With his memories coming back to him, he felt energized. Stronger, more determined. He stood up and walked into the bathroom to shower. Five hours until he would see her again.
Only this time, it would not be a dream.
It was four-thirty in the afternoon and the sun had begun its orange burn as it headed for cover behind the backs of buildings and, ultimately, the horizon.
Payne had chosen to reunite with Lauren in historic Fredericksburg, a small colonial Virginia town. There were museums, such as the one devoted to former president James Monroe, as well as the Mary Washington House and the old-time Hugh Mercer Apothecary, where the sick were treated with bloodletting, anesthetic-less limb amputations, and crude, homemade pharmaceutical remedies.
The rest of the town had an Old World charm to it, with shops still occupying buildings dating to the 1700s and 1800s. There were also several banks and a handful of ornate churches.
At the moment, Payne was sitting in the bell tower of St. George’s Episcopal, a recently renovated structure originally constructed in 1849 of nondescript masonry. With its forward-set, four-story steeple, it had the look of what could be considered “classic” church architecture for its time.
Inside, however, its two-story sanctuary was adorned with tall, intricately leaded stained-glass windows, polished wood benches, and large brass chandeliers. Payne was surprised to find such beauty inside a building whose exterior was so prosaic and uninspiring.
After having fully explored the church’s interior, he climbed into the cramped fourth story of the tower, peering through the fixed, downward-angled wood slats of the window casing. The air was so stale and dusty on his tongue that he felt as if he had just chewed a piece of chalk. Between the large brass bell that hung behind him and the thick decorative window slats in front of him, there was little circulation of fresh air.
From his perch, he had a view of nearly a third of the block across the street and to his right. Ahead of him, he could see clear up George Street, while to his left the next half-block continuation of Princess Anne was visible. It was not an ideal location, but it was the only one he had seen in which he could sit at such a height off the ground without being out in the open, and without being subject to anyone questioning him about his intentions. The church, while still operational, was for the most part abandoned during the week, except for child-care classes in the basement.
At 5:10 p.m., with all the details taken care of, his thoughts once again turned to Lauren. He leaned back against the cold metal of the bell and resumed his watch. She would be here soon.
Lauren was sitting in the front passenger seat of the rental car, but she knew that from Nick Bradley’s perspective, it felt like he was alone in the vehicle. She was deep in thought, thinking of Michael, envisioning the moment when he would wrap his arms around her and kiss her gently up and down the neck, as he always did... when she would hear the slight raspiness of his voice, a sexy hoarseness that only she seemed able to detect.
“Hey, you alive over there?”
She blinked and was suddenly aware Bradley had said something. “What?”
“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t slipped into a coma.”
“How much longer?”
“I’d guess about five minutes.”
The mere mention of the words
five minutes
sent her heart into a frenzy. It immediately quickened its pace, as if it had a mind of its own. Despite her attempts to slow it, to calm herself, the muscle galloped on.
They drove up Amelia Street and pulled over to the curb a few feet from its intersection with Princess Anne.
“It’s five-fifteen, we’re a little early,” Bradley said. “According to the map, we’re only about a block and a half away from your meeting place.”
She did not answer him. Instead, she pulled up on the handle and popped open her door.
“Lauren,” he said, placing a hand on her wrist, “I know you’re anxious to see him, but let’s show some caution. Michael said he’s a fugitive. Remember, I was hounding the FBI, trying to get information out of them. That landed us smack in the middle of their radar screen. I’m not entirely sure what their motives are, so I have no idea what to expect from them, how aggressive they’ll be. On the other hand, they don’t quite know what to expect from us, either. I took special care to make sure we weren’t followed. I did my best, but no guarantees.”
“Are you saying we could’ve led them here?”
“I’m not saying we did, but they could’ve been watching us or tracking our movements with an electronic bug they planted somewhere on the car. Back home, I’ve got things that can scan for that kind of techy stuff, but out here, we’re kind of winging it.”
She fell silent, withdrawing into herself. Was she possibly harming Michael by coming here to meet him? Should they just leave now and find some other way of connecting with him?
