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all-out search. The other way, however, appeared to be clear.
But instead of going that way, Kurt pulled slowly out of the woods and headed
for the flashing lights. That was where the next farm road in his escape route
lay. The sight of the police car goaded him in the opposite direction. A more
rational voice, however, said it was better to stick to his plan and that it
was better to drive toward trouble he could see rather than risk the unknown.
The police up ahead would be concentrating on whoever they d pulled over and
would not be as apt to see his darkened motorcycle cruising toward them.
With the engine running at nothing more than a purr, Kurt drove halfway to the
police car and then turned right onto another road leading up into more
cornfields. The road went steadily uphill until he and Jill were high enough
so they could look back and see the Apache, which had now been joined by
another helicopter, crisscrossing the large thick wood they d just left. A
second police car, lights flashing, raced down the road they d just taken from
the opposite direction on its way to the cruiser that had pulled over the
pickup truck. Kurt felt a grateful sense of relief that he d followed his plan
rather than his instinct to just run.
After another hour of careful travel, they turned north onto 38A, the main
road that ran up along the eastern shore of Owasco Lake, Skaneateles s sister
that lay to the west. Several miles after that they reached Auburn. Kurt took
side streets to the Wal-Mart. He wasn t worried about being pulled over
arbitrarily this far from where they d been chased, but he was concerned that
his lack of a helmet could draw the attention of a local cop. When they
reached the large illuminated parking lot, he eased in among the rest of the
traffic and pulled right up next to his Suburban, looking around him as if he
hadn t a care in the world.
An overweight woman wearing a ratty pair of furry slippers and a tent-sized
house shirt shuffled past under the blue-white light. She gave Kurt s wet suit
a funny look. Kurt stared right back at her and she averted her eyes, moving
quickly on.
Will you drive? he asked Jill.
Of course, she said, noticing for the first time that he was in pain. What
happened? Are you hurt?
I was shot, Kurt said grimly.
Where? she gasped. Let me see. Kurt, we need to get you to a doctor!
Kurt shook his head, unlocked the Suburban s doors, and handed her the keys.
We ve got to get out of here, he said, rounding the vehicle and getting in.
We ll worry about that later. The bullet went through and I think the
bleeding has slowed down.
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Slowed down? she said incredulously as she started the ignition. Let me get
some bandages at least.
All right, he said, but not here. Let s get away from the bike. Let s get
out of town and we can stop at a drugstore along the road. We ve got to get as
far from here as we can. Even though I didn t do anything to the president,
they ll put me in jail, Jill. You understand that, don t you?
Jill bit her lower lip and nodded her head. Yes, she said. And I know I ll
be in trouble too, if they catch us.
No, Kurt said, you won t. If we re caught, we ll say I forced you to drive
me. I m not letting you take any of the blame. The thing I m more worried
about though is Claiborne and his people. If they find out I m alive, they ll
try to kill me . . . I just don t know how many of them there are. I don t
know how deep this thing goes.
Where are we going now? she asked. Do you want me to go to the Thruway?
Yes, he said. Do you know how to get there?
I take a right here and then a right on Thirty-four, she said as she drove
out of the Wal-Mart parking lot.
Right.
As she made the turn, she asked, Are we taking the Thruway to the Northway,
and then to Montreal?
No, Kurt said. We ll take the Thruway to Eighty-one. Then go south.
Jill started to speak, but the words got caught in her throat.
Eighty-one south? she asked hesitantly. You mean north?
No, south.
Kurt, why?
Because, he said, we re going to Washington.
CHAPTER 42
Claiborne took a commercial flight back to the capital, leaving the state
police and the FBI to their fruitless search for Ford. His fellow passengers
and the flight attendants on the airplane saw only a man distraught beyond
reason, unresponsive and lost in a fog of great consternation. When he arrived
at the airport in D.C., Claiborne got into a cab and sat for nearly a minute
before he realized the driver was asking him where he wanted to go.
Once home, he went directly to the second floor of his brownstone and
ensconced himself in the spacious leather chair of his small, musty,
wood-paneled den. After a moment of consideration, he proceeded to knock down
most of a quart of Canadian Club whiskey. Both his cell phones as well as the
house phone rang at repeated intervals, but Claiborne ignored them. He was
thinking, his mind sprinting desperately along on an endless treadmill, until
he was too drunk to care, got off, and climbed the stairs to bed.
In the morning, he staggered to the bathroom and gulped down four aspirins
with a mouthful of water straight from the tap. He got back in bed, hoping to
pass the next thirty minutes sleeping until the medicine took effect, but his
mind was already back up and running. Head pounding, he got up again, shaved,
and dressed himself in a pair of tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a
herringbone jacket.
On the front porch was the paper; Claiborne slapped it down on the kitchen
table before pouring himself a glass of juice and preparing a pot of coffee.
As the scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, his headache began to fade.
The paper was full of exactly what he would have suspected, a massive headline
about the attempted assassination with pages and pages of little else.
Apparently, the police had given chase to two people on a motorcycle late in
the night at the south end of the lake, but lost them. Authorities presumed
that it was nothing more than drunken teenagers. Claiborne snorted derisively.
With a hot cup of strong coffee in hand, he played back his answering machine.
There were several calls of conciliatory concern from some of his peers within
the Service. As the lead advance agent, he would endure the brunt of the
fallout after the assassination attempt. Someone had to pay for it. Claiborne
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was unaffected, but when he heard the somber voice of Mack Taylor, he
blanched. His boss was requesting that he report to the Secret Service offices
first thing in the morning.
We need to talk, were Taylor s final words before a harsh click.
Something in the SAIC s voice told Claiborne that the meeting was more than
just a debriefing after a catastrophic breach in the president s security.
Although any connection between Claiborne and Ford would be nothing more than
conjecture at this point, it unsettled him nonetheless. Instead of delaying,
he called Taylor s office and said that he would be over directly. Before
going, he dialed the vice president on his safe cell phone.
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