“Here,” I said, handing her one. “You’ll feel better when you get some coffee inside you.”
“Thanks, Matt,” she said, after she’d dried her eyes. “It’s just…it’s just, those men were so horrible. Like animals. And I’m kind of isolated up here. I don’t have any close friends.”
I thought about Billy Ray and Bobbie. They might have woken up by now. It would be a good idea if Trooper Condon picked them up before they started making a noise. But producing coffee for citizens in distress seemed to be exercising all of his talents.
In the station office, Stu Condon was examining the pages he had just printed out. He was keen about his career and he wouldn’t normally have kept people waiting outside. Before the bell had rung, he’d been going through the daily wanted notices. He always paid particular attention to those issued by the FBI, because he harbored ambitions of joining the Bureau once he had a few years’ experience. His eye had landed on the photo of Matthew John Wells. It wasn’t often that Englishmen appeared in the notices. But he hadn’t immediately realized that the man with Mary Upson was him, even when she’d introduced him as Matt. He was dirty and unshaven, his clothes scruffy. There was no doubt in his mind now, though. The question was, did he call for backup? Sergeant Johnson lived ten miles away, while Denny Morris would have swallowed the best part of a crate of beer by now. Anyway, this was exactly the kind of arrest that would get him noticed by the Bureau.
Stu was on his way to the door with a tray of coffee, when it struck him that he should call the number on the bottom of the wanted notice. He thought about it, but there was no instruction not to approach the man, as there was with escaped murderers and the like. Still, this guy was suspected of two seriously violent killings in Washington. He made up his mind. He could handle Mr. Matthew Wells no problem.
To be on the safe side, he unfastened the strap on his holster. If Mary hadn’t been there, he’d have gone in with his Glock in both hands. With any luck, there would be a chance to draw later on. His heart skipped a beat. Mary would definitely be impressed if he took in a man suspected of two murders. Mary. She was a real honey.
It was time for Stuart Bellingham Condon to show just how good a lawman he was.
The instant the trooper walked through the door, I knew he meant me no good. Although he busied himself with handing out mugs of coffee, there was something in his expression that hadn’t been there before, an almost breathless excitement. When I saw that the strap on his holster was undone, I knew my intuition was right. I took a sip of the brew-surprisingly good-then pushed my gut forward and feigned a pain in the small of my back. Slipping my right hand round, I got the fingers on the grip of the pistol. So far, I’d only attacked people who had been a threat to me or, as with Mary, had been behaving like animals. Taking on a representative of the law was a big step.
I listened as Mary told the young man about the attempted rape. He seemed to be paying attention, but his eyes were continually flicking toward me. Mary told him that I had rescued her, so he had no reason to be suspicious. Then I thought about the gray uniform. Could the people who ran the camp have some sort of pull with the local law? I wasn’t about to take a chance on that.
Trooper Condon nodded at Mary and then turned to me.
“Care to give me your full name, sir?” he said, taking some folded papers from his breast pocket.
That was a tester. I said the first names that came to mind. “Em, Matthew James Page.”
“And where are you from, Mr…Page.”
That brief hesitation, and the glance directed at the papers he’d just unfolded, were enough to tell me that he knew more about my identity than I did. Was I a criminal? All the thoughts I’d had about my shooting and fighting abilities came back in a rush. My memory was so full of blanks that I could have assassinated the U.S. president and not been aware of it. But my survival instinct overrode all those suspicions. Whatever my previous actions, I hadn’t deserved what had been done to me in the camp-like the man at the fence hadn’t deserved execution.
Trooper Condon’s eyes opened wide as I brought the Glock to bear on him. I took a step forward and relieved him of his own weapon, sticking it in my pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mary Upson’s face. Her lips were apart, but otherwise she seemed surprisingly calm.
“Sir, I would caution you-”
“Forget it, Trooper.” I pulled the papers from his hand. There was a photo of me on the top one that stirred something in my memory. Compared with how I’d appeared in the mirror in the cabin, this image gave the impression of a well-fed, well-groomed, slightly arrogant type. The leather jacket I was wearing must have cost plenty.
“Sir-”
“I said forget it. Get hold of your cuffs.”
“What?” The trooper was either playing dumb or had been gripped by fear.
“Your handcuffs.” I moved the Glock nearer to his chest. “Slowly, Stu.”
“Right,” he said, moving one hand round his belt.
“Put one on.” I waited till he’d complied, then took his arm and pulled him across to the wall. There was a heating unit there. I hooked the other cuff around a pipe and closed it. Then I patted his pockets and removed his phone and a set of keys. “You want me to hit you?” I asked.
“Huh?”
I smiled. “So it doesn’t look so bad to your superiors.”
The look he gave me could have felled a buffalo. “You’re forgetting something, Mr. Wells,” he said slowly. “Mary here’s a witness.”
He was right. I hadn’t considered what to do about her. “Stay here,” I said to her. “Let me have as long as you think I deserve.” I knew that was a risk, but I had the feeling she’d give me a break-at least for the time it would take me to find some transport.
Mary Upson didn’t respond. She held her eyes on me, gaze unwavering. I couldn’t tell what she felt about me. It was a risk cutting her loose, but I didn’t want to make the evening even worse for her.
“Take care of yourself,” I said, smiling.
Then I turned and headed for the door.
I picked up the rifle outside and ran down the deserted street, discarding the Texans’ phones and other gear. There were cars and pickups outside the nearest houses, but I wanted to put some distance between myself and the station first-if Condon didn’t know which vehicle I’d taken, it would buy me some time. As I ran, I glanced down at the page with my photo. Beneath it was printed a name. Matthew John Wells. Wells. That was my surname. I still didn’t remember it, but it seemed to fit. Matt Wells. Yes, I was sure that was who I was. Then I saw the reason I was wanted-suspicion of a murder committed in Washington, D.C., on October 29, 2009. The notification had been issued by the violent-crime unit of the FBI. I slowed to a jog. Jesus. Assuming the date was recent, and it squared with the autumn climate and conditions, I was in the clear. Then again, the only people who could vouch for me wore gray uniforms and killed people. What the hell was going on?
Suddenly, in front and to my right, there came the roar of an engine and the shriek of tires. A dark green sedan shot out of a side road and slid to a halt. The passenger door swung open.
“Get in!” Mary Upson yelled.
Something whistled past my head, then I heard a loud boom. I looked back down the road and saw the trooper. He’d got free and armed himself with a rifle. Another shot whizzed past as I threw myself into the car.
“Bloody hell!” I gasped.
Mary had her foot to the floor. She laughed as she glanced in the mirror. “That what you English say when you’re under fire?”
I had my head as far down the seat as I could get, waiting for the rear windscreen to explode. To my relief, it didn’t. A few seconds later, the road went left and we were out of the town center.