VIII
She had finished the article and was folding the paper when the headline caught her eye:
CIA
Employee Shot by Wife. It was a small story, just a few paragraphs, but her heart began to pound as she read it.
“McClain,” she said, her voice croaking because her throat was suddenly as dry as dust. “Was Hammersmith’s wife named Mary?”
He looked over at her. “How’d you know?”
Clara swallowed, wetting her lips with her tongue. “She killed him. Yesterday afternoon. The paper says that she suspected he was going to leave her for another woman and she shot him.”
“What?” McClain almost drove off the road.
“Be careful!”
He swore under his breath, pulled the car over to the side of the road, slammed it into park and then reached for the paper. “Let me see that!”
She handed it to him wordlessly, watching him as he read. He sat staring down at the paper for long moments after she knew that he must have finished the small story.
“McClain, are you all right?” she ventured to ask at last. His head lifted and he looked at her. His green eyes glittered brightly. Too brightly.
“May God damn the filthy bastards to hell,” he said bitterly. Her eyes widened as she searched his face.
“What do you mean?”
McClain snorted. “They got to him. Somehow. I know it, just like I know the sun came up this morning.”
“Who?” But Clara knew what McClain suspected even before she asked it. “Rostov?”
“Yeah. Or someone like him. Because of me. What I know.”
“Oh my God!”
“They knew I’d go to him. Sooner or later. So they took him out. Those bastards.”
“But McClain, couldn’t the story in the paper be true? I read somewhere that there’s always a motive for murder between husband and wife. Maybe she did find out that he had someone else. Maybe it happening right at this time is sheer coincidence.”
He looked over at her again, then reached down to put the car in gear, driving back onto the road.
“In this business there’s no such thing as coincidence,” he said, swinging the car into a tight U-turn. Then he drove silently south until Clara could stand the silence no longer. But she didn’t know how to break it.
Looking helplessly over at McClain’s hard profile, she saw that his lips were clamped together and his jaw jutted forward. Hammersmith had been his friend as well as his boss, she gathered from what he had said. He must be grieving.
She reached out and put a timid hand on his sleeve. His arm felt iron-hard beneath the sweatshirt.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. He looked down at her hand and then up at her face. His green eyes glittered like gems.
“He was a pro; he knew the risks,” he said brusquely, and shook her hand off his sleeve, Clara sank back in her seat, not knowing what else to do. He was hurting, she could tell, but he could not stand the hurt to be touched. Biting her lower lip, she turned her attention out the window to the passing countryside. The best thing she could do for him was leave him alone.
They drove without speaking for nearly two hours, the car slicing through the maze of twisty roads that criss-crossed the Virginia countryside. They seemed to be moving both west and south, Clara noted. Finally she got up the courage to ask him about it.
“We’re taking the Blue Ridge Parkway to Florida,” he answered in response to her request to know where they were going.
“Florida!”
He nodded. “With Hammersmith gone there aren’t a lot of people I can trust. I wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality at the agency. But there’s somebody, Michael Ball. He was head of covert operations for twenty years. In fact, he hired me. He’s got a place down in the Florida Keys. We’ll take this to him. He can’t be involved in it. I don’t think.”
“McClain.” Clara’s voice was barely audible.
“What?”
“There’s a helicopter up there.” There was no way of knowing if it was the same helicopter that had chased them the night before, but Clara felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach as she looked up at its shiny blue belly. It was flying over the wooded area parallel to the road.
“I see it.”
His voice sounded calm. But the knuckles of his hands
were white as they clutched the steering wheel. His bruised jaw was set.
“Do you think it’s the same helicopter that was chasing us last night?”
“Probably not. There are a lot of them around like that. It’s a police chopper.”
“Oh my God!”
He threw her an exasperated look.
“There’s no way they can know it’s us down here. So just stay calm. If they’re even looking for us, they’re looking for two people on foot, remember?”
Clara was hardly listening. “They’ll shoot us on sight, like Bonnie and Clyde!”
McClain sighed again. Then he tensed.
“Put your head down on my lap. Now!”
“What?”
“Do it!” His words were so fierce that she did as he said. She lay stiffly, her body stretched across the seat, her head resting against his hard thigh. Her face was uncomfortably close to the steering wheel, but she would let her nose be crushed before she’d turn it in the opposite direction. He was too potently male.
He leaned forward, squashing her head between his thigh and upper abdomen, to fiddle with the radio, which didn’t work. Clara jerked as she felt his body all around her face. He smelled of man. …
“There’s a cop car behind us,” he whispered savagely. “If they’re looking for us, they’re looking for a man and a woman. I want them to think I’m alone. Stay down, and stay still.”
Clara froze. McClain pretended to adjust the radio. “Please, God, please, please, please,” she prayed. There was a
whoosh as another car passed them. McClain straightened. She felt his tense muscles relax.
