“From where? From the inside?”

“We don’t know yet, Max.”

“If you did know, you wouldn’t tell me. You would never admit it if the breach was caused by someone within the government—the FBI, the Marshals Service, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the Department of Justice, the Bureau of Prisons. Hell knows who else. How many people are plugged into this little secret, Mr. Westlake? Several dozen, maybe more. Did the Ruckers find me because they picked up my scent, or did they follow the FBI because the FBI was following me?”

“I assure you there was no internal breach.”

“But you just said you don’t know. Your assurances mean nothing at this point. The only certainty right now is that everyone involved will cover their ass and point fingers, starting right now. I don’t believe anything you say, Mr. Westlake. You or anybody else.”

“You have to trust us, Max. This situation is urgent, perhaps lethal.”

“I trusted you until this morning, and look where I am now. There’s no trust. Zero.”

“We have to protect you until the trial, Max. You understand this. After the trial, we lose interest. But until then, we have to make sure you’re safe. That’s why we tapped the phones. We were monitoring the Ruckers and we got lucky. We’re on your side, Max. Sure, there was a screwup somewhere, and we’ll find out what happened. But you’re sitting here in one piece because we were doing our jobs.”

“Congratulations,” I say, and go to the bathroom.

The real fight breaks out when I inform them I’m leaving witness protection. Dan Raynor rants about how dangerous my life will be if I don’t allow them to scoop me up and deposit me a thousand miles away, under yet another name. Too bad. I’ll take my chances hiding on my own. Westlake begs me to stay with them. My testimony will be crucial at trial, and without it there may be no conviction. I remind him repeatedly that they have a confession, and no federal judge is going to suppress it. I promise I’ll show up for the trial. I argue that my life will be safer when only I know where I’m hiding. There are simply too many agents involved in protecting me. Raynor reminds me more than once that the Marshals Service has never lost an informant within its protection, over eight thousand and counting, and I repeatedly remind him someone will be the first casualty. Someone other than me.

The discussion is often heated, but I’m not backing down. And all they can do is argue. They have no authority over me. My sentence was commuted and I’m not on parole. I agreed to testify, and I plan to do so. My agreement with the Marshals Service plainly states that I can leave witness protection anytime I want.

“I’m leaving,” I declare and get to my feet. “Will you be so kind as to drive me back to my car?”

No one moves. Raynor asks, “What are your plans?”

“Why would I share my plans with you?”

“What about the condo?”

“I’ll leave in a couple of days, then it’s all yours.”

“So you are leaving the area?” Diana asks.

“I didn’t say that. I said I’m leaving the condo.” I look at Westlake and say, “And please stop following me. There’s a good chance someone is watching you as you watch me. Give me a break here, okay?”

“That’s not true, Max.”

“You don’t know what’s true. Just stop following me, okay?”

Of course he does not say yes. His cheeks are red and he’s really pissed, but then again this is a man who usually gets his way. I walk to the door, yank it open, and say, “If you won’t give me a ride, I’ll just walk.”

“Take him back,” Westlake says.

“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder and leave the cottage. The last thing I hear is Raynor calling out, “You’re making a big mistake, Max.”

I ride in the backseat of the Jeep as the same two agents chauffeur me in silence. In the parking lot outside the gym, I get out and say nothing. They drive away, but I doubt they go far. I get into my little Audi, put the top down and go for a drive along the beach on Highway A1A. I refuse to look in the rearview mirror.

Victor Westlake returned to Washington on a government jet. When he arrived in his office after dark, he was briefed on the news that Judge Sam Stillwater had denied the defense motion to suppress the confession of Quinn Rucker. While no great surprise, it was still a relief. He called Stanley Mumphrey in Roanoke and congratulated him. He did not inform the U.S. Attorney that their star witness was about to leave witness protection and disappear into the night.

CHAPTER 26

I sleep with a gun, a Beretta 9-millimeter, legally purchased by me and duly licensed by the State of Florida. I haven’t fired a weapon in twenty years, since my days as a Marine, and I have no desire to start shooting now. It’s resting on the cardboard box that passes as a nightstand beside my bed. Another box on the floor is filled with the possessions I need—my laptop, iPad, some books, a shaving kit, a Ziploc bag filled with cash, a couple of files with personal records, and a prepaid cell phone with unlimited minutes and a Miami area code. A cheap suitcase, one that will fit into the Audi’s rather small trunk, is packed with my wardrobe and ready to go. Most of these items—the gun, the cell phone, the suitcase—were purchased recently just in case a quick exit became necessary.

Well, said exit is now at hand. Before dawn, I load the car and wait. I sit on my terrace for the last time, sipping coffee and watching the ocean fade into pink, then orange as the sun peeks over the horizon. I’ve watched this many times and never grow tired of it. On a clear morning, the perfect sphere rises from the water and says hello, good morning, what another fine day it’s going to be.

I’m not sure where I’m headed or where I’ll end up, but I plan to be near a beach so I can begin each day with such quiet perfection.

At 8:30, I walk out of the condo, leaving behind a refrigerator half filled with food and beverages, a motley assortment of dishes and utensils, a nice coffeepot, some magazines on the sofa, and some bread and crackers in the pantry. For forty-six days I lived here, my first real home after prison, and I’m sad to be leaving it. I thought I would stay longer. I leave the lights on, lock the door behind me, and wonder how many more temporary hiding places await me before I am no longer forced to keep running. I drive away and am soon lost in the heavy commuter traffic going west into Jacksonville. I know they’re back there, but maybe not for long.

Two hours later, I enter the sprawl north of Orlando and stop for breakfast at a pancake house. I eat slow, read newspapers, and watch the crowd. Down the street, I check into a cheap motel and pay cash for one night. The clerk asks for some ID with a photo and I explain that I lost my wallet last night in a bar. She doesn’t like this, but she likes the idea of cash, so why bother. She gives me a key and I go to my room. Working the Yellow Pages and using my prepaid cell phone, I eventually find a detail shop that can squeeze me in at three that afternoon. For $199, the kid on the other end promises to make my car look like a new one.

Buck’s Pro Shine is on the backside of a large assembly-line car wash that’s doing a bustling business. My car and I are assigned to a skinny country kid named Denny, and he takes his job seriously. In great detail, he lays out his plan for washing and shining and is surprised when I say that I’ll wait. “Could take two hours,” he says. “I have nowhere to go,” I reply. He shrugs and moves the Audi onto a wash rack. I find a seat on a bench under a canopy and start reading a Walter Mosley paperback. Thirty minutes later, Denny finishes the exterior wash and starts the vacuum. He opens both doors, and I ease over for a chat. I explain I’m leaving town, so the suitcase stays in the backseat and the cardboard box in the trunk is not to be touched. He shrugs again, whatever. Less work for him. I take a step closer and tell Denny that I’m going through a bad divorce and I have reason to believe my wife’s lawyers are watching every move I make. I strongly suspect there is a GPS tracking device hidden somewhere in or on the car, and if Denny finds it, I’ll slide him an extra $100 bill. At first he is hesitant, but I assure him it’s my car and there’s nothing illegal about disarming a tracking device. Her slimy lawyers are the ones breaking the law. Finally, there’s a twinkle in his eye and he’s on board. I pop the hood, and together we start combing the car. As we do so, I explain there are dozens of different devices, all shapes and sizes, but most are attached with a strong magnet. Depending on the model, the battery can last for weeks, or the device can even be hot-wired to the car’s electrical system. Some antennas are external, some internal.