Heat (4 page)

J
esse stood at the bathroom sink and looked at himself in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was still unfamiliar; there had been no mirror in the solitary confinement cell where he had spent so much of his prison stay.

The nose was the worst; it had been broken twice and badly repaired in the prison infirmary. It was flat across the bridge and distorted at the tip, but at least he could breathe through it properly. There was scar tissue around the eyes, and the right ear had begun to cauliflower at the top. He looked like nothing so much as a punchdrunk fighter. The face would scare anybody; it certainly scared him.

The doorbell of the suite rang, and Fuller knocked on the bathroom door. “Barker's here,” he said. They had been in the suite for three nights.

“Be right there,” Jesse said. He tightened the knot of his tie, slipped into his jacket and looked at himself. The suit and shirt had been finely cleaned by the hotel, and, except that his clothes were a bit loose on him, he thought he looked quite well. He wrapped the blade of
the sharp steak knife in two sheets of hotel stationery, making a kind of scabbard, then tucked it into his belt at the small of his back. In a few minutes, he knew, he would either have preserved his freedom or stolen it by killing Barker. He hoped Kip would not force his own death by resisting. Since the day he had been arrested Kip had been the only person who had treated him decently.

Jesse buttoned his jacket and walked into the living room. Barker sat at the dining table, and a catalog case rested on the floor beside him. “Sit down, Jesse,” he said.

Jesse took a chair two down from Barker, so he could reach him easily.

Barker took a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket and handed them to Jesse. “See if that's what you want,” he said.

To Jesse's surprise, it was, including the letter signed by the attorney general. “It looks just fine,” Jesse said.

Barker reached into the case and removed an automatic pistol and a box of ammunition. “I wouldn't send anybody, even you, up there unarmed,” he said. “It's a brand new, Hechler & Koch 9mm automatic; takes fifteen in the clip and one in the chamber. It was bought this morning at an Atlanta gun shop in the name of Jesse Barron, and all the proper forms were filled out, so it can't be traced to any government agency.”

Jesse nodded and removed the weapon from its holster.

“No need to load it now.” Barker handed him a card. “Here's an eight hundred number; memorize it; Kip will be on the other end of it.”

Jesse glanced at the number, committed it to memory and returned the card to Barker. “I'm not going to report in every day,” he said. “I don't want people noticing the calls.”

Barker reached into his magic case again and produced a small cellular phone in a leather pouch. “This is a very special cellular phone,” he said. “Press this button and your conversation is scrambled. Hide it somewhere. The eight hundred number is programmed in already; just hit zero-one and S-E-N-D. The cellular coverage in the St. Clair area is good.”

Jesse accepted the phone and its recharging accessories. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Remember that you have absolutely no law enforcement authority. Whatever happens, this is not going to be your bust. I want you to work this so that you get evidence, then call us in for the climax, is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Barker handed him a well-worn wallet; inside were a driver's license, a credit card, social security card and some business cards from Jesse Barron's business.

“These look good,” Jesse said, shoving the wallet into his hip pocket.

“Kip tells me you've got your cover down pat, and I've arranged to have Barron's name put on your fingerprint record, so if you get printed for any reason, you're okay.”

“It sounds like we're all buttoned up, then,” Jesse said. “Except I'm going to need a good bit of cash.”

“How much?”

“I'm going to need a vehicle and a little nest egg; say, thirty thousand?”

Barker turned to Fuller. “Get him twenty-five, and get a receipt.”

“I've got that much now,” Fuller said.

“Give it to him.”

Fuller produced some banded stacks of bills from his briefcase and handed them to Jesse; he wrote out a receipt, and Jesse signed it.

“I want you on a plane to Boise today,” Barker said, “and in St. Clair tomorrow.”

Jesse shook his head. “I'm going to buy a vehicle here, register it in Barron's name and drive across country, picking up motel receipts and buying stuff I need. I'll be in St. Clair in a week or ten days.”

Barker leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I guess you think I'm just turning you loose,” he said. “I guess you must think I'm a blithering idiot.”

Jesse smiled. “That's pretty close to my personal opinion of you, Dan, but I know very well you wouldn't let me out except on a leash.”

“I've got better than a leash,” Barker said. “You're to report to Kip daily on your way to St. Clair and every chance you get once you're there. If you go too long without reporting in, I'll fall on you from a great height.”

“Sure, Dan.”

“Get something straight, Jesse; you haven't been paroled; you're still serving your sentence. You're just going to be doing your time in St. Clair.”

“Right up until you get your indictments,” Jesse said.

“That's right, pal; right up until the president signs your pardon. Until that day, you're nothing but an escaped federal prisoner. You got that?”

“Sure, Dan.”

