The President's Killers (9 page)

THIRTY-THREE

Slumped in a car on the shoulder of the road, Special Agent David Neff was imagining what it would be like to be sitting in his kitchen at home eating scrambled eggs and sausage and sipping fresh black coffee.

He yawned and scratched the top of his head. He was tired, his bones ached, and he felt dirty. He was getting hungrier by the minute. It was only five-ten, well before his usual breakfast time, but he didn’t usually spend the entire night in a car in the boondocks.

During the night he and his partner Shoemaker had halted and checked more than a dozen vehicles. But there hadn’t been a car or truck on the road for hours. And they’d emptied their cardboard coffee cups long ago.

He glanced out the window. Shoemaker was relieving himself, for the fourth time, against a small bush at the edge of the road. The guy was an incredible urine machine. Twenty minutes after downing an ordinary cup of coffee, he could fill an entire quart jar.

Neff rubbed his itchy palm on the steering wheel. Why hadn’t he and Shoemaker been posted at the other end of the woods? That’s where the action was. There had been at least a dozen reports of sightings in the southern and western sections of the search area. And here in the northeast section there had been only two.

They weren’t surprised. With scores of state troopers and federal agents hunting for him, the shooter would have to be an idiot to head back in the direction of St.Louis.

Neff looked at his watch again. When were they going to be relieved? Why did all this crap have to be going on right now? This was his daughter’s birthday. His wife had bought her a bicycle, her first two-wheeler, and he wanted to be there to see her face light up when she saw it. When were they going to let him go home?

The car radio crackled. “Thirty-four.”

He sat up. “Yo.”

“Anything over your way?”

“Deader than my Old Man.”

“All right, come on in…”

Hallelujah!”

“… come on in and get some coffee. We’re realigning our roadblocks. We’re going to put you down at the other end. Got some sightings over there that could be for real.”

Shit!

Shoemaker was even less thrilled by the news than he was.

“Jesus Christ, Neff!” He got into the car, yanking the door shut. “I can’t leave you alone for one goddamn minute.”

They had gone only a couple miles when they saw an old gray pickup about to pull onto the road. The driver was wearing a red baseball cap.

“What’s this?” Neff slowed down. “Let’s check this sucker out.”

“He doesn’t have a beard.”

“Yeah, but — “

“Come on, Neff. It’s some dumb-ass farm kid. I need some coffee.”

“Well, it’s morning now. I guess the natives are stirring.”

As they drove past him, the kid in the red cap waved. Neff waved back.

THIRTY-FOUR

At each turn of the narrow blacktop road Denny expected to find himself face-to-face with heavily armed police or FBI agents.

The road took him along the edge of the woods, past fields and scattered mobile homes and small wood-frame houses.

It was still early, though, not even six yet, and the road was deserted. The only person he saw was an old man in front of a shabby trailer-home feeding a black-and-white cocker spaniel.

On almost every radio station he could get there were news reports or idle disk-jockey talk about the assassination. The whole world seemed to know he had fled into the woods.

More than three-hundred state troopers and FBI agents were staked out around the woods, with more on the way. The downpour had halted yesterday’s operations, but the rain clouds had moved on and the manhunt was to begin in earnest this morning.

Denny turned onto a road that led in a more easterly direction. When he’d gone a few miles, the blacktop on the road took on a fresher look. The trees on either side of him formed a pretty canopy over the road and the ivy-covered telephone poles. A sign announced he had re-entered St. Louis County.

He drove down a long slope toward two large farms ringed by white fences and corrals. The pasture was filled with brown and tan horses nibbling at bales of hay. To his left was a wide field. Just beyond the trees at the far end of the field there were flashes of movement. Cars speeding past. He was close to a highway. In the distance ahead of him he spotted a Taco Bell sign on two towering poles.

He did it! He was outside the dragnet.

To avoid the highway he took a crossroad that led him through the suburbs west of St. Louis. The traffic was still light. Twenty minutes later, he came upon a huge cloverleaf at a six-lane highway with heavy, fast-moving traffic. Interstate 64, the signs said.

He turned onto its westbound lanes and floored the old Toyota’s gas pedal. The pickup’s odometer showed 129,882 miles. At sixty, the vehicle began to shimmy violently and he had to ease off.

He passed a series of dazzling glass corporate office buildings, found himself in open countryside, and drove onto a large green bridge over a swollen brown river. Soon the traffic thinned out and the highway narrowed to four lanes.

