He had to silence Ida Rain. Had to. Had to-
A loopy shriek interrupted his thoughts. Behind him, the red flasher flooded across the wet pavement like a liquid sound wave. One turn of the siren. He checked the rearview.
Aw shit. The cop car was right on his bumper. Danny pulled over. He pulled out his license certificate and watched the side view mirror. The county deputy came forward from his green and white cruiser. Cautious, hand on his pistol, approaching from the blind side.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
The cop accepted the license form and placed it on the clipboard he held on one arm. Pen in the other.
“When you turned off the highway onto Freedom you sailed a candy wrapper out the window.”
“Aw Christ,” Danny sagged. It was an expression of guilt.
But also relief.
The cop went back to his cruiser to write the ticket. About five minutes later he returned. “You can mail it in or stop by the courthouse and pay it. Otherwise you’ve got a court date if you want to go that route.” He handed the license back.
Danny studied the ticket as the cop got back into his car and pulled into traffic.
Give me a fucking break. He groaned-$240 for
60
Like a joke, the next morning, his new California driver’s license came in the mail.
Danny sat at his kitchen table studying a
The most secure way to sneak back into the “danger zone,”
without leaving a trail, was drive the truck; burn cross-country, sleep in the cab, no motels, nothing on record.
There and back. He turned to the map.
The United States was shaped like a clumsy dinosaur with a pea head in Maine and Texas and Florida for feet. Road net for arteries. Big cities the vital organs. And it looked like Interstate 80, depending on the weather, was his best route, through Salt Lake, Cheyenne, Omaha, and into Des Moines, then shoot up into Minnesota.
Okay. He got up, meaning to flip on his new TV and check the Weather Channel when he saw his front gate shimmer in the rain. Swing open. Joe Travis wore sunglasses even in the gloom and rain, also a long brown oilcloth raincoat. He climbed back in the black Ford and pulled it closer to the house.
Shit. He hadn’t expected Travis for five, six more days.
He met the inspector at the door.
“Hey. Travis, how you doing,” he said, smiling slowly, apprehensively, looking past Travis at the downpour.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch driving, but I had to come down. Mandatory security call when there’s a violation.”
“Take it easy. Just a quick visit. Have to get back up to the city. This is strictly pro forma. You had a traffic stop last night by a Santa Cruz deputy sheriff.”
“How’d you know that?” Danny was really getting nervous.
“Anytime a protected witness has an encounter with law enforcement, he’s identified under his new name. You presented the new driver’s license, right?”
“Yes I did.”
“The copper ran it on NCIC. Protected witness names are flagged in the system. Washington notifies the on- site inspector that one of his people has had a run-in with the law. We have to come right over and investigate. Log it.”
“I tossed a candy wrapper,” said Danny glumly. “Two hundred forty bucks.”
“Yep. I saw the complaint. I warned you, huh.” Travis grinned.
“Now I know.”
“Good. It’s bullshit in this case, no problem; inside the county, could happen to anyone. But if you were a felon-type witness, say-and you got stopped in L.A., in a high-crime neighborhood, could be suspicious. But it’s a rule. So…”
Travis glanced around. “Hey, you got the computer up and cooking.”
Danny smiled. “Nice box.” He snapped his fingers. “Fast.”
“Cool. Hey, I’m going to use your john and be out of here.”
Travis walked down the hall toward the bathroom, went in and closed the door. The toilet seat clattered on the tiles.
Danny prayed a soggy piece of dead cat didn’t attach to Travis’s boots. The toilet flushed. The door opened. Travis emerged. “You need a new seat for the shitter, man.” even white teeth curved in a smile below the sunglasses. “See you in about a week.” He walked out and he was gone.
Danny flopped back on a kitchen chair and wiped sweat from his forehead. Goddamn, if Travis hadn’t popped in he’d have packed a bag, tossed it in the truck and headed out to drive day and night cross-country. Scratch that.
He tried to remember. Stories he’d done about the airlines. He recalled they were stingy with their flight information. He’d have to present a driver’s license to board a plane.
But his name in a Northwest computer would not be shared with the U.S. government short of a subpoena being issued.
He pulled the atlas out again. He wasn’t sure how far his
“danger zone” extended in a radius around the Twin Cities.
But then he slammed the manual shut. Screw it. Take risks.
Fly right in under their noses. To Minneapolis-St. Paul. Cab to Ida’s. Take
The Money.
Traveling on the airlines was out. A constant stream of drug couriers moved through airports. Airports used random luggage checks by dogs trained to sniff out cash. They’d spot it going through the X-ray machine.
Danny paced the kitchen, ducked under a loop of electrical conduit.
Mail it.
Why not. Again. Right under their noses. Another old story came to mind. Postal inspectors reacted to problems; they dealt with too much volume to scrutinize every package.
Better yet, send it commercial carrier. As long as it didn’t look overtly suspicious, it would go straight through.
Overnight express, from Duluth. Bundle it up good enough to disguise it. Take it to a Wrap and Ship. Let them do a professional box job. Tell them it’s books.
These things decided, Danny leafed through the local phone book for airline numbers. He’d have to pay for the ticket in cash, couldn’t use the marshals’ VISA card. And Travis’s procedure probably called for auditing the checking account.
Time to take some high-stake risks.
61
Danny, on approach to Minneapolis-St. Paul International, heard the pilot put the ground temperature at thirty-one degrees, with softly blowing snow. He deplaned, moved through the familiar airport, went to the men’s
