فصل 23

CHAPTER 23

CLOSING IN

DUSK CAUGHT THEM IN CENTRAL GEORGIA, headed for Kissimmee, Florida, where, according to directory assistance, there was one listing for the name “Carmoody,” first initial F. They’d stopped at a public library in an Atlanta suburb and used the Internet to look up the address. They decided, after some discussion, not to call ahead, but to simply show up and hope for the best.

They’d been using back roads, avoiding the interstate, assuming that since the police knew about Mac, they also knew about the Volvo. As darkness fell they stopped at a gas station to buy gas, Cheez-Its, Ding Dongs, and Red Bull. Back on the road, Aidan and Sarah resumed a debate they’d been having, on and off, since they left Mac’s cabin.

“I think it’s crazy,” said Aidan, not for the first time.

“Fine, then you don’t have to do it,” said Sarah, also not for the first time.

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“But we could get killed,” said Aidan. “Or stuck there. Right, J.D.?”

“That’s what Mac said,” said J.D.

“Fine,” said Sarah. “So neither of you has to go. I’ll go alone.”

“But why?” said Aidan. “There has to be some other—”

“Listen,” snapped Sarah. She turned to face Aidan in the backseat. “I’ll make this as simple as I can.” She lifted the backpack. “He wants this. It’s my fault he found out about it. He won’t stop until he gets it. If he gets it, he could do very bad things. So I’m going to put it in the one place where he can’t get it. Understand?”

The car was silent for a few moments, then Aidan said, “I still think it’s crazy.”

“If you guys keep arguing about this,” said J.D., “you can walk to Florida.”

“All right,” said Sarah. “But just tell me—do you think I’m crazy?”

“I think we need more information. We don’t know if the bridge still exists, or if it does, what condition it’s in. We have no idea how it works. We don’t even know who this F. Carmoody is in Kissimmee.”

“Mac said Pete’s wife was named Fay,” said Sarah. “It has to be her.”

“Not necessarily,” said J.D. “It could be a daughter or son who doesn’t know anything about any of this. Or some random person who happens to be named Carmoody.”

Sarah stared out the window and watched a mile marker, lit by the headlights, flash past.

“Whoever it is,” she said, “I hope they can help us.”

Despite the alertness and prompt action of TV-watching toll attendant Sam Cleavy, it had taken nearly three hours for his report to work its way through various turnpike and law-enforcement bureaucracies to the FBI, which was now handling the investigation because it involved interstate flight—not to mention a flying police van.

The owner of the green Volvo was quickly identified as a retired Princeton professor, who was brought in for questioning, but was not cooperating. The FBI had also put the license plate of the green Volvo onto a watch list; computers were screening tens of thousands of digitized license plates captured over a seven-state area by cameras like the one at the toll booth, looking for the Volvo plate.

They got one hit fairly quickly; the Volvo had been caught on camera heading southbound on I-81 in Maryland. But the photo was hours old; by the time it was discovered, the car was presumably long gone from the area.

The next day brought two more hits: one in South Carolina, then another in Georgia, both times on less-traveled roads. Again, the timing was delayed too much to pinpoint the Volvo’s current location. But it was clearly still headed south.

The fourth hit was taken just outside Daytona Beach, Florida. Then came a lucky break; an alert cashier at a Chipper Whipper gas station near Orlando recognized both J.D. and Sarah, and called the police quickly. The FBI notified its Orlando office and the local police; as a courtesy, the FBI also informed the police in Princeton. The trail was hot again. The investigation was closing in. Apprehension was imminent.

The sergeant, wearing dark sunglasses, stood in the back of the crowded briefing room of the Princeton police station house. He had not left the station—for that matter, had not slept—since the investigation began into the abduction of the two children. Some of the other officers, noticing his odd behavior, as well as the glasses, had asked him if he was okay; he had brushed them off with a grunt. But he was not known as a talkative man anyway; nobody paid much attention to him amid all the excitement.

The sergeant listened intently to the briefing. The green Volvo had been tracked to central Florida; the FBI was hot on the trail. An arrest was expected soon. At the end of the briefing he went outside and wandered, apparently aimlessly. It didn’t occur to him to look down, but if he had he would have seen he didn’t cast a shadow.

He turned a corner onto a deserted street. He came to a large oak and stopped beneath it, waiting—he wasn’t sure why, or for what. There was a sound above him, and suddenly he was surrounded by a swirling storm of black birds, the beating wings forcing him to close his eyes, the sound deafening him. He wanted to run but could not move. He felt as if something was being sucked from inside him, as if his brains were being drawn out of his skull.

The birds were gone as quickly as they’d come, rising like a column of twisting smoke. The sergeant slumped to the sidewalk, moaning, unconscious.

He lay there for a minute, then moaned and opened his eyes. He looked around, blinking. He had no idea how he got there—in fact no memory of the past day, or more.

He rose unsteadily and began stumbling back toward the police station.

Lester Armstrong had been living in his Escalade, waiting for something to break. At the moment he was behind the wheel eating a cheeseburger, trying to keep the juice from dripping onto his lap.

His cell phone rang in mid-mouthful.

“Hrr-urr?” he said.

“It’s me.”

Armstrong recognized the whispering voice of his new pal, a Princeton police corporal he had befriended by means of a pair of excellent tickets to a Knicks-Heat game.

“Whaddya got?” said Armstrong, swallowing.

“They’re in Florida. Orlando. This guy is baked. It’s only a matter of time. My guess is sometime tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

“The parents?” Armstrong asked.

“Being briefed now, as I understand it. Mother is pretty upset. Not so sure she could travel like that even if she wanted to.”

“So they extradite back to New Jersey, or what?”

“That right there is for the lawyers. Listen, I gotta get off the phone.”

“So do I.”

Armstrong disconnected and hit the speed-dial number for the Coopers. He glanced at his watch as he listened to the phone ringing.

C’mon, answer, he thought. I got a plane to catch.