JOE WATCHED AS Lenora picked up her purse, scooted out of the booth, and stood. Once again men at the bar turned on their stools to stare as the stylish, shapely black woman walked by.
He sat there for a time, stunned by what Lenora had said. And by her fear. His hope of finding a sane way to deal with the threat against Jamie was evaporating.
It was his threat now, too. He had no doubt about that. At this very minute there were people looking for both of them. And that knowledge made him more afraid than he had ever been in his life. Even so, there was an inviolate corner of his being that believed that if he and Jamie could keep their wits intact, they would find a way to prevail, that right would win over wrong.
Maybe they should follow Lenora’s advice and leave the country. But to pull that off they would need new identities and passports. That wasn’t something he could make happen overnight. At some point he would have to get more money. He had invested most of the money that he’d inherited from his aunt Lacy, and he wasn’t sure how quickly he could access those funds. But what if Gus Hartmann had made it all vanish the way he’d made Jamie’s bank account vanish? What if the only money they had was the cash he’d left with Jamie and what was in his billfold?
He left enough money on the table to cover the bar tab and tip then headed for the door. The men who had stared at Lenora paid no attention to his departure. Except for one man. The guy seated at the end of the bar was watching him in the mirror. Joe could tell by the tilt of his chin. The man had the bulked-up muscles of a dedicated weight lifter and was wearing black jeans and a blue shirt.
Out front, Joe looked up and down the parking lot, taking note of the vehicles parked there, then got on his bike and drove around aimlessly for a while. When he spotted the black Ford pickup in his rearview mirror, Joe abruptly turned into a service station and lingered for a time, using the restroom, filling the Harley’s half-full tank, sipping a cup of coffee that tasted as though it had been brewed this morning. When he left the service station, he drove a few miles then without using his turn signal, turned into a convenience-store parking lot and stopped by a drive-up pay phone. As the black truck turned into a McDonald’s across the street, Joe took off down the side street.
The phone lines at Bentley Abernathy’s law office had been tapped, Joe realized. Someone had listened to his phone conversation with Lenora. And the driver of the black truck had been waiting for him at the Holiday Inn.
Fortunately he had lived in Austin for the seven years it took for him to complete his undergraduate and law degrees and knew the city well. He spent a couple of hours randomly driving through a maze of back streets, waiting until he was absolutely certain that no one could possibly be following him. But just to make sure, he headed for I-35, traveling north for a time, then made a U-turn and headed back into central Austin, where he abandoned the interstate altogether and headed across town to Highway 71. He pulled in at the first truck stop.
He parked in the shadows behind the building and carefully wiped the dust off his Harley. Then, leaving the key in the ignition, he retrieved his backpack, gave the bike a good-bye pat, and headed into the sea of parked rigs.
It took him a while to find a ride. The driver was heading for Galveston with a load of wrecked vehicles that had been smashed and stacked on the flatbed like decks of cards. Leon was his name. An older guy with bad teeth. He’d been driving twelve hours straight and needed someone to keep him awake. That was Joe’s job. “I prefer sports talk,” Leon said. “No politics unless you’re a Democrat.”
Once they were on the highway, Leon said, “Start talking, kid.”
In spite of a punch-drunk state brought about by his own sleep deprivation, Joe somehow managed to conduct a mumbling discourse that went from baseball to the historical development of the Democratic Party to the role that team sports played in character development.
After spending a long, lonely day and sleepless night without Joe, the walls were beginning to push in on Jamie. She gave Billy a bath and looked through the newspapers. When she reached the religion section, she read and reread an article printed there, then carefully tore it out of the newspaper and put it into the side pocket of her backpack along with the roll of bills Joe had put there.
Even antsier than before, she washed her hair and did some push-ups. Finally she put Billy in his sling, shouldered the backpack, and headed out the back door. She locked the door behind her and tucked the key in the backpack.
It was a beautiful day with only a soft breeze to ruffle her hair. The gulls circled overhead and the sandpipers raced along the beach. Far out at sea, she could see a large tanker. Closer in there were smaller craft-pleasure and fishing boats.
She walked for a couple of miles. The only people she saw were an older man and a young boy digging for clams. She waved and continued on her walk. On her way back, they were still there. A happy sight. She imagined bringing Billy back here someday to dig for clams and throw pieces of bread in the air for the gulls to catch.
Billy was beginning to protest his confinement, so she took him out of the sling and, holding him so that he faced outward, cut inland a couple of hundred yards for a change of scenery and wound through the dunes, occasionally spotting a hermit crab scampering about. At one point, she knelt in the sand to take a better look at one of the ugly little creatures that confiscate the shells of sea snails for their portable homes. “See there, Billy,” she said. “He carries his house around with him. That’s what we’re going to do when Joe gets back.”
While she was kneeling there, she saw something moving just beyond the stand of beach grass. Holding Billy like a sack of potatoes on her hip, she crept forward a bit and parted the grass just enough to see two men heading toward the cabin. The men were young, athletic-looking, and dressed alike in jeans, navy blue T-shirts, and matching baseball caps. She might have mistaken them for two regular guys out for a walk on the beach except that they were hunched over and keeping to the depressions between the dunes as they approached the cabin.
