“They use the Allen Jenkins case at the Academy. It’s a case study in decisions. You got screwed, Pell. Me and the other recruits talked about it over beers after that class and we all would have reacted exactly like you did. Anybody would have. Hopefully, this will give you back some of your reputation.”
Pell’s drugged eyes watered up. Everything was coming full-circle as Steve Strange pulled an envelope out from the inner pocket of his jacket, passed it over to Pell and said, “Everything you need is in here. Do yourself a favor and give this to Arthur.”
9:54 pm PDT Eureka, California
The car hit hard as it came down and bounced up again, threatening to roll over to the left. He cut the wheel in that direction. Small trees smashed into the front fender and slapped at the windows as he careened through the woods out of control. He pressed on the brakes, but the tires couldn’t get a grip on the soft forest floor.
Suddenly the trees cleared as he streaked out onto the side of a road. The car went into a skid. This time he didn’t simply plow through some young trees. As if someone steered him toward it, the car swerved and slammed head-on into a giant pine tree.
The airbag deployed and slammed Chris back into his seat as the world around him exploded with the sound of crushing metal and shattering glass. The symphony from hell overwhelmed him and he blacked out briefly. He came around to the sound of the airbag slowly deflating and the hissing and ticking of the shattered engine.
“Jesus Christ,” he said as he pushed the airbag out of his face and kicked open the jammed door. Outside, he gave himself the once over, surprised he was in one piece. Tomorrow he’d be sore, but for right now he was okay.
The front fender and grill wrapped around the huge tree, giving it a twisted metal hug. The hood was popped open and mangled. Steam poured from the shattered radiator.
The car was totaled, and worse than that, he was now on foot in the middle of the vast woods in the dark. He climbed back into the car and grabbed his backpack. After rummaging for a few minutes in the dark for his cell phone, he found it and decided that now was as good a time as any to get Carl involved.
Standing outside, he turned on the phone, hoping that it would work in this wilderness. After an interminable time, the roam light finally started flashing, and he dialed information back in Boston for the FBI.
He looked up at the star-filled swath of sky between the immense trees that lined the road and listened. Nothing. He couldn’t hear cars on a distant road, an airplane overhead or anything to insinuate that he wasn’t the only human alive on the planet. What he could see of the horizon in any direction was dark – no glow from a city or town. Sweet Jesus, this was a predicament. It was going to be a hike to get out of here.
The computerized voice gave the number for the FBI and he dialed it.
After a couple of rings, a voicemail machine answered and told him that the office was closed for the day. It was the middle of the night back home and he wasn’t going to be getting any help until the morning. He turned off the phone and sat on the trunk.
His options were limited – sit and wait to see if someone would come by, climb into the backseat and catch some sleep, or hike out. None of them sounded good right now, but one thing was for certain, he wasn’t in the mood to just sit around and wait, so he decided to hike out.
As he made a move to get going, headlights, about fifty feet away, suddenly turned on and shone brightly in his face. He froze. Someone had seen the crash and had just sat there watching him. Why hadn’t they helped him? His instincts told him to make a run for the woods, but he ignored the urge and stood there. The car wasn’t running, and after a minute, he heard doors open and close. Two shadowy figures appeared in front of the headlights. He couldn’t make out their faces but he could see that they both held shotguns.
“Hello?” Chris said.
They ignored the salutation.
“I had an accident,” Chris said.
Again they were silent.
He started to walk toward them.
“Stop right there,” the man on the left said as he leveled his gun. Chris stopped.
“What do you want?” The other one said. They had thick accents, or maybe they just talked real slow.
“I don’t want anything,” Chris replied. “I just had an accident.”
The two men looked at each other and Chris noticed the faint, red glow of a cigarette in the car. There were at least three of them.
“Why’re you trying to reach the FBI?”
“It’s a long story. Who are you?”
The man on the left pumped his shotgun. “What do you think, Ted?”
“Hold on a minute, Jake,” the other man said. “Before we do anything rash—”
“He was trying to call the FBI. He’s probably a narc. Do you want to go back to the pen?”
“No,” the other man said in a conciliatory tone.
“Then let’s waste him.”
“I don’t know?”
“I say we shoot now and ask questions later.”
“Just a second, guys. I don’t work for the FBI or the cops. I don’t know who you are or what your deal is, and I don’t care. I was trying to find someone who lives out here. I’ve got no beef with you.”
The smoker climbed out of the car but stayed in the shadows. Only the slowly moving tip of his cigarette was visible. “Who were you looking for?” The man asked. His voice was much clearer than his partner’s. He spoke in an unmistakable northeastern accent – a fellow Yankee.
“Why were you driving so fast? You on the run?” The man on the left said as he started to walk toward Chris. “And why were you calling the Feds?”
“It’s a long story,” Chris replied. He felt disconnected, like he was having a bad dream and couldn’t wake up – maybe he hit his head in the crash.
Jake walked behind Chris and prodded him with his shotgun to walk toward their car. He kept the gun barrel pressed firmly into Chris’ back. If he made any wrong moves, Jake could blow a hole in his abdomen big enough to put a fist through. He was at their mercy.
What was he going to say? Was there any chance of escape?
“Put your hands on the hood,” Jake said as he pushed him into the bumper and frisked him. “He’s clean,” he said after a painfully thorough search.
“Of course I’m clean,” Chris said. “Like I told you, I was looking for someone out here. I followed him from LA, and we got separated just as he turned onto the dirt road.”
“Who was it?” The voice from the dark asked.
“Albert James Winslow.”
“And you say you followed him from LA and then you got separated right up here?” Jake asked as he turned Chris around. For the first time, Chris got a good look at him. He wished that he hadn’t. The man was tall and lanky with a ratty, unkempt beard that covered most of his face – a jagged scar ran from just below his left eye, down his cheek, under his chin, and disappeared into the collar of his faded, black Allman Brothers t-shirt. He definitely wouldn’t be winning any handsome contests.
Jake smashed the butt of his shotgun across the side of Chris’ face, knocking him to the ground. His head rang. Pain exploded from the spot where the gunstock had made contact.
“Jake, hold on a minute,” Ted said.
“Hold on, my ass. You follow somebody for that long and then lose him? He’s lying. And look what he had here in his jacket pocket. I told you he’s FBI,” Jake said as he held up Pell’s ID wallet and spat on the ground narrowly missing Chris. “Stand up,” he ordered.
The two other men walked out from behind the car so Chris could see them. Ted looked very much like another version of Jake – without the scar. The other man was clean shaven and dressed in a suit. He looked like he could have come straight from work at a bank or an insurance office, and appeared out of his element here. What were they doing out here in the middle of nowhere at this time of night in the first place?