“See? Nothing to worry about,” he said as she returned to her seat. “How about something to eat? I got some ham sandwiches and some Cokes back at that little store this morning. They’re in the back.”
Clara turned around to get them. What she saw made her eyes widen with alarm. Puff was sitting in the middle of the backseat, an open bag beside him. A solitary crust of bread with a trace of mustard still clinging to it lay just inside the bag, which except for two cans of Coke was otherwise empty. Puff was washing himself contentedly, a big feline smile on his face. Crumbs littered the backseat.
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” McClain shot a look at her. Then, seeing where her eyes rested, he looked over his shoulder into the backseat. When he met her eyes again his look was murderous. “That damn cat, I’ll wring his fat neck. I’ll—”
“We can drink the Coke,” Clara interrupted nervously.
“I don’t want Coke. I want my ham sandwich!” he gritted.
Puff emitted a delicate burp. McClain cursed. Clara closed her eyes. And then opened them again in a hurry as a siren shrieked behind them.
IX
“Holy mother,” McClain growled. Clara looked over her shoulder, past Puff, who was still washing himself contentedly, and out the rear window. Right behind them was a blue and white patrol car from the Virginia State Police.
“What are we going to do?” Clara felt numb.
“Stop,” McClain was already slowing and pulling to the side of the road.
“Stop?” Clara couldn’t believe that he would just give up so easily.
She
wouldn’t surrender without a fight. Why, if everything he’d told her were true they were going to their deaths.
“Let’s make a run for it!” she said urgently. “There’s only one of him—maybe we can get away. It’s better than not even trying!”
“Shut up and pay attention.” McClain’s voice was fierce. He finished pulling the car onto the rocky shoulder and shoved the transmission into park. “Don’t say or do anything, do you understand? Just sit there.”
She started to argue, but he was already rolling down the window. Puff, attracted by the fresh air, jumped up on the
vinyl headrest behind him, tail waving. McClain cursed under his breath as the furry appendage hit him in the face.
“Is something…” McClain sneezed violently, throwing Puff an evil look as Clara quickly pulled him into her arms. “The matter, officer?”
“Step out of the car, please.”
McClain sneezed again. “Is there some problem?”
“Please step out of the car.”
“Certainly. Certainly. Just let me get my wallet.” McClain sneezed twice more as he reached into his pants pocket for his wallet, his movements slow and easy. The officer, who was young and worried looking, watched carefully.
“Step out of the car!”
“I’m going to… (sneeze)… Oops!” The wallet dropped from his hand to land with a tiny smack on the pavement. The officer automatically bent to retrieve it. McClain’s hand shot to the door handle. Throwing the full weight of his body behind the movement, he shoved the door open. There was a sickening thud as it made contact with the young man’s head. Then McClain was out of the car, standing over the policeman who lay sprawled on the pavement, moaning and clutching his head. Quickly he jerked the officer’s gun from his holster and cocked it, pointing it at the writhing man as if he meant to blow him into next week.
“No, don’t!” Clara shrieked. She’d been craning her neck Co follow McClain’s movements. She practically had a heart attack, horrified at the idea that he might actually he going to shoot the man. Scrambling out of the car, still clutching Puff whom she’d forgotten in her agitation, she ran around to McClain’s side. “Don’t do it!”
“Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help,” he
growled. “Get back in the car and drive it over there behind those bushes.”
When Clara hesitated he gave her a look that should by rights have made her quail and barked, “Do it!”
She did it, dumping Puff in the back seat and squealing the tires as she reversed. The spot he had chosen was off the road, partially concealed from it by an abundance of evergreens. Bumping through a shallow ditch, she managed not to get the car stuck in the mud. Her feeling of mild triumph was completely overlayed by anxiety. What was McClain going to do to the cop?
“Don’t shoot me!” The young man was lying still, watching McClain warily. In response to a gesture from the gun, he clambered slowly to his feet. Cold-eyed, McClain watched his every move. The man was careful to keep his hands above his head. Clara saw that he was starting to sweat. Tiny beads of perspiration were forming under his nose. His face was very pale, too. Probably about as pale as her own, Clara thought as she rejoined McClain. He couldn’t be any more frightened than she was.
“Not unless you make me, pal,” McClain replied. Then, to Clara, “Get his handcuffs.”
The order was clearly nonnegotiable. Clara, blanching, reached over to do as she was told. She fumbled at the man’s belt, feeling sorry for him and herself as well. How had either one of them gotten into this mess?
“Now I want you to get on the radio and tell the dispatcher that you’re not feeling well and you’re going to take an early lunch break. Say anything else and I’ll blow you straight to hell, Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” stuttered the young man. Clara cringed as McClain reached inside the car and pulled out the transmitter.