“He’ll be here in a few minutes, if he’s not here already,” Bradley continued. “Go on. But if you see anything strange, walk away, go down the street, and I’ll get the message. I’ll swing by and pick you up, then we’ll regroup, okay?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Please, don’t take any chances.”
She nodded, and then stepped out of the car.
Jonathan Waller accelerated as they turned off I-95 and curved around the ramp for exit 130A, headed toward Fredericksburg.
“Take it easy, Jon,” Scott Haviland said over the loud squeal of the tires. “We don’t want to attract attention.”
“And we don’t want to lose Harper again either.”
“We’ve got backup set up all over the damn town. He’s not gonna slip away this time.”
Waller shook his head. “And if he knows we’re gonna be here?”
“No way. There’s no way he knows we intercepted his e-mail.”
“Unless he knew that we fucked up the laptop so he couldn’t get online. If we figured that out, he might’ve also figured that we’ve got her e-mail address and could tap into the mail server.”
“That’s a lot to assume. Besides, his brain’s scrambled and he’s confused. I don’t think he has a clue.”
“And if he did figure it out, this could all be a waste of time,” Waller said, braking hard to stop at a red light. As he waited for a car to pass, his eyes darted around the intersection. It was clear, and he accelerated through.
Haviland shook his head. “If he did send that e-mail as a ruse, then he wouldn’t have had us searching Union Station all day. He planted that info with the motel clerk so we’d do exactly what we ended up doing: wasting our time.”
“Yeah, and like I said, it was bullshit.”
“Then again, as far as he’s concerned,” Haviland said, “we’re an hour away from here looking for someone who isn’t going to show.”
Waller turned hard onto Route 3, the momentum again pressing his partner against the passenger door. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He may’ve lost his memory and he may be confused about things, but his instincts are razor sharp. The biggest mistake a perp could make was underestimating him.”
“But we’re not a stupid perp and we’re not underestimating him. We’re almost there and we’ve got ample backup.”
“Backup’s a double-edged sword. If he sees one of our vehicles—”
“If he’s in a position to see one of us, Jon, one of us will be in a position to see him.” Haviland looked away. “Besides, Knox seemed pretty upbeat about the whole operation.”
“Oh, he was plenty nervous, trust me. He didn’t stop pacing the whole time we were in his office.”
“This will all come to a head in fifteen minutes. We’ll have Payne and we’ll be back on track again toward nabbing Scarponi. You’ll see.”
Waller depressed the accelerator again and the engine roared. “For our sake, I hope you’re right.”
Perspiration rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The stale, humid air inside the bell tower was something Payne had not anticipated when he chose the location, but it was too late now to make a change. Things were set.
He leaned against the small window and flapped his jacket lapels. He wanted to remove his suit coat, but his shirt was bright white and the navy blue jacket made it that much more difficult to see him in the dark enclosure.
He pressed his face against the slatted window and breathed in a few mouthfuls of forty-degree air. Remaining in a crouch, he looked out over the street, keeping watch not only for Lauren, but also for any sign of law enforcement personnel. The worst thing he could imagine was being minutes from reuniting with his wife, only to have it stripped away at the last moment by a local cop who may have been briefed on an FBI be-on-the-lookout bulletin.
The last charge he had made on Waller’s Visa was in the outskirts of Fredericksburg, just before leaving the motel. He knew Waller and Haviland would pay a visit there, questioning the clerk who had put the card through. But Payne had purposely asked about Union Station—how often Amtrak runs; if he left at five in the evening, what time would he arrive in New York City’s Penn Station; where you buy the tickets; how much they cost. Even though the clerk did not have a clue to most of the answers, it did not matter—the purpose was to plant the information with him so that when Waller and Haviland went fishing, they’d hook a big one.
Regardless of whether they thought it was a ruse, he knew they would have to check it out. The extra detail of reserving a seat on an Amtrak Metroliner for five-thirty this evening was a nice touch, he thought—but again, meaningless if they were wise to his motives.