He kept twisting the radio dial as he drove, searching for reports on the manhunt. In the area he had just fled, residents were driving their kids to school with handguns or shotguns in their cars. In Washington, D.C., Vice President Merrill had already been sworn in as the new president.

All over the country people were speculating whether the assassin had acted alone or was part of some terrible conspiracy. Whether he was an Islamic terrorist, an extremist of some other kind, or merely a lone nut with a gun.

It wasn’t just a bad dream. It was real. The whole country wanted Denny’s head.

What should he do? His eyes felt puffy. He’d gotten only an hour or two of sleep in the abandoned cabin. He was tired. He was hungry.

The woods alongside the highway gave way to green fields of corn and soybeans. The only highway signs he saw were for U.S. 61 north. There weren’t many other vehicles on the road now, and he felt even more vulnerable as he drove across the open farmland.

At nine-fifty, he pulled into a truck stop.

There were two cars halted at the pumps. An eighteen-wheeler was parked next to the building. He dreaded going inside, but he needed gasoline and was hungry.

The place was a backwoods Macy’s, its shelves stocked with snack foods, beverages, auto accessories, men and women’s apparel, paperback westerns, gun magazines, John Wayne videos.

There was a back room with coin-operated washers and driers, and another with shower stalls. And there was a crude lounge with threadbare stuffed chairs and a black-and-white TV set.

No one paid any attention to him. He bought a cup of coffee and a package of doughnuts and took them out to the Toyota. After wolfing down half the doughnuts, he filled the pickup’s gas tank and went back inside.

He picked out a pair of bleached jeans, a laborer’s undershirt, heavy work gloves, and sunglasses. He also loaded up on snack food and soda.

At the cash register, a scruffy, white-haired man in a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt and paint-spattered boots was paying for two paperback Westerns.

“The bastard’s probably already down in Mexico,” he said to the kid at the cash register.

“Probably. Or in one of them A-rab countries.”

“They’ll get him. They’ll catch him.”

“Oh, hell yes,” the kid said. “Those FBI boys are good.”

“They ought to shoot the crazy bastard on sight.”

THIRTY-FIVE

It was impossible to concentrate. Denny tried to focus on what his next step ought to be, but his brain wasn’t functioning.

He’d catch himself daydreaming about Meesh and suddenly discover he was on the shoulder of the road. Afraid he would doze off and end up in a ditch, he rolled his head around on his neck and slapped his cheeks.

In every direction, for as far as he could see, there were green fields of corn and soybeans dotted with clusters of trees and red or white farm buildings.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and U.S. 61 was only two undivided lanes now, an unending ribbon of concrete running straight ahead.

There were few cars or trucks on the road. He hadn’t seen an airplane in two hours. But behind him was a red car that made him nervous.

As straight as the road was, it didn’t try to pass him. It stayed about three-hundred feet behind him. It had been behind him for at least fifteen minutes. The driver was an old man. Beside him was a white-haired woman. When Denny sped up, they sped up. When he reduced his speed, so did they. What the hell was wrong with them? Was this some crazy Iowa version of tailgating?

It was getting on his nerves. Maybe they knew he wasn’t just a farmer in an undershirt and old baseball cap. Maybe they’d heard reports about the stolen truck.

He drove past cluster after cluster of farm buildings, all set well back from the highway and surrounded by vast, rolling green hills. Here and there he saw black cows clustered around a lone tree, bunched together in the shade, head to head, as if they were holding a meeting.

When he came upon a sign for a town named Hutchins, he turned onto the exit road and checked his rearview mirror. The red car was gone. It had continued up the highway

Maybe he could find a place in Hutchins where he could buy a cup of coffee and use the rest room. Maybe even take a nice, peaceful nap.

It was not exactly the Big Apple.

Downtown Hutchins was a feed store, a grocery store, a drab brick American Legion hall, a small tavern with blackened windows, and a corner cafe.

Denny parked on a side street next to the cafe. Inside, there were a half-dozen old-timers. He took a seat at a table near the rear. On the wall near him was an odd plaque, a dozen short strands of barbed wire, each carefully identified by weight and type.

The crudely printed menu was intriguing. Each of the luncheon choices was less than three dollars.

He’d intended to order coffee, use the rest room, and get out, but the menu choices were too tempting. He ordered the chicken cold plate and went to the rest room.

