"About one. I won't call again. Just tell her to wait."
"I can't wait to see you again."
"Me, too. Thanks, Terry. Thanks for being the middleman all these years. Just this one last time. Okay?"
"Where are you now?"
"Near Columbus, Ohio. I'm driving in from Washington. There was bad weather, and I couldn't get a flight back. When Annie gets there, tell her I'm on the way and I apologize. Also, tell her not to call my house. My phone may also be tapped."
"Your phone?"
"Yes, my phone. By her husband."
"He's a bastard. I hate him."
"Right." Keith went through it one more time, then said, "See you later." He hung up and got back in the car. He said to Stewart, who was now sitting in the front passenger seat, "You want to call home? I'll give you my credit card."
"No, thanks. I'll call from Ohio."
"We're in Ohio."
"Oh... I'll call later. It's too early."
Keith started the car and got on the road, taking the circular highway north around Columbus, then headed north and west on Route 23.
It was a sunny day, cool, with scattered white clouds. There was some early Saturday traffic, mostly campers and recreational vehicles, heading up to the lakes, probably, or to Michigan.
Stewart seemed fascinated with the countryside. "It's all farms. What's that stuff? Corn?"
"Yes, corn."
"Who eats all that corn? I eat corn maybe once a month. You eat a lot of corn out here?"
Rather than explain about field corn and sweet corn, cattle feed and people food, Keith said, "We eat corn three times a day."
Stewart was wide awake now and enjoying the scenery. He pointed out barns, cattle, and pigs to Keith.
They made good time, but not great time, and it was almost eleven A.M. when they crossed into Spencer County.
Keith slowed down and took it easy the last fifteen miles. He saw no county or municipal police on the roads, and they wouldn't recognize this car anyway, but he didn't want a problem this close to the end.
Keith pulled up to his driveway and took a few pieces of mail out of his box, nipping through it as he pulled up to the house. It was mostly junk mail, but there was also a summons for him to appear in Spencerville traffic court for a variety of parking violations that he didn't recall getting tickets for. Petty harassment, but he realized he could be pulled over by the police anytime if he didn't answer the summons by the appearance date, which was Monday. He'd be long gone by then.
Stewart asked, "You live here?"
"I do." Keith stopped near the front porch and got out. Stewart got out, too, and was busy looking around, so Keith got his bag from the trunk and said, "Come on in and wash up."
They entered the house through the front door, and Keith led Stewart up the stairs. "Bathroom's there. Meet you downstairs. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator."
Keith went into his room and threw his garment bag on the bed, then took the packed suitcase out of the wardrobe cabinet. His overnight bag was always packed with toiletries and underwear, a habit from two decades of unplanned travel. His briefcase was already packed with his important papers, and he slipped his passport in his suit jacket pocket.
The bathroom was empty now, and Keith cleaned up, then took his things downstairs.
Stewart was in the kitchen having a glass of orange juice, and Keith poured the last of the juice into a glass for himself. He said, "Sorry I have nothing to offer you for breakfast, Stewart."
"Oh, that's okay." He looked around. "This is a real old house."
"About a hundred years old. Can you find your way back to Washington?"
"I think so."
Keith took four hundred dollars out of his wallet and said, "This is for gas, food, and tolls. Stop at a farm stand and get some fresh produce. Mrs. Arkell will love it."
"Thank you, Colonel. I had a good time."
"I knew you would. We'll do it again sometime."
"Can I use your phone, sir?"
"No, it's tapped. No one knows I'm here. Call from the road."
Stewart had been around long enough not to be surprised or to ask questions. Keith steered Stewart toward the door, and Stewart carried the suitcase out to the porch. Keith gave Stewart directions to Route 23 and said, "The cops in this county are tough. Take it easy."
"Yes, sir. Hope I see you in Washington again."
"You never know." They shook hands, and Stewart left.
Keith ran through a mental checklist, then closed and locked the front door, and carried his luggage out back to the Blazer.
There was a note on the front seat, and Keith read the printed message: You was supposed to be gone by Friday, and I see your car still here. I'll be coming around Monday to see if you're gone.
The note was unsigned and not written in words that could be construed as threatening in a court of law. But Keith had no intention of going to the county prosecutor. He was either going to kill Baxter or let him live. The choice was actually Baxter's.
Keith wondered why Baxter was waiting until Monday, then realized that Baxter was away on his Saturday hunting or fishing trip. And tomorrow being the Sabbath, even Police Chief Baxter might want a day of peace and rest. It didn't matter. Keith would be gone before Monday. In fact, by tonight, when Cliff Baxter returned home and didn't see his wife there, he might figure it out and realize that indeed Keith Landry was gone, and so was Mrs. Baxter. Keith wondered if she would leave him a note.
Keith got in the Blazer and turned the ignition switch. Nothing happened. Completely dead. He popped the hood release, got out, and lifted the hood. The battery was gone, and in its place was a note that said, simply, "Fuck you."
Keith took a deep breath. The man was making it difficult for Keith to keep his promise to Annie. All in all, the last few days hadn't been good days, starting with Charlie Adair driving up to his house. The White House was no treat, either. Neither was Hurricane Jack. Now this. "Okay, Landry. A new transportation problem." He thought a moment, then walked to the barn. The garden tractor had a 12-volt battery, and it should have enough amps to kick over the Blazer.
He slid open the door and sat on the tractor. He was going to start it, ride it over to the Blazer, let it charge awhile, then put the tractor battery in his car. He pushed the starter button. Dead. But he heard a clicking sound and looked at the dashboard. Someone had turned on the headlight switch, and the battery had run down. "Cliff, you're getting on my nerves."
He got off the tractor and looked out across the road at the Jenkins farmhouse. He could borrow a battery from them, but he noticed that both their vehicles, the car and the pickup truck, were gone. He could borrow their tractor battery, with or without their knowledge, but you didn't do that around here.
He went inside and tried the Jenkinses' number, but, as he thought, no one was home. The Muller farm was about a half-mile walk down the road. "Damn it."
He looked through the phone directory and called a service station out on the highway, and they said they'd be there in half an hour with a new battery. The man added, "Damn kids probably stole it. You ought to call the cops."
"I will." He gave them directions to his farm and hung up. "Maybe I should have called Baxter Motors because that's where my battery is."
He considered calling Terry. Annie was there now, waiting, and Cliff Baxter was presumably out of town. But what if his calls did actually go through police headquarters? No matter how guarded he tried to be with Terry, or whoever answered, the call would be like a four-alarm bell ringing at police headquarters. All his instincts, as well as his tradecraft, said, "Do not use the phone."
He used the time to shave, shower, and change into casual clothes, all the while trying to put these bad omens into a happier context. The course of true love never did run smooth. "Tonight, Washington, dinner with the Adairs, Sunday, maybe the National Cathedral, Monday, Charlie's tour of Washington, then submit a written turndown of the job offer, get the passport, and fly to Rome no later than Wednesday." Sounded good. "Where's the damned battery? For want of a nail, the king sat in Dumferling Town." Something like that.