It was happening again. They had tracked her down.
Immediately she dropped lower and scooted in among the clumps of grass, where she lay on her side clutching Billy against her chest. His little body was tense. She could tell that he was about to cry. Hurriedly, she curled her body around him, pulled up her T-shirt, and unhooked the flap on her bra. Just as Billy was about to voice his displeasure, she got a nipple into his mouth.
She heard the screen door slam as other men came running toward the cabin. “Fan out,” she heard a voice call. With her arms around Billy, she used her feet to scoot deeper into the stand of grass as men headed up and down the beach. Others were running toward the other cabins and pounding on doors. She worked hard to control the panic that filled her chest and pushed on her rib cage, making it hard to breathe. She dug in the sand with her free hand, making a trench to lie in. When it was finished, she rolled into it and bent the tall grass so that it arched over her and Billy.
Harvey Morgan was half watching a baseball game and making a second perusal through the morning papers when the doorbell rang. Since he wasn’t expecting anyone, he assumed it was either a kid selling something to raise money for his or her school, scout troop, or church, or a pair of bike-riding Mormon missionaries fresh from the barbershop. Harvey always bought something from the kids. The missionaries got a less friendly response.
The unshaven man standing on his front porch wasn’t a kid, and he certainly wasn’t a Mormon.
“Mr. Morgan, it’s Joe Brammer,” the man said, removing his hat.
“Joe?” Harvey queried, looking over the top of his reading glasses. “Where’s your hair? You look like hell.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I need to talk to you. It’s very important.”
Harvey pushed open the screen door and stepped to one side while the young man entered, then led the way to the room he and Betty had built onto the back of their house that most people would call a family room, but since he and Betty didn’t have kids they referred to it as the back room. Marvin, the elderly beagle, looked up from the sofa when they entered the room and thumped his tail a few times.
“I remember you,” Joe said, bending to scratch the dog’s chin. “Glad to see that you’re still around.”
Harvey picked up the remote and switched off the television. “Sit down,” he told Joe as he gestured toward the unoccupied end of the sofa. Then he settled himself back into his well-worn easy chair, where he now spent too damned much of his time. He and Marvin were going to turn to stone pretty soon if they didn’t start moving around more.
Harvey watched while Joe continued to pet the dog as he glanced around the room, which-except for being dusty and cluttered with stacks of newspapers-was pretty much the same as it had been when Betty used to give the boy milk and cookies after he finished working in the yard. Or sometimes Joe had simply showed up at the door wanting to return a book or looking for a chess game. Harvey had taught the boy to play. Joe was a reasonably good player but not exceptional. Mostly, though, Joe had wanted to discuss whatever book he was returning, which was always from Harvey’s collection of what Joe called spy books. These books included histories, theoretical treatises, exposés, biographies and autobiographies, and novels detailing careers in and the business of intelligence gathering. And the boy would ask countless questions concerning Harvey’s own years at the CIA. Harvey’s area had been profiling. After years as a double agent, he had become one of the early practitioners in the field and had compiled profiles on world leaders, dictators, political figures, military leaders, and sometimes other spies. Only when he had a heart attack and was forced to retire at age fifty-two did what was left of his family learn the true nature of his government service. He moved back to Houston to be near his ailing mother, renew old friendships, and figure out if there was life after danger and cigarettes. The wife of a friend from his high school days convinced him to accompany them to a school reunion and made sure he met up with his former high school sweetheart, who had been widowed a number of years earlier. He and Betty had had twenty wonderful years together, especially after she retired from her teaching job and they began trekking about the country in their RV. Now he felt lost without her. He even thought about taking up smoking again.
“Mom saw Mrs. Morgan’s obituary in the newspaper,” Joe said. “I’m really sorry. She was a great lady and the best teacher I ever had.”
Harvey nodded. “Your mother wrote a nice note. She mentioned that you had finished law school and were spending some time abroad.”
Harvey recalled how Betty had commented on more than one occasion that if she’d ever had a son, she would have liked him to be just like Joe Brammer. Harvey had agreed with her. Joe was a good kid.
“Okay, son, you need to tell me why you showed up at my front door unannounced, on foot, and unshaven except for your head.”
“I’m afraid that I’m involved in an extremely unusual situation,” Joe explained. “I can assure you that I haven’t done anything illegal or even unethical, but my girlfriend and I are being hunted down by some sort of government agents whom I believe answer to someone high up in the national government. I’m sure the agents involved think they are tracking some sort of international terrorists or a spy who stole national secrets, when what is really at issue is a gross misuse of power over something quite personal and has nothing to do with the law or international intrigue or any sort of threat to the United States government or its elected leaders.”
Harvey nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said. “So, tell me, just what is it that you want from me?”
Joe sat up straighter. “Transportation,” he said. “Do you still have the camper?”
