I leave the City, alone. During my last conversation with Swanger, about an hour ago, he instructed me to ditch my “thug” and do the driving myself. He also told me to forget the fancy new van and drive something else. I explained that, at the moment, I had nothing else and didn’t have time to run get a rental. The van will have to do.
I try not to dwell on the fact that this guy is watching me. He knew the moment Partner and I began buzzing around in a U-Haul van. Now he knows I have new wheels. It’s astonishing that he’s in the City enough to know these things, yet still undiscovered by the police. I suspect he’ll finally disappear when he gets the money, which will not be a bad thing.
As instructed, I call him as I leave the City on the southern bypass of the interstate. His directions are precise: “Go sixteen miles south to exit 184, take Route 63 east to the town of Jobes.” As I drive, I remind myself that I have this trial that’s supposed to kick off in just a few hours, or is it? If Judge Fabineau is really in the loop, what does that mean for the rest of the day?
I have no idea how much surveillance is tracking me right now, but I’m sure it is substantial. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t have time to, but I know Roy Kemp and his team have called in all the bloodhounds. There are two mikes in my van and a tracking device inside the rear bumper. I’ve allowed them to listen to my cell phone, but just for the next few hours. I’ll bet they already have people closing in on the town of Jobes. A helicopter or two in the air above me would not be a surprise. I’m not frightened—Swanger has no reason to harm me—but my nerves are jumping nonetheless.
The money is unmarked and cannot be traced. The police don’t care if they get it back; they just want the girl. They’re also assuming Swanger is smart enough to spot anything fishy.
Jobes is a small town of three thousand. When I pass a Shell station on the edge of town, I call Swanger, as instructed. He says, “Stay on the line. Turn left just past the car wash.” I turn left onto a dark, paved street with a few old houses on both sides. He says, “You swear you got fifty grand, Rudd?”
“I do.”
“Take a right and go over the railroad tracks.” I do as I’m told, and he says, “Now turn right onto that first street. It has no name. Stop at the first stop sign and wait.”
When I stop, a figure suddenly appears from the darkness and yanks the passenger door handle. I press the button to unlock it and Swanger jumps inside. He points left, says, “Go that way and take your time. We’re headed back to the interstate.”
“Great to see you again, Arch.” He’s wearing a black do-rag that covers his eyebrows and ears. Everything else is black too, from the bandanna around his neck to his combat boots. I almost ask him where he parked, but why bother?
“Where’s the money?” he demands.
I nod over my shoulder and he grabs the bag. He opens the cigar box, and with a small key-chain light counts the money. He looks up, says, “Take a right,” then keeps counting. As we are leaving the town, he takes a deep, satisfied breath, and offers me a goofy grin. “All here,” he says.
“You doubt me?”
“Damned right I doubt you, Rudd.” He points to the Shell station and says, “You want a beer?”
“No. I don’t normally drink beer at five-thirty in the morning.”
“It’s the best time. Pull in.”
He goes inside without the money. He takes his time, selects a bag of chips to go with his six-pack, and strolls back to the van as if he has no concerns whatsoever. When we’re moving again, he rips off a can and pops the top. He slurps it and opens the chips.
“Where are we going, Arch?” I ask with no small amount of irritation.
“Get on the interstate and head south. This van still smells new, you know that, Rudd? I think I liked the old one better.” He crunches a mouthful of chips and washes it all down with a gulp of beer.
“Too bad. Don’t spill any crumbs, okay? Partner gets really pissed off if he finds crumbs in the van.”
“That your thug?”
“You know who it is.” We’re on Route 63, still dark and deserted. No sign of sunrise. I keep glancing around thinking I’ll see some of the surveillance, but of course they’re too good for that. They’re back there, or up there, or waiting at the interstate. Then again, what do I know about such things? I’m a lawyer.
He pulls a small phone out of his shirt pocket and holds it up for me to see. He says, “Know one thing, Rudd. If I see a cop, smell a cop, or hear a cop, all I do is push this button on this phone, and somewhere, far away, bad things happen. You understand?”
“Got it. Now, where, Arch? That’s the first thing. Where, when, how? You have the money; now you owe us the story. Where is the girl and how do we get her?”
He drains the first can, smacks his lips, reloads another mouthful of chips, and for a few miles it seems as though he has gone mute. Then he opens another beer. At the intersection, he says, “Go south.”
