"I don't suppose you've got a helmet."
"In the garage some place. My wife got it for me, but I never bothered. Always made me feel trapped."
"Bad for your health. Gotta stay safe you know."
"You're a decent enough guy. Tell you what, I'll throw in the helmet and my goggles."
"Naw, that wouldn't be right. Sounds like the twins are waking up. As you say, you can use the cash. I wouldn't want to take advantage. Here's another fifty bucks."
"Much obliged, mister."
A minute later, his helmet and goggles adjusted, Carl fired up the old Yamaha and drove from the modest neighborhood.
By then, it was twelve fifteen. The sun was pleasantly warm. The breeze created by the motorcycle soothed him. It had been years since he'd driven a bike, and now he wondered why he had ever stopped: the mobility, the freedom, the independence. Plus, unless you wore leathers and a Hells Angels' scowl, people tended not to pay attention to you, as the number of accidents in which cars ran into motorcycles confirmed.
Enjoying the vibration of the engine between his legs, Carl passed a police cruiser. Looking straight ahead, he concentrated on traffic and obeyed the speed limit, confident that the cops in the cruiser wouldn't pay attention to him. The goggles and helmet indicated how safety-conscious and law-abiding he was.
He found his way to Interstate 10 and headed west, skirting Lake Pontchartrain. Impressed by the expanse of the water, he reached Interstate 55 and proceeded north, soon passing Lake Maurepas: the fishing boats, the waves, the evocative smell of the water, the feeling of freedom. Blending with the flow of cars, he luxuriated in each moment and discovered that eighty miles went by like they were nothing. Before he realized, he was in the small Louisiana city of Hammond, which for his purposes had one major asset: an Amtrak station. He knew this because familiarity with the train routes out of New Orleans was part of his contingency plan, just as he'd known the bus routes.
But after getting directions to the train station, he decided that if the station in New Orleans would be under surveillance, didn't it make sense that the nearest Amtrak station in another city would be under surveillance also? Hell, eighty miles was nothing. He stopped for a burger, fries, and a Coke at a drive-in restaurant. They tasted as delicious as when he'd been a kid. Then he returned to Interstate 55 and headed farther north.
In an hour, he crossed into Mississippi, and now he felt less threatened, although he didn't delude himself that the hunt for him would not continue to be urgent and widespread. The next Amtrak station was twenty miles farther in another small city, McComb. But again, his instincts warned him away. Too small a station. Too easy to be spotted. By then, it was four in the afternoon. Fatigue insisted, but he couldn't rest until he was confident that he'd found sanctuary. And food. He couldn't seem to get enough to eat. But there wasn't time.
He drove another ninety minutes to the large Amtrak station in Jackson, Mississippi. Making sure that his fingerprints were wiped clean, he left the motorcycle on a side street a few blocks from the station. By midnight, the bike would be gone, no way to trace it to him.
Trying not to attract attention by hurrying, he went to a convenience store. He kept his back to the security camera while he bought shampoo, toothpaste, a toothbrush, shaving soap, a razor, and a packet of Kleenex. Subduing his urgency, he shaved in a men's room in the train station, making himself as presentable as possible. He went into a toilet stall, locked it, then stuffed Kleenex under his lips and into his cheeks, changing the profile of his face, making it look puffy rather than gaunt-cheeked, as the newspaper described him.
He leaned forward at the ticket counter, reducing his height.
"Chicago," he said. "This evening."
"You just made it. Arrives at nine tomorrow morning."
"Got anything in the sleeping car?"
"Let's see. Yep. One compartment left."
"Must be my lucky day."
Chapter 9.
"Your honor, my clients request that the conditions of their release be relaxed sufficiently to allow them to leave Louisiana and fly to New York City. Their corporation, Global Protective Services, requires their immediate presence to oversee urgent financial matters relative to the continuing existence of their company. If my clients are unable to perform their corporate functions, the result will be calamitous, destroying their livelihood and that of hundreds of employees. The charges notwithstanding, Mr. Stoddard has an exemplary record as a protective agent credited with saving the lives of numerous international figures who function at the highest levels of finance, government, and entertainment. Prior to that, he defended the United States as a member of the elite military unit: Delta Force. You have heard the respect that Mr. Yamato and other members of the World Trade Organization have for him and his wife, so much in fact that they guarantee bail. My clients offer to surrender their passports."
Chapter 10.
The rhythm of the wheels on the railroad tracks gradually soothed him. Clickety. Clickety. For a half hour, Carl sat next to the small table in his compartment. His hand on his pistol, he expected that at any moment, the door would burst open and men would throw flash-bangs at him. He kept the window shade drawn, but then he worried about what he wasn't able to see. Raising the shade, he saw only passing countryside and gathering shadows. After his heartbeat calmed, he went to the compartment's sink, removed the wads of Kleenex from his mouth, and brushed his teeth (no matter how filthy he was on a mission, he always felt clean if he had a chance to brush his teeth). Then he washed his hair in the sink and used a wet towel to swab the dirt and river smell from him, all the while keeping his pistol close and his gaze on the locked door.
Hunger demanded to be satisfied. At the convenience store, he'd bought a Coke, two ham sandwiches, and a bag of potato chips. He'd wanted much more, but he'd been afraid of being remembered if he bought too much food in addition to his other purchases. Clickety. Clickety.
The sandwiches were stale and tasteless. He washed them down with the now-warm Coke, seasoning them with the equally stale potato chips. Clickety. Clickety.
Outside the window, the countryside rolled by, vague trees and hills in the darkness, glowing windows in farmhouses, then the glare of towns. He shut off the light, eased onto his bunk, set his knife and pistol next to him, and stared at the ceiling. The passing shadows rippled over it. Mercifully, he slept.
But then the clickety, clickety slowed. The change of rhythm woke him. Hearing the squeal of breaks, he grabbed his pistol and peered out the window, only to see a small train station, a passenger departing into the gloom. No one else was in view. Nothing to be alarmed about.