Mr. Morolto waved his hand in frustration. "All right, all right. So they're here. You guys are geniuses. I'm so proud of you. Now what?"
DeVasher's turn: "The Fibbies are in the way. They're in control of the search, and we can't do nothing but sit and watch."
Lazarov: "I've called Memphis. Every senior associate in is on the way down here. They know McDeere and his wife real well, so we'll put them on the beach and in restaurants and hotels. Maybe they'll see something."
DeVasher: "I figure they're in one of the little motels. They can give fake names, pay in cash and nobody'll be suspicious. Fewer people too. Less likelihood of being seen. They checked in at the Holiday Inn but didn't stay long. I bet they moved on down the Strip."
Lazarov: "First, we'll get rid of the feds and the cops. They don't know it yet, but they're about to move their show on down the road. Then, early in the morning, we start door to door at the small motels. Most of these dumps have less than fifty rooms. I figure two of our men can search one in thirty minutes. I know it'll be slow, but we can't just sit here. Maybe when the cops pull out, the McDeeres will breathe a little and make a mistake."
"You mean you want our men to start searching hotel rooms?" Mr. Morolto asked.
DeVasher: "There's no way we can hit every door, but we gotta try."
Mr. Morolto stood and glanced around the room. "So what about the water?" he asked in the direction of Lazarov and DeVasher.
They stared at each other, thoroughly confused by the question.
"The water!" Mr. Morolto screamed. "What about the water?"
All eyes shot desperately around the table and quickly landed upon Lazarov. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm confused."
Mr. Morolto leaned into Lazarov's face. "What about the water, Lou? We're on a beach, right? There's land and highways and railroads and airports on one side, and there's water and boats on the other. Now, if the roads are blocked and the airports and railroads are out of the question, where do you think they might go? It seems obvious to me they would try to find a boat and ease out in the dark. Makes sense, don't it, boys?"
Every head in the room nodded quickly. DeVasher spoke first. "Makes a hell of a lot of sense to me."
"Wonderful," said Mr. Morolto. "Then where are our boats?"
Lazarov jumped from his seat, turned to the wall and began barking orders at his lieutenants. "Go down to the docks! Rent every fishing boat you can find for tonight and all day tomorrow. Pay them whatever they want. Don't answer any questions, just pay 'em the money. Get our men on those boats and start patrolling as soon as possible. Stay within a mile of shore."
Shortly before eleven, Friday night, Aaron Rimmer stood at the checkout counter at an all-night Texaco in Tallahassee and paid for a root beer and twelve gallons of gas. He needed change for the call. Outside, next to the car wash, he flipped through the blue pages and called the Tallahassee Police Department. It was an emergency. He explained himself, and the dispatcher connected him with a shift captain.
"Listen!" Rimmer yelled urgently, "I'm here at this Texaco, and five minutes ago I saw these convicts everybody is looking for! I know it was them!"
"Which convicts?" asked the captain.
"The McDeeres. Two men and a woman. I left Panama City Beach not two hours ago, and I saw their pictures in the paper. Then I stopped here and filled up, and I saw them."
Rimmer gave his location and waited thirty seconds for the first patrol car to arrive with blue lights flashing. It was quickly followed by a second, third and fourth. They loaded Rimmer in a front seat and raced him to the South Precinct. The captain and a small crowd waited anxiously. Rimmer was escorted like a celebrity into the captain's oflice, where the three composites and mug shot were waiting on the desk.
"That's them!" he shouted. "I just saw them, not ten minutes ago. They were in a green Ford pickup with Tennessee plates, and it was pulling a long double-axle U-Haul trailer."
"Exactly where were you?" asked the captain. The cops hung on every word.
"I was pumping gas, pump number four, regular unleaded, and they eased into the parking lot, real suspicious like. They parked away from the pumps, and the woman got out and went inside." He picked up Abby's composite and studied it. "Yep. That's her. No doubt. Her hair's a lot shorter, but it's dark. She came right back out, didn't buy a thing. She seemed nervous and in a hurry to get back to the truck. I was finished pumping, so I walked inside. Right when I opened the door, they drove within two, feet of me. I saw all three of them."
"Who was driving?" asked the captain. Rimmer stared at Ray's mug shot. "Not him. The other one." He pointed at Mitch's composite.
"Could I see your driver's license," a sergeant said.
Rimmer carried three sets of identification. He handed the sergeant an Illinois driver's license with his picture and the name Frank-Temple.
"Which direction were they headed?" the captain asked.
"East."
At the same moment, about four miles away, Tony Ver-kler hung up the pay phone, smiled to himself and returned to the Burger King.
The captain was on the phone. The sergeant was copying information from Rimmer/Temple's driver's license and a dozen cops chatted excitedly when a patrolman rushed into the office "Just got a call! Another sighting, at a Burger King east of town. Same info! All three of them in a green Ford pickup pulling a U-Haul. Guy wouldn't leave a name, but said he saw their pictures in the paper. Said they pulled through the carry-out window, bought three sacks of food and took off."
"It's gotta be them!" the captain said with a huge smile.
The Bay County sheriff sipped thick black coffee from a Styrofoam cup and rested his black boots on the executive conference table in the Caribbean Room at the Holiday Inn. FBI agents were in and out, fixing coffee, whispering and updating each other on the latest. His hero, the big man himself, Director F. Denton Voyles, sat across the table and studied a street map with three of his underlings. Imagine, Denton Voyles in Bay County. The room was a beehive of police activity. Florida state troopers filtered in and out. Radios and telephones rang and squawked on a makeshift command post in a corner. Sheriff's deputies and city policemen from three counties loitered about, thrilled with the chase and suspense and presence of all those FBI agents. And Voyles.
A deputy burst through the door with a wild-eyed glow of sheer excitement. "Just got a call from Tallahassee! They've got two positive IDs in the last fifteen minutes! All three of them in a green Ford pickup with Tennessee tags!"
Voyles dropped his street map and walked over to the deputy. "Where were the sightings?" The room was silent, except for the radios.
"First one was at a Texaco Quick Shop. Second one was four miles away at a Burger King. They drove through the drive-in window. Both witnesses were positive and gave identical IDs."
Voyles turned to the sheriff. "Sheriff, call Tallahassee and confirm. How far away is it?"
The black boots hit the floor. "Hour and a half. Straight down Interstate 10."
Voyles pointed at Tarrance, and they stepped into a small room used as the bar. The quiet roar returned to mission control.
"If the sightings are real," Voyles said quietly in Tarranee's face, "we're wasting our time here."
"Yes, sir. They sound legitimate. A single sighting could be a fluke or a prank, but two that close together sound awfully legitimate."
"How the hell did they get out of here?"
"It's gotta be that woman, Chief. She's been helping him for a month. I don't know who she is, or where he found her, but she's on the outside watching us and feeding him whatever he needs."
"Do you think she's with them?"
"Doubt it. She's probably just following closely, away from the action, and taking directions from him."
"He's brilliant, Wayne. He's been planning this for months."
"Evidently."
"You mentioned the Bahamas once."
"Yes, sir. The million bucks we paid him was wired to a bank in Freeport. He later told me it didn't stay there long."
"You think, maybe, he's headed there?"