“It’s a ‘recreational vehicle,’” Harvey corrected. “And yes, I still have it. I’ve only used it once since Betty died, though. Traveling around the country isn’t the same without her.”
“I need the RV,” Joe said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes, sir. I would like to sign some sort of lease, but I’d rather not leave a paper trail. If I live through this, you’ll get it back. If not, I’m sure my parents will reimburse you out of the money I inherited from my great-aunt, unless it has mysteriously disappeared, which is what happened to my girlfriend’s bank account.”
“So you want to just get in and drive away without me telling anyone that I’ve seen you or that I no longer have an RV in my garage?” Harvey asked.
“Yes, sir. Not even my parents, should you happen to run into them. I know they’re worried about me, but their phone lines are tapped and their house is being watched. I don’t dare call them or go over there, and I really need for you not to mention to them or anyone else that I’ve been here.”
“I’ll make you a deal, son,” Harvey said. “You tell me about your troubles, and I’ll let you take the RV.”
Joe shook his head. “I can’t let you get involved. You can always say that I stole the RV, but if these people thought that you knew what was going on…” He paused, apparently not wanting or unable to put into words the seriousness of the risk.
“Joe, there was a time in my life when I carried around a little pill to put under my tongue if my cover was blown. Now the love of my life is dead. I don’t have any children. I’m bored as hell. And I just might be able to help you. It might be the last opportunity I have to be significantly useful to another human being, so I’ll get you a beer and I want you to start talking.”
Joe closed his eyes and slumped against the back of the sofa. Marvin actually roused himself enough to scoot closer and push his head under Joe’s hand. Absently Joe began stroking him. Harvey could well imagine what was going on in the boy’s head. Here he was in the presence of someone who would be a knowledgeable listener and just might have some insights as to how he might extract himself from the situation in which he found himself. But anyone who helped him might also face the same danger that he faced.
Finally Joe’s eyes opened. “I didn’t come here to get you involved.”
“I know you didn’t, son. You need my RV so you can better manage being on the run. But it would be absolute torture for you to leave this retired old spy sitting here in his easy chair not knowing what the hell you’re running from.”
Joe actually grinned.
Harvey grinned back. “Before we get to the serious stuff, though, let’s have a bite of lunch.” He installed Joe on the kitchen stool and put a bowl of chips and a can of beer in front of him. He actually felt happy or something closely akin to it as he bustled about the kitchen making tuna-salad sandwiches and iced tea. While he worked, Harvey asked Joe about law school and his travels abroad.
Harvey was touched when Joe turned the conversation to Betty, saying how all the kids at Memorial High School knew they could go to her with their problems whether they were enrolled in one of her math classes or not. He found himself telling Joe about Betty’s final illness and how valiant she was and how much he missed her. “Don’t get me wrong,” Harvey said. “Betty and I had our disagreements and pouts like anyone else, but all in all it was twenty damned good years.”
After they’d eaten, Harvey took Joe out to the garage and showed him the RV, which had traveled more than 200,000 miles over its two decades and was on its second motor but had been diligently maintained and ran like a top. The vehicle was almost too large for the garage but was considerably smaller than Joe had remembered. But with a double bed, minuscule bathroom, kitchen facilities, and small table, it was all they needed. Harvey explained how to fill the water tank, dump the holding tank, and turn on the pilot light for the hot-water tank. The vehicle was fully equipped with dishes, towels, and bedding.
Then they settled down in the back room. Joe did most of the talking, of course, but Harvey listened with great care and asked questions when appropriate. The look on Joe’s face when he spoke of Jamie Long brought the ache of missing to Harvey’s heart. When he learned of Jamie’s involvement with the Hartmann family, his heart sank.
At the end of Joe’s tale, Harvey went to the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee. Over coffee he told Joe what little he knew about the Hartmanns. From time to time, during his decades-long career as a profiler observing and drawing conclusions about the inner workings of the minds of world leaders, he had come across the Hartmann name. He knew that Buck Hartmann had had no qualms about doing business with tyrants, and that those same tyrants had looked forward to the day when Buck’s son, Jason, would be president of the United States. But Jason had died, and old Buck had groomed his grandson to take over the family’s business interests but not to enter the political arena. Gus Hartmann was too short for that. And probably too smart.
“Probably Gus wants an heir as much as his sister does,” Harvey speculated. “He needs someone to take over the family business, and she probably wants a child who can carry on the family ministry. Your Jamie has gotten herself into one hell of a mess, that’s for sure. And now you’re right in there with her, Joe.”
Joe looked exhausted, and Harvey wanted to mull things over before he said any more, so he suggested they call it a night and showed Joe to the guest room. “I’ll get up early and take the RV in for servicing,” Harvey said. “When I get back we’ll continue our discussion.”
Harvey was already organizing his thoughts for tomorrow’s session. And spent several hours at the computer before finally going to bed. He was quite certain that Joe was never going to get to Gus Hartmann. But Amanda Hartmann was a very public person.
He wasn’t even sleepy when he finally went to bed. He felt more alert and vital than he had in years.