“It’s heading toward Washington,” I whisper. Thinking this might be a good thing. Thinking that it’s returning because Walter has persuaded whoever it is that needs persuading to give him the flash drive.
“That’s just a random circuit it drives,” Atticus says. “It might head east, it might keep going north. There’s never any set course.”
“What kind of security will it have?”
“The driver will be armed. There might be an agent or two in the trailer. It depends on what they’re transporting. They’ll be armed, too. Not to mention that if any trouble is even sensed, a team is immediately dispatched to take care of the situation.”
“Not the police?”
“No. The army would like to keep the lid on their mobilization program as tight as possible.”
“What’s the team’s ETA?”
“It varies.” Atticus glances up at me. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you it can’t be done. Even if the tractor-trailer needs to pull off for gas, there’s absolutely no way you can take it.”
I watch the red flashing dot as it slowly moves up the map. I close my eyes and still see the red flashing dot along with the children’s faces. Thinking of them, I reach into my pocket and pull out the cell phone.
“Zane called me on this from a blocked number. Is there any way to determine his location when he called?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can you do it?”
Atticus takes the phone from me. He stares at it, then calls for James. When James approaches him, Atticus gives him the phone.
“Do your best, young man.”
James turns away. He goes to one of the computers. His fingers dance madly across the keyboard. He pulls out a wire, inserts something into the phone. He crosses his arms and waits almost a minute before something flashes on the screen and then he steps back, a crooked smile on his face, motioning me to look at the screen.
I walk across the room and stand in front of the screen and murmur, “Son of a bitch.”
On the screen is a satellite image of my block. I don’t realize until another moment passes and I see the darting motion of traffic that the image is a live feed. A green dot appears along the street, just a block up from my apartment. Without being told I know that was where Zane’s call originated from. He called me when he saw Nova leave, and then when I asked to hear the children’s voices, he let me hear them, but only for a moment, because they were no doubt tied up and gagged in the van or SUV or truck or whatever had been parked there.
I say it again, louder this time: “Son of a bitch.”
I look up at James, point at the cell phone wired to the computer. “The next time he calls, can you determine his location?”
Smiling again, James nods.
“How long does it take?”
James glances at Atticus. He moves his hands around quickly and, stupid me, it takes a couple seconds to realize it’s American Sign Language.
When James is done, Atticus says, “Should be only a matter of seconds. What he can do is clone the phone you have there, so that when Zane or whoever else calls you, we also get the call.”
I take this information in, running it through my mind. Then I march over to the metal door, the arsenal. I open it, step inside, look around at everything that’s provided.
When I step back out, I ask Atticus Caine if he has any communication gear.
“Holly,” Nova says, “didn’t you hear what the man said? There’s no way we can stop that trailer.”
“I’m also going to need a harness and a lot of nylon rope.” I walk back to the computer, stare again at that red flashing dot. “Nova, what are you driving?”
“Holly—”
“What. Are. You. Driving.”
He sighs. “A pickup.”
“How many cylinders?”
“Eight.”
“A large bed?”
Nova looks at me. Looks at the screen. Looks back at me. “You’re insane.”
I ask Atticus if he thinks it’s possible we can get everything together in the next hour.
Before Atticus can respond, Nova says, “Holly, I know the clock is ticking on this, and that a lot’s at stake, but we have to be rational here. Tell me you’re not being serious. Tell me your plan isn’t to try to take out that trailer while it’s moving.”
I smile at him. “Not exactly.”
Fifty-Seven
I believe that there’s a moment every night where across the country, across the world, portions of major highways are deserted. It can be as much as a mile, but more likely it’s a half mile, or a quarter mile. For a couple seconds no vehicles pass over the asphalt. The highway has a chance to breathe. It has a chance to enjoy, if only for an instant, the calming stillness of silence.
From where I’m positioned overlooking Interstate 95, that moment seems to be now. Almost four o’clock in the morning, I can see a quarter mile south, a quarter mile north. No headlights coming toward me. No taillights fading away from me. In fact, there are no cars coming either east or west over the bridge. It’s an instant, only that, when the world feels desolate, destroyed, all life taken out of it except my own.
In my ear, Atticus says, “Three miles.”
I’m standing on the Commerce Street Bridge, facing north. Springfield Estates is off to my right; Lynbrook is off to my left. About a mile ahead is the 495 interchange, which is why we decided to set up here on this bridge. Because just like Atticus said, the tractor-trailers run random circuits, and there’s no telling whether it will go west or east or keep going north.
Headlights appear over the ridge of the interstate. They’re coming from the north. A moment later headlights appear in the other direction. That moment of peace and quiet has passed and it’s time for the highway to hold its breath again.
I’m wearing a black
