“Of course, I just thought it would come from outside the country – from the middle-east or someplace like that. And, frankly, I never considered that it wouldn’t outright kill people either. This seems almost more sinister.”
“I might have educated a monster.” Maurice covered his wrinkled face with his hands. “Sarah’s trying to avenge nature. The way she sees it, man is the problem. Back then, I thought it was typical college-campus-induced, save the world ideology. You know how blind, how naïve, college kids can be. Their interpretation of reality usually changes radically once they get into the real world. But apparently she never outgrew it. I probably gave her what she needed to accomplish her nefarious task. At the very minimum, I pointed her in the right direction.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that Mr. Andleman. She would have done it with or without you. All I know is that I’ve got to find her. Can you remember anything else, anything at all?”
Maurice slowly shook his head. “Nothing that I can think of.”
Pell sensed that the old man was holding something back but he didn’t have the time to sit and chat all day – maybe he was just upset that one of his wunderkinds was on a quest to change the world. He stood and handed Maurice his business card. “If you remember anything else, give me a call. That’s my mobile number. Use it day or night.”
“Good luck, Pell,” Maurice said.
“One more thing, Mr. Andleman. I think someone is following me. I lost them down in Boston this morning, and I don’t think that they tailed me up here, but if anyone you don’t know shows up here, be real cautious.”
Maurice grimaced.
Pell backed out of the driveway. The retired educator peered at him through the back window of the camp. He hadn’t meant to scare the old guy, but he needed time to follow up on what Maurice had told him. And if all it took was making an old man a little more cautious of strangers, so be it. Carl’s agents would come here. This was the obvious place to start.
He set out on the drive back to Boston. All he wanted to do, besides have a drink, was make a few calls. Camilla Haywood was probably going to be a dead end but she was the next logical step. How many of his friends from U Mass had he seen in the last five, or even ten, years? People change – most people at least. The odds of Camilla and Sarah still being chummy were slim to none.
He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a police cruiser on his tail with his blues on. He glanced down at the speedometer. Busted. The cruiser tailed him onto the shoulder of the road.
Pell sat patiently, waiting for the cop to come up and scribble out a ticket. He debated whether or not to show his FBI credentials and say that he was on a case, when he heard the trooper’s voice coming over the external speaker mounted on the roof of his cruiser.
“Put your hands in the air,” the voice said. What the hell? He had just been speeding.
The voice repeated the command, and Pell obliged. He watched in the mirror as the cop got out of his cruiser, his pistol drawn. This wasn’t right.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the cop said as he dropped the microphone and stepped toward the car.
The cop kept his pistol on Pell as he opened the car door with his left hand. Then he backed off. “Get out of the car – real slow.”
“What seems to be the problem, officer?” Pell asked. He knew damn well what the problem was. Carl Moscovitz surely had something to do with it.
He climbed out of the car. His arms were still over his head as the cop told him to turn around.
“Is this how you treat speeders?”
“Shut up,” the officer said. “There was an all-points-bulletin issued for your arrest twenty minutes ago. I don’t know what you did, but I’m glad that you’re here. It makes the day more interesting. Put your hands on the car.”
He started to drop his hands. This was it. His career at the FBI, the only real job he ever had, was about to end. Thrown out and unemployed, probably in jail – just where he wanted to be at 42 years old. His face flushed with anger. But if he were to be completely honest, he had known this would happen. As soon as he went to Harvard this morning he had set his professional demise in motion.
The cop patted him down and found his pistol in its shoulder holster. “What have we got here,” he said as he pulled it out.
“I’m an FBI agent,” Pell said. “There must be some mistake. My ID is in my coat pocket.”
The trooper pulled out Pell’s ID and examined it. “You must have done something real wrong,” he said. “They want you bad.”
Pell shook his head. “It’s got to be a mistake. I was up here working a case.”
“I’m sure it’s a mistake, Agent Pelletier; these sort of things always are, but I’ll let you all work it out on your own. All I know is that I’m bringing you in.”
He grabbed Pell’s right hand, twisted it behind his back, and snapped on a handcuff. As he started to pull Pell’s left hand behind his back, Pell spun around and put some of his extensive training to work. His left hand slapped the trooper’s gun so that it pointed harmlessly away, and then he drove his clenched fist into the cop’s throat, catching him squarely on the Adam’s apple.
The blow instantly immobilized the stunned officer. Pell grabbed his arm and spun around so that the trooper was behind him, and in one fluid motion flipped him violently over his back onto the pavement – a classic defensive move designed to get the opponent onto the ground, one he had practiced countless times. The grunting thud of the trooper hitting the ground was followed by the muffled sound of a gunshot.
The trooper’s face twisted in shock and pain. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, emitting a high-pitched screech. He had landed with his pistol behind his back and it had fired.
“Jesus Christ!” Pell exclaimed as he bent down next to the cop. “You’re going to be all right, buddy. I’ll call for help.”
He ran to the trooper’s car, picked up the radio and pressed the talk button. “A cops been shot,” he said into the transmitter and released the button. He had no time to decide what to say. Being involved in the shooting of a police officer, accidental or not, was not a good thing.
“Who’s this?” A voice squawked out of the radio.
“A cops been shot,” he repeated.
Silence. And then, “Identify yourself. This is a police frequency.”
“What does it matter who I am?” Pell screamed into the mic. “I’m telling you that there’s a cop lying in the middle of Route 43 with a bullet in his back. I’m using his radio to talk to you.”
Again silence. They would be dispatching all available units to this location, and they were also probably checking to see if anyone was patrolling out here.
Sure enough, the next thing out of the speaker was, “Possible officer down. Route 43. All units respond.” The broadcast message went out on a frequency that all vehicles could hear.
“Damn,” Pell muttered. Every local and state cop within twenty miles was about to converge on this piece of highway.
He glanced out the front window as the trooper fired. The bullet slammed through the windshield, catching him squarely in the right chest. The ensuing pain tore up and down his body. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
He screamed, half in pain and half at himself for not disarming the cop. His thumb involuntarily broadcast his howl to the police dispatcher and removed any thoughts of a hoax from that man’s mind.
The radio dropped from his hand as the trooper fired another shot. This one narrowly missed his head as it punched another hole through the windshield. He saw the shotgun in its cradle in the passenger seat and started to reach for it. He couldn’t do it – couldn’t take another lawman’s life again – no way.