Authors: Ronald Klueh
As soon as Beecher crawled into the back seat, he pushed his hot body right next to hers and ran his hand along the inside of her left thigh.
Faking grogginess, she opened her eyes and looked at his hand, now resting on her thigh. She shoved it away.
Beecher smiled at her and winked. “Good to have you with us, Lori.” He squeezed her thigh.
Applenu hadn’t bothered her when he was back there, and Lormes slept through most of the trip at her right, his head turned the other way.
She wondered about Applenu, who was now driving. If he had done what they said he did, maybe they could work together to escape.
She became aware of Beecher watching her, smiling. She eyed the door handle across Lormes’s lap. She could grab it, shove the door open, and jump out. Push Lormes out first. She took a deep breath. No time to panic. With both hands, she picked up Beecher’s hand and pushed it away.
“Did you see that car pull off the road back there the same time we did?” Maxwell asked from the front seat.
Beecher turned to look out the window.
“The second car back, the green one,” Maxwell said. “They pulled back on as soon as we did.”
“He’s going to pass us,” Beecher said.
Lori tried to see the passing car, but Beecher’s body blocked her view.
“Just one guy in the car,” Maxwell said. “A Chevrolet.”
“If it’s just one guy, it isn’t the cops. They travel in groups, at least two,” Lormes said.
“All the same, we’d better keep our eyes open,” Maxwell said watching the green car accelerate away from them. He turned and one-eyed Lori. “We don’t want to fuck this thing up, especially when we got some fun ahead of us.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Curt scrunched himself into the minuscule space of the back seat with the miniature cell phone pressed against his ear with his sweaty palm. “Now they’re trying to find the guy in charge of the Knoxville office,” Curt said to Eberhard as they sped past an exit to Newbern, Virginia.
Special Agent Saul had written the phone number for the Knoxville FBI Bureau Office on the back of his card. Curt had called the number, and this would be the third FBI agent he’d talked to. He glanced at the clock. Ten-twenty-five: he had been on the phone almost twenty minutes and had nothing to show for it.
“Jack Swain, special agent in charge of the Knoxville Bureau,” the voice said. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Yesterday, an agent by the name of Richard Saul was out in my neighborhood asking about me. It had to be about the stolen bomb material, and…”
“I understand all that, sir. Agent Saul came down from Washington especially for the case. He was leading the investigation here, but he is not available at this time. Most of our agents are presently occupied trying to find out what happened to Agent Saul. There is also an emergency in Oak Ridge that we are involved with.”
Curt struggled to keep from yelling. “Well get me somebody with authority in the case. They kidnapped me, and now they’ve got my wife. We know where they are, but we need help.”
“Can you hang on a minute, sir? I have to call Washington.”
Curt fought the urge to smash the phone onto the floor. Talking to these guys was like communicating with computer-automated answering systems. But with those systems, you eventually got through, even if it meant punching the operator key repeatedly until the system gave up with, “I’ll connect you to a representative.” These guys reminded him of another reason why he went into business for himself; they also reminded him of Surling’s complaints. Seems everywhere you went in large organizations, the people you had to deal with always had the same evasive answers, only these guys pinned a “sir” on the end of it. Everyone was afraid to make a decision without the people above them approving, afraid it would inject a negative factor into their career trajectory.
“Listen, when you get the guy from Washington, have him call us. We are getting closer to Washington all the time, so they should be able to get to us with a helicopter fairly quickly.”
“Sir, if you will just hold on while…”
Curt pressed the END button.
- - - - -
Exhausted, Lori had finally dropped into sleep, her first in over twenty-four hours. She achieved it despite the fact that every time she closed her eyes she saw Saul shot and falling onto his face. This sleep came without the dream of somebody holding her down, her unable to move and unable to scream. No dreams, even though she sat next to one of them.
Still exhausted, her neck and legs ached from being in the same cramped position for so long. She opened her eyes and glanced to her left at Beecher and decided not to stretch. She had been awakened by strange voices, suddenly loud after miles of silence. Maxwell, Beecher, and Lormes were discussing a green car that might be following them, the same car they had seen earlier.
“You’re positive it’s the same car?” Lormes asked Maxwell for the second time.
“I’d bet on it,” Maxwell said, his one eye peering over the front seat to see out the rear window. “They are two cars back.”
“Slow up and see what happens.”
Applenu slowed, and three cars passed on the left.
“They’re directly behind us now, trying to keep their distance.”
“Pull over,” Beecher said. “Let’s see what they do.”
Applenu eased the car onto the right shoulder.
