Rush is a jinni, a demon.
The hated voice said, “The passport photo you see is Tom Fargo, wanted for questioning in connection with a double murder in Brooklyn, and to the bio-attacks. Fargo may not be in New York. This is his car. And license plate. The information has been distributed to police across the country, but we are also asking you to help. If you see this man or this car, call the 800 number on your screen. Detectives are standing by.”
Ya Ka-lib! Those Memphis cops will remember me.
Rush said, “I want to stress that Tom Fargo is a person of interest only. He has not been convicted of a crime. He may simply be traveling, unaware that we need to talk to him. I will take questions now.”
Those cops will remember the mosquitoes and check their report and match up my car! And the people in the crowd took photos!
Tom turned on the defogger. Sending up sheets of spray, he drove through a four-inch lake covering a depressed area of road. Back when he had scouted the way east, months ago, he had often seen police cars on the side of this road. Speed traps. He had no way of knowing whether such cars lay ahead, even in the storm. He had to get off this road and get rid of this car. He needed to find a big enough town for that. He had no idea how long ago the initial alert from the NYPD had gone out, whether it had been distributed in Mississippi, whether cops here knew about him.
Allah, make the storm shield me.
The radio was getting staticky. He was almost out of range of the station. But the press conference wasn’t over. He switched channels and heard snatches of Christian radio, gospel music, Broadway show tunes, Annie, a commercial for a Triple-A league baseball game. He hit a clear station out of New Albany, Mississippi. Rush was back in the car. Rush would be in cars all over the country. And on TV screens in bars and restaurants and in millions of homes. Tom’s photo, car, and license plate would be on-screen, too.
Tozz Feek, Tom thought, cursing in Arabic, fighting an urge to hit the accelerator just as he spotted a shadowy rectangular shape… Mississippi state police car… parked in the grassy median strip. Tom passed before the cop as a sheep passes the slaughterer. Tom looked into his rearview mirror. All he saw was rain streaking the back window in sheets. And then he saw headlights two hundred yards behind him. But he didn’t see revolving dome lights. Was the car closing in on him a civilian one, or the cop?
Allah, I do your bidding. Make me invisible for a little while longer.
Tom did not see the headlights anymore. Suddenly the immense rear of a tractor trailer truck loomed inches from his grill. He swung the wheel and rammed his right foot into the accelerator and took a chance on passing the slow-moving truck. He had to reach the next town before the Memphis police spread information on him, He was here an hour ago… before cops in Mississippi dispatched squad cars to intersections and roads. He was whooshing past the heaving truck on a hill. Headlights rushed toward him. He hit the brakes and fell back too late but then jerked the car into place just before another lumber truck sailed past, heaving rain off the immense logs in back. The driver sounded his horn in a long, angry protest.
On the radio, Rush was taking questions from reporters. It was clear from the shouting that the journalists were excited. Tom pictured a briefing area at One Police Plaza, Rush at a podium, detectives there, too, reporters standing along walls and crammed into rows of metal folding chairs.
An NBC reporter, a woman, asked, “Colonel Rush, is Tom Fargo an American-born terrorist?”
“He is a person of interest only at this point.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“We believe that items found on his property are related to the transport of mosquitoes.”
“Colonel, why isn’t the FBI making this announcement? Why is it coming from the New York police?”
“We’ve coordinated with them,” Rush responded tersely.
“Colonel, if the FBI shared your feelings, wouldn’t they as lead investigators be here, too? Do the FBI and NYPD disagree over whether Tom Fargo is involved?”
“It’s all the same investigation,” Rush said doggedly, but Tom Fargo saw that the reporter might be right.
“Colonel Rush, do you disagree with the direction that the FBI has taken in Chicago?”
“No. Does anyone have a question about Tom Fargo?”
“Would you characterize the different priorities as a fight between the NYPD and FBI?”
“The country is facing an unprecedented emergency. We’re trying to locate someone who may help save lives. I find your insistence on looking for differences between law enforcement agencies disgusting,” Rush snapped.
“So you admit there are differences?”
Rush was silent for a moment. Tom could feel the man’s anger over the miles. Rush’s urgency was like a radar probe sweeping invisibly over the atmosphere. Rush snapped back at the relentless NBC reporter, “Have you taken your antimalarial pills this week?”
A pause. Then, taken aback, “Yes. Of course.”
“Well, two hundred million Americans don’t have access to them. So sit down and shut up and run the story. And if you want to be useful, put the goddamn photos of Tom Fargo on your news bulletins. Next?”
Colorado license plates were green and white. Mississippi plates were light beige or white. Tom’s plate might as well be a beacon shining out from the car.
Tom was moving at forty miles an hour, ten below the speed limit, but in the storm it felt too fast.
WELCOME TO NEW ALBANY, MISSISSIPPI, BIRTHPLACE OF WILLIAM FAULKNER. GATEWAY TO THE TANGLEFOOT TRAIL!
The rain, as he turned off the main highway, fell harder. Ahead a fallen tree half blocked the road. A power line was down. He passed what looked like a small campfire but saw it was a sparking wire. Home lights were off.
The better part was that what showed in his headlights told him that New Albany was a tourist town, judging from signs advertising a Hampton Inn, Miss Sarah’s Inn, Magnolia Knoll Guest House. There were signs for July baseball games in the Cotton States League. William Faulkner was NEW ALBANY’S FAVORITE SON. In the wild storm, traffic was almost nonexistent, which meant that any car out would be more noticeable to police.
The periphery of the city looked similar to others Tom had scouted in the Southeast. The land was slightly rolling and green, forest once, the air perfect for mosquitoes. Mississippi and Alabama had been two of three U.S. states worst afflicted when malaria was rampant in the country. It wasn’t until the 1940s that the disease was eradicated in the Deep South, by DDT.
It’s back, he thought, driving past a utility truck and men on a telescoping ladder, in the downpour, wearing yellow slickers, working on restoring power. The town had a spread-out feel. He passed empty strip malls and closed-up gas stations. The roads were mostly two lanes wide, with a middle turn lane by shopping centers.
He knew what he was looking for but not where to find it. He drove by the feel of neighborhoods, figuring that what he needed would not be downtown, too geared for tourists and business, and not in a wealthy residential area, but somewhere in between. He was looking for a no-man’s-land of strip malls and low-end swap shops, hockshops, and, he hoped, auto-repair shops. He’d noticed in his zigzag route east earlier this summer that these areas marked most American towns.