packed with toiletries and underwear, a habit from two decades of unplanned travel. His briefcase was already packed with his important papers, and he slipped his passport in his suit jacket pocket.
The bathroom was empty now, and Keith cleaned up, then took his things downstairs.
Stewart was in the kitchen having a glass of orange juice, and Keith poured the last of the juice into a glass for himself. He said, "Sorry I have nothing to offer you for breakfast, Stewart."
"Oh, that's okay." He looked around. "This is a real old house."
"About a hundred years old. Can you find your way back to Washington?"
"I think so."
Keith took four hundred dollars out of his wallet and said, "This is for gas, food, and tolls. Stop at a farm stand and get some fresh produce. Mrs. Arkell will love it."
"Thank you, Colonel. I had a good time."
"I knew you would. We'll do it again sometime."
"Can I use your phone, sir?"
"No, it's tapped. No one knows I'm here. Call from the road."
Stewart had been around long enough not to be surprised or to ask questions. Keith steered Stewart toward the door, and Stewart carried the suitcase out to the porch. Keith gave Stewart directions to Route 23 and said, "The cops in this county are tough. Take it easy."
"Yes, sir. Hope I see you in Washington again."
"You never know." They shook hands, and Stewart left.
Keith ran through a mental checklist, then closed and locked the front door, and carried his luggage out back to the Blazer.
There was a note on the front seat, and Keith read the printed message: You was supposed to be gone by Friday, and I see your car still here. I'll be coming around Monday to see if you're gone.
The note was unsigned and not written in words that could be construed as threatening in a court of law. But Keith had no intention of going to the county prosecutor. He was either going to kill Baxter or let him live. The choice was actually Baxter's.
Keith wondered why Baxter was waiting until Monday, then realized that Baxter was away on his Saturday hunting or fishing trip. And tomorrow being the Sabbath, even Police Chief Baxter might want a day of peace and rest. It didn't matter. Keith would be gone before Monday. In fact, by tonight, when Cliff Baxter returned home and didn't see his wife there, he might figure it out and realize that indeed Keith Landry was gone, and so was Mrs. Baxter. Keith wondered if she would leave him a note.
Keith got in the Blazer and turned the ignition switch. Nothing happened. Completely dead. He popped the hood release, got out, and lifted the hood. The battery was gone, and in its place was a note that said, simply, "Fuck you."
Keith took a deep breath. The man was making it difficult for Keith to keep his promise to Annie. All in all, the last few days hadn't been good days, starting with Charlie Adair driving up to his house. The White House was no treat, either. Neither was Hurricane Jack. Now this. "Okay, Landry. A new transportation problem." He thought a moment, then walked to the barn. The garden tractor had a 12-volt battery, and it should have enough amps to kick over the Blazer.
He slid open the door and sat on the tractor. He was going to start it, ride it over to the Blazer, let it charge awhile, then put the tractor battery in his car. He pushed the starter button. Dead. But he heard a clicking sound and looked at the dashboard. Someone had turned on the headlight switch, and the battery had run down. "Cliff, you're getting on my nerves."
He got off the tractor and looked out across the road at the Jenkins farmhouse. He could borrow a battery from them, but he noticed that both their vehicles, the car and the pickup truck, were gone. He could borrow their tractor battery, with or without their knowledge, but you didn't do that around here.
He went inside and tried the Jenkinses' number, but, as he thought, no one was home. The Muller farm was about a half-mile walk down the road. "Damn it."
He looked through the phone directory and called a service station out on the highway, and they said they'd be there in half an hour with a new battery. The man added, "Damn kids probably stole it. You ought to call the cops."
"I will." He gave them directions to his farm and hung up. "Maybe I should have called Baxter Motors because that's where my battery is."
He considered calling Terry. Annie was there now, waiting, and Cliff Baxter was presumably out of town. But what if his calls did actually go through police headquarters? No matter how guarded he tried to be with Terry, or whoever answered, the call would be like a four-alarm bell ringing at police headquarters. All his instincts, as well as his tradecraft, said, "Do not use the phone."
He used the time to shave, shower, and change into casual clothes, all the while trying to put these bad omens into a happier context. The course of true love never did run smooth. "Tonight, Washington, dinner with the Adairs, Sunday, maybe the National Cathedral, Monday, Charlie's tour of Washington, then submit a written turndown of the job offer, get the passport, and fly to Rome no later than Wednesday." Sounded good. "Where's the damned battery? For want of a nail, the king sat in Dumferling Town." Something like that.
About forty minutes after he'd called, a pickup truck came into the driveway, and within ten minutes, he had a new battery. He started the Blazer while the serviceman was still there, and everything seemed to be all right.
Keith pulled out of the driveway, and within a few minutes was heading south on a straight country road toward Chatham County. It was one thirty-five P.M., and he'd be there in less than an hour.
A blue and white Spencer County sheriff's car fell in behind him. At this point, Keith couldn't care less. There was only the driver in the car, and Keith decided that if the sheriff pulled him over, the sheriff would find himself hog-tied in the trunk of his own car.
At the southern end of Spencer County, Keith got onto an eastbound highway, giving the impression he was heading to Columbus and points east, in case the man was wondering why Keith Landry was taking the rural road to Chatham County.
The sheriff's car kept following, but as they approached the Dawson County line to the east, the sheriff's car turned off. Keith continued on, out of his way, for another ten minutes, then turned south, then west again toward Chatham. He suspected that the Spencer sheriff had radioed to his Dawson counterpart to track the Blazer, but Keith didn't pick up any tails. The rural sheriff's departments were small, and the counties were big. Compared to the drives he used to make from the West German border across East Germany to Berlin, this was easy. But when you were avoiding the police, whether they were rural sheriffs in the American heartland or the Stasi on the prowl in East Germany, luck played a big part in the game.
Within fifteen minutes, he crossed the county line into Chatham. He didn't know exactly where he was, but it was easy to navigate the grid squares of roads, which ran almost true to the cardinal points of the compass.
Eventually, he found himself on County Road 6 and continued west, reading the road markers of the intersecting township roads numbered in descending order until he got to T-3, the road where Terry lived, where Annie was waiting. He didn't know if he should turn left or right but flipped a coin in his mind and turned left. He drove slowly, looking for the red brick Victorian house, which he saw up ahead on the right. Truly, he thought, some sixth sense had gotten him here without a wrong turn, and he remembered with a smile what Charlie had said about following his reproductive organ, though Keith believed he was following his heart, which was beating rapidly now.
He slowed down and turned into the gravel drive. The first thing he noticed was that there was only one vehicle in the driveway, and it was a pickup truck. The next thing that disturbed him was that the side door of the house opened, and the woman who came out to meet him, though she looked like Annie, was not Annie.