Lori craned forward to see around Beecher, hoping the car contained someone she knew, perhaps the other FBI man, Fortner, although she knew that was impossible. They probably didn’t even know Saul was dead.
“Here they come,” Maxwell said. “It’s the same green car with the same driver as before, but this time there’s somebody else asleep in the passenger seat.”
Lori saw the back of the light-brown head of the sleeping passenger pushed against the window. From what little she saw of the driver, he almost looked like Karl Eberhard. At least he had a square crew cut like Karl. But it wasn’t his car.
“Tennessee plates,” Beecher said.
“If it’s cops,” Lormes said, “there’ll be more cars around. Those bastards never come alone. Anything suspicious behind us?”
“Nothing I can see,” Maxwell said.
“Before we panic, let’s see what these guys do. Just keep your eyes open to make sure they’re alone.”
- - - - -
Eberhard passed the truck and slowed down.
Curt straightened up and looked back. “Did you make out how many there were in the back?” he asked. They passed an exit for Lexington, followed by a sign that gave the distance to Washington as 198 miles.
“No. You don’t think they know we’re following them?”
“How could they?” Curt leaned over the back of the seat and grabbed the forty-five from the floor and shoved it under his seat.
Eberhard slowed, keeping the truck in his rear-view mirror. Once he was certain the Town Car had caught up with the truck, he took the next exit, slowing as they went down the grade. When they headed back up the other side onto Interstate 81, they were four cars behind the Town Car.
- - - - -
“They’re back there again,” Beecher said, looking out the back window.
Lori twisted around to look, but couldn’t see the car. When she turned forward, she stared into Maxwell’s swollen face, which set on the back of the front seat like a bandaged jack-o-lantern.
“The cunt’s looking for somebody to rescue her,” Maxwell said.
“You want to be rescued, cunt?” Beecher said and released a cackle. “You said she didn’t have the rag on, right, Max?”
“No Kotex there; no bloody road to travel, as our friend Applenu would say,” Maxwell said tapping Applenu on the shoulder and roaring a raucous laugh.
Applenu kept his eyes on the road and said nothing.
“Let me check it out,” Beecher said.
Lori’s heart jumped at the shock of his hand, his fingers squirming between her legs. She locked her legs and shoved at his hand with both of hers, her back thrust against the seat. His hand would not budge.
“Please don’t. Please.”
Beecher released his grip, and she collapsed back into the seat. Beecher’s hand now danced lightly across her leg like a big spider, his long fingers crawling on her thigh. Spiders: the scream threatening in her throat was the same one that erupted years ago when her brother threw a large garden spider in her lap as she sat on the porch swing. The same chills coursed down her spine, but now there was no garden spider and no laughing little brother. No screaming this time, she told herself again; no panic allowed.
Maxwell continued to stare at her. “Maybe we ought to get out the pictures we took last time,” he said. “Turn you on. Turn us all on.”
Beecher grabbed her left hand and pulled it toward him. “Speaking of which.”
She pulled back, crowding up against Lormes. Beecher bent her fingers backward, and she let her hand be led toward him, occasionally jerking back, only to feel a fiery ache engulf her arm up to the elbow.
“Just relax,” he said, guiding her hand down between his legs and placing it there while he got a tight grip on her wrist.
She felt him beneath her hand. “Please don’t. Please.”
Beecher laughed. “Why don’t you just unwrap what you’ve got in your hands, and then you can do that little trick with your mouth I taught you.”
Maxwell laughed, his head high on the back of the seat.
Lori jerked back, but Beecher held on, squeezing her wrist. Searing pain filled her arm.
“Please don’t.”
“That’s enough,” Lormes growled.
“Yeah, we’ll have time for that later,” Maxwell said, laughing, “lots of time.”
Beecher released his grip. She pulled back, shaken but momentarily relieved. She rubbed her hand and arm. That tingle of fear she felt with the spider blanketed her entire body and had her on the verge of screaming. With every incident, fear exploded anew from somewhere deep down inside, near where her baby had been. From there it roared into her chest, a spasm of chills and panic that surged down her legs into her toes, leaving her limp. She remembered Curt’s laugh when she told him that some of her orgasms were toe tinglers. It wasn’t anywhere near the same, but both left her exhausted. She longed for Curt; she longed to be held in his arms, to feel safe again.
“Those two blokes can’t be cops,” Applenu said. “How would they have found us?” He slowed. Three cars passed, but not the green one. “They’re staying back there regardless of what I do.”
“Maybe her old man tipped them off,” Beecher said. “Maybe he won’t be home when we call tonight. Maybe a cop will answer.”