“I can press a button, and there's a nationwide manhunt for you in full swing; the Immigration and Naturalization Service already has you down for arrest if you try to cross any border, so don't get it in your mind to tool on up to Canada or down to Mexico, got it?”

“Sure, Dan.”

“And something else you'd better know, boy; if this doesn't work out—for
any
reason—if I don't get good busts on those three men, then you're going back to Atlanta, and you'll
never
see the light of day again. If the cons don't kill you, then you'll never make parole; I'll
personally
see to that.”

“I know you will, Dan,” Jesse replied. He stood up and turned to Fuller. “I'll need a ride to a used car lot,” he said.

Barker stood up and turned to Fuller. “Call me when he's on his way.” He picked up his catalog case and walked out of the room.

Fuller sighed. “I'm glad that's over,” he said.

“Let's get moving,” Jesse replied.

“Jesse,” Fuller said, “you've got a gun now; can I have the steak knife, please? The hotel would just charge it to my bill.”

J
esse found what he wanted at the third car lot; it was a two-year-old Ford pickup with four-wheel drive and a camper box filling the truck's bed. He made the deal and counted out ninety-six hundred dollars. When he had the paperwork, Kip walked back to the vehicle with him.

“Are you driving West now?” Kip asked.

“I've got a few things to pick up—the license tag, some clothes, a sleeping bag. No need to come with me; I'll be on my way by tomorrow.”

“Call me when you're on your way,” Kip said. He looked embarrassed again. “I wish I could have done more for you, Jess. I wish I could have fixed it for you to be with Beth when she died. I know it must have been hell, locked up at a time like that.”

“You've done a lot more than anybody else, Kip, and I'll always be grateful to you.”

“You understand that Barker thinks what you're about to try to do can't be done,” the agent said.

“Sure, I understand that; he always underestimated me, though.”

“That he did,” Kip said, smiling.

Jesse started to offer his hand, then surprised himself by hugging Kip.

“You take care of yourself, Jess,” Kip said. He handed over a card. “This is my home number; if you can't reach me at the office, don't hesitate to call.”

Jesse handed Kip a thick Ritz-Carlton envelope. “You'll see that this gets to the adoption agency?”

“I'll FedEx it before the day's over.”

“I'll be seeing you,” Jesse said, climbing up into the truck.

“I hope so,” Kip replied, waving as Jesse pulled out into traffic.

 

Jesse went first to the courthouse and got a tag for the truck, then, making several detours to be sure he wasn't being followed, he drove to Hartsfield International Airport, parked the pickup in the short-term lot, went into the terminal and bought a round-trip ticket for Miami, with a two-hour wait before the return flight.

On the flight down, he went into the men's room, opened the lining of his suit and removed a key that was sewn in place, then he had lunch and slept like a baby. In Miami he took a cab to the bank and told the driver to wait. He signed in at the safety deposit desk and an attendant took him into the vault; using his own key and Jesse's, the man unlocked a large box. Jesse took the box into a private booth and opened it.

He removed a small satchel containing forty thousand dollars that he had stolen from a bust the week before he was arrested, then he returned the empty box to the attendant and turned in his key. He had a snack and a beer at the airport, then flew back to Atlanta.

It was too late to do anything else that day, so he checked into a hotel near the airport, had dinner and watched TV in his room. Television was wonderful, he thought.

Next morning, he was at an office supply store when it opened. He bought a small safe, the kind meant to fit between a building's studs; then he found an army surplus store, where he bought a sleeping bag and some work clothes. He sold his suit to the man behind the counter for twenty bucks, then he rode around Southwest Atlanta until he found a small, independent car repair shop.

A mechanic slid out from under a car. “What can I do for you?”

“How much to rent some space, your welding equipment and some tools for half an hour?”

“I don't know, man; there's liability problems, you know?”

“I know how to use it; how's a hundred bucks?”

The man smiled.

Jesse began by drilling a quarter-inch hole in the back of the little safe; he then wired into a spare fuse, then ran it to the cellular telephone charger inside the safe. He put the truck on the shop's hoist, found a space in the frame and welded the safe in place. When he was sure the mechanic wasn't looking, he counted out a thousand dollars, stuffed it in his pocket, then put his own forty thousand and the fourteen thousand he had left of the government's money into the safe, along with the cellular telephone, which would be constantly on charge when the engine was running. He loaded the pistol and put that and the spare ammunition inside, then locked the safe and let the vehicle down. He memorized the combination, then threw away the paperwork.

“That's it,” he said to the mechanic, handing over the money. Then he got into the truck and drove west on the interstate. When he had crossed the Alabama line, he stopped and called the 800 number, tapped in the extension and got a recording. “I'm on my way,” he said. “Calling from eastern Alabama; I'll check in again tomorrow.”