If they weren’t already, the entire Virginia State Highway patrol would soon be after them with a vengeance.
“Now talk,” he ordered, handing the officer the mike and pressing the gun right below his ear. Gulping, the officer did as he was ordered.
“Smart man,” McClain approved as he replaced the mike and removed the gun to a distance of about a foot from the officer’s head. “Now I want you to walk over to that car. Carefully, now. Don’t make me shoot you.”
“McClain,” Clara said urgently, her voice not much more than a whisper. If he was actually going to commit cold-blooded murder, she wanted no part of it. But he wouldn’t, would he? He couldn’t just kill someone for no reason, much less a cop. Could he? What did she really know about him? Except that he was silent and ruthless and hated cats and had grieved for his friend … Maybe he could kill a man in cold blood. Anyone who hated cats was certainly not all good.
“Can it, would you?” he answered in a snarling whisper. “Get into the police car and sit! Don’t touch a thing. And don’t say another word!”
But Clara was too worried about what he might do to the cop to obey. She wasn’t letting McClain out of her sight, not while he had that gun. Besides, Puff was still in the white car. She had to rescue him. It was a cinch that McClain would leave him behind. Or shoot him if he was feeling murderous. Clara trailed behind as he forced the young man through the muddy ditch to the car. If McClain had a notion to shoot him, she didn’t know what she could do to stop him. But there had to be something. A cop killer! The very idea made her shudder. He would be hunted like a rabid dog—and herself with him. She thought she was going to throw up.
The pair stopped beside the car. Clara, hurrying anxiously up behind them, got a narrow-eyed look from McClain for her pains. It practically dared her to say a word. Biting her lip, she was silent. The policeman sent her an imploring look. She looked nervously at McClain, who glared at her.
“Get inside,” McClain ordered the officer. Swallowing nervously, the young man slid into the driver’s seat.
“Put your hands on the wheel.”
The officer did, and McClain neatly cuffed his wrists to the steering wheel. Immediately his manner became less threatening.
“Just sit there, pal, and you’ll be found before too long. There’s a chopper flying around with your name on it.”
With that, he walked around to the front of the car and opened the hood. Clara, following him, watched curiously as he pulled the screwdriver from his waistband and in a matter of perhaps two minutes had the battery out of the car. Then he heaved the battery into the bushes. Clara frowned as he slammed the hood again.
“So he can’t lean on the horn,” McClain said in response to her questioning look. Then he was headed back toward the police car.
“Oh, wait, I forgot Puff!” Clara ran back around the side of the car. The officer looked frightened as she returned.
“I forgot my cat,” she explained, opening the rear door and reaching in for Puff, who was busily licking the last of the crumbs from the seat. He purred as she picked him up. When he had a full belly, Puff was a pussycat.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she offered in tentative apology to the cop as she slammed the rear door. “I mean,
about your head being hurt and you being handcuffed and—”
“Clara!” The roar made her jump. McClain was not more than six feet away, glaring at her. With a single, apologetic look at the cop, who was looking nervous again, she hurried to join him.
“Can’t you keep your big mouth shut?” he hissed, turning away and striding toward where the police car waited. “The whole idea is to make the other guy afraid of you. If he’s scared enough he’s a lot less likely to do something dumb. If that guy had tried to be a hero, I might really have had to shoot him. Try to keep this idea in your head: it’s us or them. Think you can remember that?”
“Oh, shut up,” Clara said to his back. Such rudeness was as foreign to her nature as soap was to a sweathog, but it felt good. She lifted her chin and glared at his back, daring him to turn around and say something rude in return. To her disappointment, he acted as if he hadn’t even heard.
When she reached the police car, he was already in the driver’s seat. As she hurried around the hood to get in beside him, he turned the ignition over. The motor roared. Clara barely had the door shut when he pulled out with a spray of gravel. The force of it threw her back against the seat. Puff scrambled out of her arms and swarmed to perch on the headrest right behind McClain’s head. McClain gave her a demonic look and reached behind him to sweep Puff off with a blind push. He received a smack on the wrist from a razor-clawed paw for his pains.
“Ouch?” McClain put his damaged wrist to his mouth, sucking on it. The look he turned on Clara was positively evil.
“I hate that damn cat,” he ground out
Clara could not repress a grin, which made McClain look more furious than ever Puff settled himself firmly on his new perch, purring like a lawn mower, tail twitching against McClain’s neck. Even as Clara reached for Puff, McClain let loose with a sneeze that almost shook the steering wheel with its violence, Clara grinned again, but nonetheless pulled Puff away from his perch and into her lap, where he settled down with a sigh for his after lunch nap. McClain sneezed, swore, and sneezed once again. Clara giggled. And Puff purred.