Samms drove home, quickly packed an overnight case and then picked up a cab and drove to the airport and took the first flight to Atlanta. He hired a car and drove to the forensics laboratory. After some cajoling and persuasion he had the Coke can retrieved and then with the promise of a two hundred dollar inducement the weekend duty supervisor found a lab technician willing to come out and share the proceeds.
‘Yeah we got prints,’ remarked the lab technician laconically.
‘And are they any good?’ demanded Samms.
‘If you’ll just quit breathing down my neck I’ll have them on the screen just as soon as I can,’ countered the technician, who was beginning to regret volunteering to come out and assist this pushy guy. Samms literally backed away and stared at the ceiling.
Fifteen minutes later there were slightly smeared partial prints of three fingers and a thumb of a man’s right hand displayed on his screen. ‘It’s not very good,’ remarked the technician staring at Samms as if he was a minor artist who had submitted a work of dubious quality to the National Gallery.
‘Yeah ok, but do we have a match?’ Samms asked. The technician hit a button on his keyboard and a face appeared along with biographical details.
‘Daniel Edward Hall, former US Marines and now works for some security outfit,’ the technician declared.
By a huge effort in self-control Samms managed to avoid giving a whoop of triumph. ‘Ok give me back the can and scrub the file from the computer,’ he told the technician.
‘Why?’
Samms grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him close enough to feel his nervous panting. ‘Cos if you ever breathe a word about it to anyone I’ll come and find you and I’ll rip your fucking head off. Here’s your hundred dollars.’
Jasper White was mulling over the problem of how to use the full resources of the United States law enforcement in the mere search for a stolen Winnebago without drawing attention to it. Eventually he called up a friend in the FBI who owed him a favour and persuaded him to say that the Winnebago was being used by a man suspected of a bank robbery who had evaded capture but killed an FBI agent in the process. The apprehension of a criminal who had murdered one of their own would ensure their diligence.
Two days later his friend called back and told him that the vehicle had been found just to the west of the Allegheny Mountains in West Virginia. It was parked in a small camping site privately owned by a dodgy character named Brandon. He had sent out strict instructions to the local police and to the FBI that on no account was the vehicle or its occupant to be approached unless it showed signs of moving off, in which case they were expected to follow it discreetly, but in view of the reason the occupant was being hunted, he encouraged White to get there as soon as possible.
Two hours before dawn Joe Brandon was woken up by a knocking on his back door. He rolled his ungainly body towards the edge of the bed then heaved himself upright. He was willing to bet that one of those goddam elderly campers had some kind of medical emergency and wanted his help, not that he could offer any except phoning for a doctor, and what the hell, they all had cell phones and internet connections and all that stuff didn’t they? He switched on the bedside lamp and looked around for the clothes he had worn yesterday. They weren’t on the chair or on the floor; then he realised he was still wearing them. He ran his hand back through his hair and then across the three day stubble on his chin and staggered off towards the front door which received another knock just before he reached it.
‘Ok, ok I’m here, hold on.’ He undid the latches whilst preparing a small speech about how he wasn’t liable for providing any services to the people on his land except a fresh water supply. He was ready to deliver it as he opened the door but the door was shoved inwards and a man grabbed him spun him round and into an uncomfortable arm lock and shoved a gun into his cheek. ‘Are you Joe Brandon?’ the intruder demanded.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Brandon replied, hoping his admission would lead to reasonable treatment rather than having his head blown off.
‘Good.’ His arms were released and he heard the man step away.
‘My name’s Dawson, I’m with the FBI. Sorry I had to treat you like that, but we’ve been tracking a guy who’s been running this marijuana farm over in Atlanta. He’s in that Winnebago at the end of your park.’
‘What, the one with the Georgia plates on it?’ Brandon asked.
‘Yeah that’s right. They bought it with some stolen cheques. We’re gonna take possession of it tomorrow, and get him for the drugs. I just thought I’d give you some warning that we’ll be moving in at dawn.’
‘Well, ok Mr Dawson, I appreciate the warning. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Well we appreciate the offer, but just keep your head down. We’ll start moving into position in a couple of hours.’ He held out his hand and Brandon shook it. ‘I’ll take my leave now sir.’
Brandon watched him walk away towards the main road and a few minutes later he heard the distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle rumbling away into the distance. He waited another minute and then walked towards the Winnebago with the Georgia plates and knocked on the door and then stepped back. The outside flood light came on and then a torch was shone in his eyes as the door opened a crack.
‘Yes?’
‘Er look, well it’s none of my business really, but there was this FBI guy snooping around… said they were coming for you in the morning.’ The man who had booked in with him a few days ago jumped down from the door way and gazed around. His gun and the expression on his face made Brandon real uneasy but the man said ‘I’m much obliged Mr Brandon. Now tell me everything and quickly.’
Brandon did as he was told, and ten minutes later he watched the Winnebago driving along the track away from his home and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was really taking a chance helping them out, but planting marijuana on his dilapidated farm and passing dud checks were two of the crimes and misdemeanours of which he himself had been convicted. He concealed the thin wad of hundred dollar bills the fugitive had given him as a reward, and then he quickly showered and shaved and made himself as presentable as possible. Next he packed an overnight bag and set off for his sister’s place in Beckley. He really did not want to be around when the Feds found their prisoner had checked out.
The past few days were some of the happiest Steven had spent sailing his yacht. The weather was excellent, alternating periods of bright sun and high cloud and the trade wind blew steadily so they rarely had to adjust the sails or make any course corrections. For the first time since his wife had died he did not feel lonely. He was worried by the probability that Gerry would soon resume her mysterious former existence and he suspected that she would disappear from his life as mysteriously as she had entered it, but for the moment he enjoyed her company. Also he was honest enough to admit to himself that making love or having sex, he was not quite sure which it was, made up an important part of this sense of well-being.
‘Bermuda in two days,’ he said, looking forward to spending time with her on the islands, and wondering whether it was a good opportunity to suggest that they meet up again when she had completed whatever unfinished business she refused to discuss with him. She smiled back. ‘I’m going to tidy up the cabin. I’ll bring you some coffee in a few minutes.’