When he came back, two police officers in tan shirts and dark trousers were sliding into chairs only ten feet from his table.

THIRTY-SIX

They were county cops, smartly dressed, their short-sleeved shirts still creased.

The older officer, brawny and blue-eyed with thinning brown hair, glanced at Denny and turned to the waitress as she greeted them.

The other man, dark-haired with a red complexion, clutched a small, black two-way radio. The silver badge on his chest and the dark pistol in his holster looked huge.

Denny buttered his roll and busied himself with his chicken and coleslaw. His heart was pounding.

The waitress brought the two officers coffee and huge slices of blueberry pie.

Denny watched them out of the corner of his eye. They looked bored with each other’s company. The older officer’s arms and shoulders were bigger than any Denny had seen in his days as a wrestler.

When he finished eating, he couldn’t leave without passing right in front of them. One wrong look, one casual question from either cop, and he could be in deep trouble.

Denny got to his feet slowly, picked up his check, and kept his eyes fastened on it as he started towards the cash register.

“Nobody could throw like Nolan Ryan,” the older cop said.

“Yeah,” the other one said, “but Clements threw a lot harder.”

Denny gave the woman at the cash register a five-dollar bill and glanced behind him. Neither cop was paying any attention to him.

He didn’t relax until he was out on the highway again. On the car radio, an amateurish disk jockey was talking about someone finding a black Labrador. He kept repeating a phone number for the owner to call to retrieve the animal.

Denny twisted the dial until he found a woman announcer talking about the manhunt in Missouri and the rental car he’d abandoned.

“Police found a newspaper under the front seat of the suspect’s car,” the woman said. “They said a front-page story about President Patrick’s visit had been circled.”

What? Lott had left a newspaper in the Hyundai?

“Repeating our top story,” she said, “authorities have determined that the suspect’s car was rented at the airport by a young man matching the description of the bearded white male seen fleeing from Forest Park. An all-points bulletin has been issued for the arrest of a New Jersey man named Clay Willis. Police said he should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Jim Moran was ready to explode.

When the Special Assistant to the Director reappeared at the schoolhouse command post, one of Moran’s agents was briefing him on an incident someone had reported to local police.

“This old couple was away all week,” the agent said. “Just got back this morning.”

“And they claim,” Moran reiterated for Bambrick’s benefit, “that somebody broke in, found a couple of left-over pork chops in the refrigerator, and ate them?”

“Right,” the agent said. “And they’re missing fifty, maybe sixty, bucks.”

“They live over in the southeast section?”

“Yeah, about a half mile from the Interstate.”

“You’re checking for prints?”

“Right.”

When the agent left, Bambrick snorted. “Where’s he from?”

“The St. Louis office. He’s one of mine.”

“Does he think the nut job who killed the President of the United States is going to head back towards the crime scene?”

Moran shrugged. It was a cheap shot. If the agent hadn’t passed along the report, Bambrick would have been livid. But Moran bit his tongue and poured his boss a cup of coffee.

Bambrick had come for a progress report. He wanted to know everything — credible sightings, the effectiveness of the dogs, the status of the door-to-door canvass of homes, the number of agents and troopers deployed, the number of aircraft involved. He wanted every detail.

When he discovered there was no artist’s sketch yet of the suspect, based on the description of the Avis clerk at the airport, his chin shot out.

“Why not?”

Moran was tired. He’d been up all night. Bambrick looked well-rested and was wearing fresh clothes. He probably caught some sleep back at his motel.

“It’s being prepared. We should have it in another hour or two.”

“Anything yet on Willis’ rifle?”

“We’ve talked to the manufacturer and we’ve identified the wholesaler. Some outfit in North Carolina. We’re working on the retail outlet right now.”

“Where do we stand with public transportation?”

“Everybody’s been alerted. The airlines, the bus stations, the train stations.”

“They’ve got our description of Willis?”

“Yep.”

“The borders?”

“We’ve talked with ICE and the airlines.”

“What about stolen vehicles?”

“We’re checking everything on the hot sheets. They run about a dozen stolen vehicles a day out here in the county. A couple dozen in the city.”

“Anything in the search area?”

“Nothing so far.”

Bambrick started for the door. “When that artist’s sketch is ready, I want it out right away.”

When he was gone, Moran hurled his coffee cup against the wall.