“Hold it!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
On board, an old woman carrying a mesh bag of groceries is teetering down the stairs.
I’m running full speed; it’s almost within reach. She reaches the sidewalk and waves goodbye to the bus driver. My hand brushes against the bus’s back right tire as I lunge for the door.
“FBI!” the agent shouts behind me. “Don’t let him in!”
I reach out my hand… almost there… If I make it in, I’m as good as-
The door slams before I get there. That’s the end. I missed it… I can’t believe I missed it. The bus lurches forward, kicking a cloud of black smoke in my face. I turn around and spot the FBI agent less than fifty feet up the block. I’m too out of breath… I can’t… But there’s no choice. I dash across the street and up the driveway of the nearest house. Within seconds, I’m in the backyard. Unlike the others, this yard is enclosed by a black wrought iron gate. At six feet, it’s too high to climb. I look for another way out. The agent’s already in the driveway. Nowhere to go but up.
Grabbing a nearby patio table, I shove it against the back of the fence and hop on top of it. It’s just the boost I need. From this height, I wrap my hands around two of the black metal spikes and pull myself up. Behind me, the agent’s closing in. As I cautiously maneuver my body over the fleur-de-lis-shaped spikes, I feel them pressing against my thigh. Slowly… slowly…
“Got you!” the agent shouts. He grabs my ankle as I straddle the tall fence.
I lash out and kick him directly in the face. He reels backwards and lets go just as I clear the fence, but as I hop down to the ground I’m off balance. I land on my ankle and it twists below me. A hot spasm shoots up my left leg. Stumbling to my feet, I ignore the pain and limp forward. On the other side of the fence, the agent’s already on the table.
My ankle’s throbbing, but I run. Keep running.
He scurries up the fence in a mad dash and throws one leg over. He’s wobbling, but all he has to do is-
“Aaaaah!” he screams.
I spin around. On top of the fence, he’s got a spike straight through his thigh. Blood’s slowly running down his leg. I cringe just looking at it.
“Are you okay?” I call out.
He doesn’t answer; his face is contorted in pain.
In the distance, I hear the second agent. “Lou, are you there? Lou!?” He’ll find his partner soon enough. Time for me to leave.
Throwing all my weight on my good leg, I limp out of there as fast as I can. Five blocks later, I spot another bus. This time, I make it on board. As the doors slap shut, I hear the howl of a nearby ambulance. That was fast. Standing at the front of the bus, I stare out the windshield and watch the flashing lights head our way.
“You gonna pay the fare, or what?” the bus driver asks, snapping me back to reality.
“Y-Yeah,” I say. As the ambulance shoots past us, I reach into my wallet and slide a dollar into the fare machine. On my way to the back of the bus, I feel my pager go off in my pocket. Pulling it out, I recognize the number instantly. It’s my own. Whoever it is, they’re in my office.
It takes twenty minutes before the bus pulls into the back parking lot of the Bethesda Metro station. From here, I have access to the subway and all its connections-downtown, out of town, and anywhere in between. But first, I have to find a phone.
Ducking inside the Metro building, I avoid the crowd that’s headed for the absurdly long escalators, and instead head for the bank of pay phones on my right. There’re still a few coins floating around my pocket, but after my conversation with Pam, I’m not taking any chances. Rather than dialing my number directly, I pick up the receiver and call the 800 number that’ll connect me with Signal. Once I’m routed through the White House phone system, it’ll be that much harder to trace my call.
“You have reached the Signal switchboard,” a mechanical female voice says. “For an office extension, press one.” I press 0.
“Signal operator 34,” someone quickly answers.
“I just got paged by Michael Garrick-can you connect me?”
“What’s the last name again?”
She sounds honest about that one. Good-it’s not everywhere yet. “Garrick,” I say. “In the Counsel’s Office.”
Within seconds, the phone to my office is ringing. Whoever’s in there, they’re getting nothing but the word “Signal” on caller ID.
“Pretty smart,” Adenauer answers. “Going through Signal like that… ”
My fist tightens around the receiver. I knew it was going to be him. In fact, I’m surprised it took him this long. “I didn’t do it,” I insist.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the money, Michael?”
“Would you’ve believed me?”
“Try me. Where’d you get it from?”
I’m sick of him jerking me around. “Not until I get some guarantees.”
“Guarantees are easy-but how am I going to know you’re telling me the truth?”
“I had a witness. I wasn’t alone that night.”
There’s a short pause on the other line. Remembering Vaughn’s advice about tracing calls, I look at the second hand on my watch. Eighty seconds max.
“You’re lying to me, Michael!”
“I’m not-”
Adenauer interrupts with what sounds like the buzz of a tape recorder.
“Last night being Thursday the third,” a female voice says.
Oh, no, I think to myself. Before she stopped the tape…
“I mean, that’s correct,” my recorded voice says. “Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw-”
“Before we get there, was anyone with you?”
“That’s not the important part-”
“Just answer the question,” Caroline says.
“No. I was alone.”
“Did you forget we had the tape?” Adenauer asks, sounding way too self-satisfied.
The second hand’s spinning. Thirty seconds to go. “I–I swear to you… that’s not the-”
“We found Vaughn,” Adenauer says. “And the gun. No more lies, Michael. Did you do it for Nora?”
“I’m telling you-”
“Stop bullshitting me!” Adenauer explodes. “Every time, it’s a new damn story!”
Twenty seconds. “It’s not a story! It’s my life!”
“All you have to do is come in.” Worried that I’m going to run, he’s trying to make nice. “If you help us-if you give us Nora-I promise you, the whole process’ll be a lot easier.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. Be smart about it, Michael. The longer you’re out there, the worse it looks.”
Ten seconds. “I have to go,” I say, my voice shaking. “I need… I need to think.”
“Just tell me you’re going to come in. You give the word and we’re there for you. Now what do you say?”
“I have to go.”
He’s out of patience and I’m about to hang up. “Let me tell you something, Michael-remember when Vaughn said it took eighty seconds to trace a phone call?”
“How’d you-”
“He was wrong,” Adenauer says. “See you soon.”
I slam down the phone and slowly turn around. Behind me is a mob of commuters angling for space on the escalators. At least three people are staring directly at me-a woman with Jackie O sunglasses and two men looking up from their newspapers. Before I can react, all three disappear on the escalators. Half the crowd’s going down to the subway; the other half’s going up to the street exit. I scan the rest of the mob, looking for suspicious glances and forceful strides. This is Washington, D.C., at rush hour. Everyone qualifies.