As the driver appeared to study the road ahead, his hand hooked itself over the seat, palm up. Allen slapped the bill into it. The money joined the other hundreds in the driver's shirt pocket.
"Four-fifteen," he said into the mike.
"Go ahead, four-fifteen," a woman's voice squawked.
"Got a fare to Oak Ridge. Let you know when I'm back."
"Ten-four, four-fifteen. Hey, Manny, you know anything about the excitement in the vicinity of Church and Market?"
"Negative, Nora. What's up?"
"Sounds like a bank robbery."
Manny's shoulders stiffened. Allen glanced nervously at Julia.
"Frank's been screaming at me through the box for ten minutes. Says someone shot up his steed."
"Wow," he intoned stoically to Nora, then clipped the mike to the radio. "Those hot C-notes you been feeding me, Jack?" He kept his eyes on the road.
"No," Allen said. "The bank wasn't robbed. If it was, our deal is off and you can come clean about where you really took us. Okay?"
He didn't answer immediately. "That's Oak Ridge, right?"
Allen sighed. "Right."
"Funny how that town looks more and more like Maryville every day."
forty-five
They made the half-hour drive into Maryville in
relative silence. The driver queried them for knowledge of the events back on Church Street, but they claimed ignorance. When they responded to his attempts at small talk in monosyllables, he flipped on his radio to a country station and didn't speak again.
A few times, Stephen groaned quietly. He simply smiled reassuringly when Allen or Julia turned to him.
Allen's head ached with disturbing thoughts. What had he gotten himself into? In the space of one day, he'd been driven from his home, nearly murdered several times, and thrown into a fugitive run with the brother he hadn't seen in two years and a streetwise federal agent.
He glanced at their profiles. They were deep in their own thoughts. As he watched, Stephen closed his eyes slowly, exhausted and hurting. As much as Allen begrudged his brother's choices, he admired what he'd just done. The fact that Stephen had held his own with an obvious warrior boggled his mind.
And Julia. He shook his head in wonder. Even while the killer was battling Stephen, her decisive action was stunning. Running toward the guy as he was about to crush Stephen's head, firing off round after round, driving and holding him back so they could make their escape—all while the killer was shooting back! Some of it was a product of her training, sure, but either you were born with courage or you weren't; no amount of instruction could instill raw bravery. Reliving those harrowing moments heightened his sense that something special had occurred.
He'd heard about men in combat who found themselves surrounded and outnumbered. Later they'd claim that everything had come together in that moment: with bullets and shrapnel whistling past their heads, they instantly remembered minute details of every evasive maneuver they had ever learned in training or in the field, they could accurately predict every inch of terrain they had never seen, their marksmanship became flawless, their feet sure. Only after escaping certain death did they realize that they had done things they could never, ever repeat or explain. But they had survived.
What Julia and Stephen had done back there was something like that.
His eyes traced the contours of her face, turned in profile. The strong forehead, straight nose, full lips. She was gorgeous—not in a fashion-model way, but with the kind of delicate beauty that shocks school-age boys into realizing there are things about girls worth noticing. Still, Allen found himself appreciating her for qualities the mirror could not reflect: the quickness of thought and fearlessness that had saved them from the killer. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt desire for a woman because of her strength of character, intelligence, compassion, or other uncaressable trait. The realization that he felt that way now made his stomach tumble, a thrill he had not experienced in years. He was vaguely aware that his attraction for her benefited him in a more valuable way as welclass="underline" it took his mind off the predicament they were in.
Thirty minutes after leaving Knoxville, the taxi rolled into Maryville. Julia stared out at the passing buildings. She seemed to seek out each street sign as they passed it, nodding as though committing the name to memory—familiarizing herself with a locale from which they may have to escape. Very professional. He smiled, but the necessity of her precautions made him unable to hold it.
She noticed his attention and smiled, sweet but absent, then returned to her reconnaissance.
Allen looked out his own window. As he watched the sun-drenched town unfold in all its disarming beauty, he felt a pang of envy for those who lived peaceful lives here or visited with nothing more pressing on their minds than finding the nearest gas station or restaurant or bathroom. Maryville, nestled in the shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains and liberally studded with century-old buildings and trees in full bloom, made him ache for his own hometown, the near-perfect life he'd carved there for himself. His face flushed with anger at the faceless people who'd taken it from him.
Julia's voice distracted him.
"Pull in here."
Allen followed her finger to a Motel 6 sign just ahead. The driver whipped into the parking lot without slowing and jerked to a stop in front of the office at one end of the L-shaped structure. Bright blue and orange doors alternated like opposing sentinels before the rooms at ground level and behind the wrought iron railing of a second-story balcony.
Julia and Stephen clambered out as Allen paid double the fare. He climbed out on the driver's side and watched Julia over the roof as she pulled a newspaper from a machine, folded it, and slipped it into an open side pocket of the gym bag.
"Take care, buddy," the driver said, and Allen believed he meant it. Their melancholy silence had conveyed the true depth of their plight more than he'd realized.
"Just remember our deal."
"Oak Ridge."
Allen slapped the roof in acknowledgment, and the taxi pulled away.
forty-six
In the shade of the balcony, Stephen stood solid as
a totem pole, stone-faced and still a bit dazed by his injuries, which had to be cleaned and dressed.
Allen wanted a few hours of shut-eye for himself. He reached for the office door, but Julia stopped him.
"Not here," she said. Through the glass door, they could see that the office was unoccupied. Behind the brochure-crowded counter, a shadow moved on the open door to a back room. Julia hitched her head to the side, urging the men to follow her. They moved quickly into a breezeway at the elbow of the building where an ice machine and a soda dispenser hummed quietly.
"We're not going to take any more chances," she said. "The people after us are too determined and too resourceful. There's another motel about a mile back the way we came."
"Think the cabbie will rat us out?" Allen asked.
She smiled. Rat us out. "The killer saw us take off in the taxi." She combed her fingers through her hair, a quick, unconscious motion. "He was trying to shoot at us and dodge traffic at the same time, but I'm sure he took note of the taxi number or license plate. The guy's too proficient not to. The cabbie may or may not stick to his story about dropping us off in . . . Oak Ridge, you said?"
Allen nodded. "Yeah, it's a small town about the same distance from Knoxville as Maryville, but in the opposite direction. I figured the cabbie's odometer would support the story."
"Let's not count on it working. Sooner or later, our enemies will figure they've been duped. You figure that killer could pressure the truth out of the cabbie?"