As a safeguard, he had sold Waller’s Visa card to a shady-looking character twenty miles up the freeway at a rest stop. Hopefully, the perp would have a ball and charge up a houseful of items, essentially driving Waller and Haviland out of their minds as they tried to figure out what he was up to.
Payne wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and focused on the dark Crown Victoria that was passing by on Princess Anne and turning left in front of him onto George Street.
The navy Crown Victoria cruised down William Street, a couple of blocks from George. As it passed Hector DeSantos’s Mustang, DeSantos checked his mirror and nodded. “Looks like everyone’s in position.”
“I never understood why the Bureau always buys the same cars for their undercover fleet,” Archer said. “Perps aren’t as stupid as we always want them to be.”
“Especially in this case, when the perps are a pro and an ex-agent.”
“We don’t make the decisions.”
“No, we just do what we’re told to do and collect our paychecks.”
“Since when do you ‘do what you’re told to do’?”
DeSantos shrugged. “Guess that means I just collect my paycheck.” He turned right at the next street, his eyes roaming the vicinity for signs of Payne or Scarponi. “Anything?”
“Nothing. But at least we’ve confirmed where everyone else is and made a pass of the area. It’s been a few years since I’ve been here.” Archer glanced at his watch, then subconsciously patted his shoulder harness, making sure his Browning nine-millimeter was there. “Circle around and drop me off near Princess Anne. It’s almost time.”
Lauren walked up the street, passing a Merrill Lynch investment office and an alley that opened into a parking lot. Another few seconds and she arrived at the columned, four-story Princess Anne Building, the location Michael had chosen for their meeting. She climbed the eight steps and stood on the semicircular veranda in front of the main entrance to the building, four white columns surrounding her like centurions standing guard.
Lauren looked down the street to her left, then removed her right glove for a moment before replacing it. It was a signal to Nick Bradley, who was sitting two blocks away in their rental, that all was okay.
Her left hand found its way down to her black, ballistic nylon fanny pack, which she had purchased at a gun shop on her way back to the motel two days ago. From the exterior, it looked like the typical run-of-the-mill pouch that strapped to one’s waist. In reality, it was a gun holster: it had a Velcro strip that ran the entire length of its front pocket, providing her with instant access to the firearm with a single flick of her wrist. Feeling the Colt inside, she leaned against one of the columns, secure in the thought that she could defend herself if something went wrong.
As the sun set, she looked out over the street, folded her arms across her chest, and waited.
Waller turned right onto Princess Anne and stopped the car two blocks from the rendezvous point. They continued on foot, looking a lot like the locals, wearing jeans and winter coats, knit caps with the Washington Redskins logo embroidered across the front, and tennis shoes.
As an added precaution, Waller also sported a mustache and black-rimmed glasses. Haviland, fitted with a thick beard, used a slow, shuffling gait to complete his disguise. With Payne supposedly in the vicinity, Waller wanted to make sure they were not easily identified.
A moment later, they stopped walking. Haviland surveyed the street in front of them while Waller glanced off in the opposite direction. “I see her,” he said, elbowing his partner. Haviland indicated Lauren Chambers with a nod of his head.
Waller adjusted his earpiece and spoke into his lapel microphone. “Located Target A.”
“Roger that,” came the response. “We’re stable and holding our position. No sighting of Target B.”
Haviland turned to Waller. “Why don’t you head toward that pottery shop across the street. I’ll stay back at this end of the block, keep a wide-angle view of things.” It was a minor alteration of their plan, but after having seen the layout of the buildings in the flesh, the change made sense.
Waller nodded, received confirmation of the squad’s approval, and pulled the front of his cap down as he trudged up the street in a leisurely manner. He threw occasional glances into the storefronts in an effort to appear like an ordinary citizen browsing the numerous antiques and fashion shops for bargains.
Each step brought him closer to Lauren Chambers. And, he hoped, to Harper Payne.
“There she is, the wife.” DeSantos nodded at Lauren Chambers standing a block and a half away. He parked at the curb and his eyes combed the street. “No sign of Scarponi or Payne with show time approaching.”