 

He drove west, marveling at the light and the open spaces. Occasionally, he left the interstate and drove through small towns, grinning at their filling stations and fast-food joints. He'd thought he'd never again have a fast-food hamburger, and he wolfed them down joyously.

He reveled in driving the pickup, in charge, master of his own fate, sort of. No guard sat beside him; no wall barred his way; no citizen wanted to beat him to death. He was a free man again.

He stopped in Mississippi for the night, sleeping in the camper box, and called in again the following morning. He drove on, astonished at what a big country it was, trying to forget the oppression of a six-by-eight cell. He stopped feeling panic at the sight of a police car, setting the cruise control at sixty-five, enjoying the slow ride. He spent one night in Amarillo, and he kept waking up, thinking about Mexico, a day's drive to the south. He lay there, pondering total escape. He had fifty-four thousand dollars and a used pickup truck, but that wouldn't get him far. He didn't want to be a bum in Mexico; he wanted to be a free man, able to go wherever the hell he wanted to go, and he had a chance of pulling it off in Idaho. He went back to sleep.

He spent a night in Santa Fe and another in Denver, alternating between motels and the camper. He stopped in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and allowed himself half a day to look around Grand Teton National Park. It was early autumn and the changing leaves were magnificent.

The following day at sunset he reached the city limits of St. Clair, Idaho, and checked into the town's only motel. He gorged himself once more on pizza and television and slept soundly. The next morning was clear and frosty as he left the motel.

Fun was over; it was time to go to work.

J
esse walked down the main street in the early morning light and took note of St. Clair. Low clouds hung over the town and the dim light made it seem earlier than it was. There was only a single block of Main Street—a couple of dozen stores, two filling stations, newspaper office, doctor's office, veterinarian. The buildings were mostly red brick, with tin awnings out front—looked as if they'd been built around the turn of the century. The place was like a lot of small Georgia towns Jesse had seen. One difference, though: outside the police station, a modern building, there were five squad cars parked. As he walked past, four uniformed men came out of the building, got into the cars and drove off. Must be the early shift, Jesse thought. He also thought that five squad cars were a lot for a town this size.

He stopped and peered through the window of something called Nora's Café. A woman was busy behind the counter, and she was alone in the place. He tried the front door; it was locked, but when the woman saw him she came and let him in.

“Morning,” she said.

“Did I get here too early?” Jesse asked.

“Seven on the dot,” she replied, looking at her watch. “Coffee?”

“Thanks, yes.”

“Take your pick,” she said, waving at a row of booths along the wall.

A boy walked in with a stack of newspapers and put them on the counter. Jesse picked one up, left some change on the counter and sat down in a booth.

The woman came over with his coffee. “New in town?”

“Brand new; just passing through, really.”

“I'm Nora; I run the joint.”

“I'm Jesse. How you doing?”

“I'm okay. You're not from around here, are you? Not with that accent.”

“Naw, I'm a hillbilly, from Georgia.”

“They got hills in Georgia?”

“They got mountains; not like the ones around here, though.”

“What do you feel like for breakfast, Jesse?”

“Two scrambled, bacon…I don't guess you've got grits?”

Nora laughed aloud. “You're a long way from home, Jesse; we got hash browns.”

“That'll do.”

“Toast? English muffin?”

“English muffin.”

“Juice?”

“Orange.”

“Good choice; I squeeze it myself.” She left him with his newspaper.

Jesse read through the paper carefully; it was as good an introduction to the town as anything. There was a problem with the sewage treatment plant, and it looked like property taxes might go up; a main-street
merchant had died at sixty-eight; the high school football team had won its first game; and St. Clair Wood Products had gotten a big order for plywood and chipboard from a company building a new ski resort near Park City, Utah. An unsigned editorial blasted a gun control bill now in the state legislature; letters to the editor dealt with the need for new playground equipment at the grammar school, a complaint about drunk drivers in the county and a yard sale at the First Church on Saturday.

Jesse sipped his coffee and watched half a dozen customers wander in and take booths or stools at the counter. The sound of bacon sizzling was pleasant to the ear, and nobody put any money in the jukebox across the room, for which he was thankful. He was not fond of rock and roll or country music.

Nora came with his breakfast, and he forced himself to eat slowly. He had lost a lot of weight in prison, and he thought he'd better watch his eating, or he'd gain it all back. He'd finished his breakfast and had accepted a second cup of coffee when a man in a policeman's uniform entered the café and took a stool at the counter. He and Nora exchanged pleasantries, and she poured him a cup of coffee. There was another, quieter exchange between the two that Jesse caught in his peripheral vision, then the cop walked over to Jesse's booth, carrying his coffee.

“Morning,” he said to Jesse.

Jesse looked up. “Good morning to you,” he replied.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Take a pew,” Jesse said.