“Maybe he’s trying to get rid of the cunt so he can find himself some sweet guy,” Maxwell said. “Some guy like Drafton.”
She wondered why Maxwell and Beecher kept making references to Curt’s manhood.
Lormes spoke to Maxwell. “You’re sure there aren’t any other cars following us?”
“We’ve been watching for over an hour now, and I’d bet a million dollars there aren’t.”
“Okay,” Lormes said. “Pass the truck and motion them to follow us. We’re going to find out who those guys are once and for all.”
- - - - -
Curt watched the Town Car lead the yellow truck off the interstate. Eberhard slowed to let two cars pass before he followed. At the top of the exit ramp for Raphine, the Town Car and the truck turned left; a quarter of a mile later they drove into a gas station on the right side of the road. Eberhard drove into a station on the opposite side of the road.
“You gas up and keep an eye on them,” Curt said. “I’ll call Knoxville again.” He got Swain on the phone immediately.
“I was about to call you,” Swain said. “We located Special Agent Saul. He’s in the hospital in Oak Ridge, and we just got an agent out there. He had trouble getting there through the traffic. Seems they’ve had some sort of chemical spill, and they’re evacuating half the city.”
Curt got out of the car to stretch his legs. “I told you before, it’s not a chemical spill. It’s the bomb material you people are supposed to be looking for.” The noon sun beat down, and the high humidity and his internal anxiety started to nucleate beads of sweat on his forehead. Nevertheless, it felt good being out in the open after being cooped up for the past several weeks.
“The official explanation is a chemical spill, sir.”
“Did you call somebody in Washington who knows what’s going on? We’re closer to Washington now than we are to Knoxville.”
“We called Washington, sir, and they referred us to Saul. The people in Washington are all tied up with the Iran thing.”
Unbelievable, Curt thought, politics and more politics. Was Surling right about everything? Couldn’t anybody do anything anymore?
Swain went on. “It was in the paper this morning, sir, another story by that Sheena Mosely.” He explained that the story indicated Iran sent a secret message to the U. S. Government that they had the stolen bomb material, and they had manufactured some bombs. “According to the story, they’ve threatened to blow one up in a U.S. city unless we meet certain conditions. And then that Senator Hughson just had a press conference.”
For what seemed like forever, Curt had been energized by the fear eating away at his insides. He could no longer control his anger. “Dammit, we need help. Now!”
“Please hold on, sir, my agent in Oak Ridge is on another line.”
Curt paced around the car twice before Swain came back on.
“Sir. Our agent talked with Saul, and he verifies your story. Based on what Agent Saul said, I’ll take it on myself to contact our Richmond office and tell them to get a helicopter over to I-81. Then, the next time you call, we’ll figure out how to get you all together with them. I’ll also try Washington again.”
“Have them call me immediately,” he said and disconnected.
Back in the car, Eberhard handed him a cold can of coke without taking his eyes off the gas station across the road. “Best I could tell, four guys got out of the Town Car and two out of the truck. The Town Car is around the side now. They’re probably going to the john.”
“That means they’re all there. The Oak Ridge cops said the firemen found two guys at the fire. It doesn’t seem to be any of them. Did you see any sign of Lori?”
Eberhard shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes from the gas station across the road. “There they go, and the Town Car is in the lead this time. Hey, they’re not heading back to the interstate.”
- - - - -
When the car pulled away from the service station, Lori kept her shoulder bag on her lap. They let her use the restroom—the men’s room. Beecher stood in front of the open door to the stall, spewing a constant stream of rude and crude remarks. She had no chance even to get the gun out of the handbag, nor was there a chance to yell or scream for help.
Beecher now drove, and Lormes sat beside him. Maxwell’s humongous body sweated and smelled to her right; his hot leg pressed up against hers regardless of how she moved.
“They’re following,” Beecher said, looking in the mirror.
“Any other vehicles besides them?” Lormes asked.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Okay, we’ll lead them through this burg and out into the country. Then we’ll make our move.”
- - - - -
Karl Eberhard’s cell phone on the dash board chimed with what sounded like classical music. Probably Mozart or Beethoven, Curt thought as he grabbed the phone.
“This is George Spanner at FBI Headquarters in Washington,” a deep voice said. “I was told you are Curt Reedan and you know where the people with the bombs are.”
“We are following them in Virginia. They just got off Interstate 81 and are now on State Road 606. According to the sign we just saw, we are headed toward Raphine.”
“I see that on the map. It’s less than two-hundred miles. You keep them in sight, and we’ll get on a helicopter and get down there. Richmond’s closer, and they’ve got a helicopter about ready to take off. I’ll be in touch.”