The urge to bolt was very strong, but he forced himself to slow down and think. There was no point in getting out on the highways, even in a disguised pickup, until he had somewhere to go and a reason for going there.
Keeping the damp towel over his shoulders, he went back into the bathroom and shaved, which helped him to wake up. The guy in the rest stop might or might not have noticed by now that his signs were gone and that his plate had been switched, but eventually he would, which would give the authorities an indication that Carson had been out on the northbound side of I-85. Okay, so now he needed to get it off the interstate. He counted the packs of money and found that he had a little over six thousand in cash that he’d taken from the bags before losing them in his escape. Assuming the hundreds weren’t counterfeit, he had enough money to go to ground somewhere, maybe in one of those cabins up in the north Georgia mountains.
First he needed to get some meds for this wound, and then he needed to think. Right now, the only thing that counted was that he had the cylinder. They couldn’t be absolutely, positively sure he had the cylinder, but they would be acting on that assumption. Which meant that the cylinder was a powerful bargaining chip: The Army desperately wanted it back, and just as desperately, wanted to keep the whole deal secret Good news and bad news there, he thought as he put his clothes back on.
They might be willing to bargain with him, or they might just put out orders to kill him, justifying such an order on the basis of how dangerous the cylinder was. So, first, meds. Then he needed to hide.
He got dressed again, stuffing the bloody bath towel inside the shirt to act as a temporary bandage. He put on his windbreaker and, leaving the key on the bed, went out to his truck and got in, resisting the urge to check the toolbox to see if the thing was still there. He drove out of the motel lot and onto an access road that led back to the interstate interchange, passing a Waffle House diner on the right. He was hungry, but he was too near the interstate. It’d be just his luck to stop for breakfast and have the Highway Patrol pull in for coffee. That reminded him: He needed to get rid of those magnetic signs. Maybe he’d stop in Kmart somewhere and get some green spray paint to take care of those serial numbers on the door. And one of those Styrofoam coolers and some ice — the cylinder was definitely cooking, and that was really beginning to worry him.
The interchange consisted of an overpass for a state highway that ran north-south. He paused for a moment at the stop sign. South would take him back down toward I20 and the approaches to Atlanta. Lots of places to hide, lot of people. Also lots of cops. North would take him into the Georgia and Tennessee mountains. Fewer people, fewer cops, but the more remote his surroundings became, the more he and the truck would stick out. He made his decision: Go north, get a cabin, hide the damned truck, and regroup. He turned left to go over the interstate, then headed north toward the mountains, visible as blue-green lumps on the distant horizon. As he cleared the niter change, a sign announced the miles to three towns, Dorey, Blairsville, and Graniteville.
Graniteville. Why did he remember that name? But then he was coming into the outskirts of Dorey, where he saw a Kmart in a shopping plaza. Good enough for government work, he thought. Get some real bandages, an ointment of some kind, and some Advil. And green spray paint. Don’t forget the paint. And some ice for Baby back there.
45
Stafford found the sheriff ensconced at his usual table. “Guess there’s no way around it,” Stafford said, sliding into the booth and putting his computer down on the floor. “I’d better call Atlanta.”
The sheriff was inhaling his usual cholesterol extravaganza. He nodded but kept eating. “Use my office, you want to,” he said finally. He kept eyeing Stafford, as if waiting for something.
“Okay,” Stafford said. “That fire has to be connec d to this business.
My guess is, the Army torched the place.” He explained why.
“No shit?” the sheriff said. “Burned down a government installation?
Just like that?”
“You never burn a problem out up here in the hills, Sheriff? I’ll bet you have.”
The Sheriff gave him a speculative look. “Mebbe,” he said.
“Well, think of it as a matter of scale. Yeah, it’s drastic, but it’s in their power to cover it up. Remember, that’s an operational consideration these days in government. My question is, Where’s Carson?
They said at that press conference that they’re looking for him.”
The sheriff nodded again. “I can tell you the whole damn state is looking for him,” he said. “We’ve had ten telexes on him this morning.
He’s supposedly driving a green pickup truck, government plates. Suppose Carson took that thing, whatever it is. Where would he go? What would he do with it?”
“Don’t know,” Stafford replied. “That’s why I feel obliged to call in.
Otherwise, I’d sit back and await developments. One of the leads the Army will want to pursue now is how knew about the weapon.”p>
The sheriff finished — his breakfast. “The Army knows about Gwen and the school?” he asked. “About Jess?”
“No, but my boss does. I suspect the Army has told the FBI some kind of story about Carson. They can’t tell the truth, so they’ll say he’s a foreign agent or some shit like that. The FBI is, if nothing else, thorough. They’re going to go to Ray Sparks probably sooner than later.
Probably right about now.”
The sheriff gave Stafford a long, searching look. Then they walked out of the diner together.
The sheriff’s office was in the county courthouse. It was not a large affair: a reception desk, a bull pen for admin and communications, a hallway that led back to the holding cells, and an office for the sheriff himself. Inside Warren’s office, Stafford plugged the phone line into his portable.
“I’m going to put this on speaker,” Stafford said. “We’ll be secure, but I think you should hear this.”
The sheriff nodded once, acknowledging the professional courtesy being extended, and went to his desk.
“Defense Criminal Investigative Service. We are secure. May I help you?”
“Ms. Smith, this is David Stafford. Is—”
“Oh! Yes. Just a minute, Mr. Stafford.”
“Think they want to talk to you?” the sheriff asked innocently.
Stafford grinned. “Bet they’re running a trace while we wait.”
The speaker erupted with the voice of Ray Sparks. “Goddamn it, Dave, why aren’t you here? Where the hell are you?”
“And good morning to you, too, Ray. I’m on speaker here in the sheriff’s office in Graniteville. Sheriff’s name is John Lee Warren, and he’s in the room. Heard you had a fire last night down there in Atlanta?”
“Wait a minute. Don’t go anywhere, you hear me?”
“Waiting right here, Ray.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and sipped some coffee. “Boy sounds put out,” he said.
Sparks came back on the line. “Dave, you there?”
“Right here, Ray.” Sparks sounded slightly less agitated. “Had to close my door. Christ, it’s been a bitch of a night. I’ve had the Army and the FBI and the Atlanta cops and our own Washington headquarters down my neck since zero dark thirty this morning. I take it you heard about the DRMO?”