The cop eased into the booth opposite Jesse and set down his coffee. He stuck a hand across the table. “I'm Pat Casey,” he said. “I'm the law around these parts.”

The name registered from his briefing; this was
one of Jack Gene Coldwater's top two men, one of the ones he was going to nail. “Jesse Barron,” Jesse replied, shaking the man's hand.

“Don't recall seeing you before,” Casey said.

“Naw, I just rolled in last night,” Jesse replied. “Probably move on tomorrow, the next day. Thought I'd take a rest from the road; I've been driving for a week.”

“Where you headed?”

Jesse leaned back in the booth and sighed. “I was thinking about Oregon. Hear that's nice country.”

“It is; I've been there.”

“Pretty nice around here, too.”

“We like it. I can't place your accent.”

“Georgia, north Georgia. Town called Toccoa, up in the mountains. Hillbilly country.”

“I thought that was Tennessee and Kentucky.”

“Us hillbillies are all over.”

Casey grinned. “You're a long way from home, boy.”

Jesse let himself look a little sad. “Boy, I guess I am.”

“What caused you to up and leave Georgia?”

Jesse shrugged. “Hard times, I guess. I had a little business went under.”

“What kind of business?”

“Construction. Remodeling and additions mostly. Folks weren't spending their money like they used to; I guess it's the recession.”

“Got any family back there?”

“Not anymore,” Jesse said, gazing into the middle distance. “Oh, I got a granddaddy, but he's in a home. He doesn't know anybody anymore, not even me.”

“How'd you travel in here, Jesse?”

“I got a pickup over at the motel.”

“You got any means of support, Jesse?”

Jesse looked up from his eggs. “Well, I haven't done any work for a few weeks, but I put a little by.”

“How little?”

“I guess I could get by two or three months, if I stretched it. You're not looking to get me for vagrancy, are you?”

Casey grinned. “Not at the moment. I wouldn't want you to become a drain on the public purse, though.”

Jesse changed his tone just a little. “Listen, Pat, I've never been a drain on nobody in my life; I worked since I was twelve, and I haven't given it up yet.”

“You got some ID, Jesse?”

Jesse produced a wallet and tossed it onto the table between them. “I guess you're the welcoming committee in St. Clair, huh?”

Casey went through the wallet carefully, looking at the driver's license, credit card and bits of paper. Jesse had put that package together very carefully.

“Looks like your license expires five years from last week,” Casey said.

“I just renewed it.”

Casey nodded. “You ever been in jail, Jesse?”

“Not to speak of.”

“Now, what does that mean?”

“I had a little conversation with the sheriff when I was eighteen or nineteen. We haven't spoken much since.”

Casey nodded. “Well, I guess I can't hold your youth against you.” He peered closely at Jesse's face. “Looks like you've been roughed up a little.”

“Car wreck,” Jesse said. “I spent a few days in the hospital.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Nope; the other guy was though, the nigger.”

“That's not a politically correct word these days,” Casey said.

“Well, I'm sorry if I offended you,” Jesse said, reaching into his pocket for some money. He left five dollars on the table and got up.

“Rushing off?”

“I sort of get the idea that I'm not too welcome around here. I guess I'll have a look at Oregon.”

“Aw, sit down, Jesse; I'm just doing my job. C'mon, sit down.”

Jesse sat down.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks, I've already had two.”

Casey nodded at the newspaper on the table. “You read the
Standard?
”

“Yep.”

“You see any reports of crime in there? Juvenile delinquency? Drug busts?”

“Nope.”

“That'll give you an idea of the sort of town we got here. Our last drug bust was nearly four years ago.”

“Sounds like a real safe place,” Jesse said.

“Exactly,” Casey said, “and I mean to keep it that way. That's why I'm so inquisitive; I like to know who's in town and what they're doing here.”

“That's reasonable, I guess,” Jesse said, sounding mollified.

“Take your time in St. Clair; have a look around; there are worse places to settle.”

“Any work around here?”

“Most of the work's down at Wood Products. The place is humming right now; you might find something there.”

“Thanks, maybe I'll take a look at it.”

“You do that. If you decide to stay a while, come see me down at the station. I'll see if I can't help you settle in.”

“Thanks, Pat, I appreciate it.”

Casey got up and stuck out his hand again. “Well, I got to do my rounds. Good talking to you.”

Jesse shook the man's hand again. “See you around.”

Casey picked up Jesse's plate, cup and glass. “I'll take these over for Nora; save her a trip.”

Jesse nodded. “Thanks.” He took a deep breath and let it out. That went pretty well, he thought. He watched as the policeman walked to the lunch counter and set down the dishes. Casey turned and left, and Jesse saw that his orange juice glass wasn't on the counter with the plate and the cup.

“Well, Pat,” Jesse muttered to himself, “you sneaky bastard, you.”