The Subway Page 16

  “Marshal, I want to thank you for being so accommodating to us here today,” Lipski said, swinging wide so as to leave a clear path out in front of the plane. “Please know the same will be shown to you should you ever have need of visiting the other Portland.”

  The line was meant as a half-hearted attempt at a joke, a bit of shared knowledge, some levity to end their brief time together.

  Weak, but a hell of a lot better than everybody trying to fumble their way through discussing what had happened an hour before.

  “Absolutely,” the marshal said, the word coming out a bit distorted, like he was surprised at being addressed directly. “I look forward to it.”

  Nodding once, Lipski parked along the edge of the tarmac, exiting without another word. The first one out, the air seemed to have dropped five degrees, the damp chill of it clamping around her, her coat swinging from her body.

  Raising a hand to block her hair from blowing into her face, Lipski circled around the front of the vehicle, hearing car doors open in her wake. Not bothering to so much as glance back, she walked straight to the lowered ramp of the plane, the low hum of the engine letting it be known that it was activated and ready.

  Just as she had instructed from the road a half hour before.

  The flimsy stairs bowed just slightly beneath her weight as she ascended, climbing the half-dozen steps before entering the cabin, the interior unnaturally warm after her short walk outside.

  More blood rushed to her cheeks as she paused, straightening her hair and clothes, the remainder of her team peering back at her, all eager for a debrief.

  Eagerness she didn’t have the least bit of interest in humoring at the moment.

  Taking a few steps further into the cabin, she dropped herself into the same seat she had ridden out in, waiting as Marshals Burrows and Marlucci followed her in order.

  Once everybody was inside, she lifted the phone from its carrier affixed to the wall beside her and said, “Captain, we’re all present and accounted for, ready to take off when you are.”

  “Roger that, ma’am,” he said, the automated door to the cabin rising into place beside them, taking with it the sound of rushing wind and the biting cold of the day.

  Just as fast, the sound of the engines moving into a higher gear could be heard.

  Leaning forward in her seat, Lipski shrugged out of her coat, leaving it bunched behind her. Shifting her body until she was comfortable, she clasped her seatbelt before finally looking up, the team each managing to be pointed her direction without looking directly at her.

  Like being in the conference room the day before all over again.

  “Well,” she said, her voice elevated to be heard over the engines, drawing the stares of everybody present, “as you all can tell, Tim Scarberry is not with us.”

  Nobody said anything, even gave a gesture, in response.

  “He is not in Maine, nor does it appear that he has ever been.”

  Pressing her lips tight for a moment, she added, “Looks like this entire time, the whole act of calling back here was nothing more than a ploy, something disguised to keep us off his tail.”

  As she said the words, more heat rose to her cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and hostility.

  “So as of right now, we are headed south. There’s no point in returning to Portland right now, no chance he’d head back there.

  “Just like there’s no shot he’s in Chicago, or stayed in Indianapolis, or anywhere else in the Midwest. Best guess, he just did that to shake whoever he thought might be following him, headed back to the only place we know for sure that he has any connections.”

  If Scarberry had actually returned home to Tennessee, Lipski didn’t have a prayer of knowing for certain. Educated guessing told her that landing in Chicago and headed to Indianapolis put him on a southeastern trajectory that would take him that direction.

  Years of experience with the program told her that people always had a tendency to head toward home when things got bad, which was what the recorded message he’d gotten a few nights earlier seemed to indicate.

  “So right now, we have about three hours of flight time. That means you all have two hours to figure out where those phone calls were really going all those months, who was on the other end, and what the hell happened to them to suddenly cause Scarberry to go on the run.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Have I ever failed you before? Been insufficient to get done whatever it was you needed?” Radney Creel asked, the questions out before he even realized he was speaking, going from internal monologue to audible uncertainty in a millisecond.

  On the other end of the line, the first response was silence, the pause long and pointed, meant to make a point.

  Which it did.

  Leaning back away from the wheel, Creel took a deep breath, raising a hand to his face and wiping away the sweat dripping from his upper lip.

  “This is not a time for ego,” Vic Baxter replied, his tone like iron over the line. “But since yours seems to need a bit of stroking at the moment, no, you have never failed me, but that’s why I sent them.”

  A crease appeared between Creel’s brow as he tried to compute what Baxter was getting at, attempted to decipher how his employer sending along three musclebound imbeciles could possibly be a good thing.

  As he saw it, the only thing they would do was get in the way, a trio of brutes thrashing around, drawing attention where it was neither wanted nor needed.

  “Think of it like chess,” Baxter said. “Sometimes, you have to sacrifice a few pawns to get yourself in position for the win.

  “I just sent you some pawns. Use them.”

  No further words were exchanged, no other directives as the line went dead, the call cut off. Pulling it away from his face, Creel wiped perspiration from the screen, thumbing away from the call and back over to the camera still streaming behind the cabin.

  Just as had been the case for the previous half hour, there was no sign of movement, Scarberry and the deputy having left together in her Bronco.

  Given that he was now positioned a half-mile down the road from the Sheriff’s Department, he knew they hadn’t returned there, but where they had managed to go, he couldn’t be certain.

  Perhaps to the home of the old man, Scarberry being the only person alive who seemed to know where that might be.

  Maybe even somewhere else, somewhere that would have more information they thought might be useful.

  Not that Creel greatly cared where they were, knowing there was no way Scarberry was going anywhere just yet.

  He’d come clear across the country to see to his adopted uncle. At the very least, he was going to be around long enough to bury him.

  Casting the cell phone onto the seat beside him, Creel climbed out, feeling the midday blaze hot against his scalp. Swinging the door shut behind him, he walked around to the pickup sitting parallel to his, three overgrown hulks all leaning against the bed, elbows resting along the side of it, hands hanging down over the edge.

  Just a group of good old boys taking a lunch break in a parking lot, much the same as a thousand other meetings like it all over the South.

  The sort of thing that not one person driving by had even thought to glance over at, including the sheriff himself a few minutes earlier.

  Despite that, Creel couldn’t help but feel animosity rise at their presence, just three more people he didn’t want or ask for.

  Already he was dealing with Pyle and his habits and his cryptic messages, still trying to determine who E was and how he tied into everything.

  Now at least he’d been given the green light to use these boys as throwaways, completely expendable weapons at his disposal.

  “That was the boss,” Creel said, taking up a position around the bed of the truck, squaring things off at two per side. “Said we’ve got the green light to do what we need to.”

  In response, two of the three nodded, the final one cracking a thin smile.

  As a g
roup, they managed to look imposing enough, striated muscle and veins covering their arms, a deep splash of sun coating everything, giving them extra definition.

  To peer closer though, it was obvious how young they were, their faces unlined, knuckles smooth.

  Doubtful that any of the three had ever been in anything resembling a real fight.

  “So here’s the plan,” he said. “Right now, we know that our guy is with the female deputy from the Sheriff’s Department down the road here. We also know they haven’t come back, and they haven’t returned to the cabin.”

  Around him, the young men listened intently, their faces drawn up tight, as if hearing a national security briefing on important matters.

  “So that means first thing, we need to get eyes on them,” Creel said. “I didn’t do it earlier because I was only one person and it would have been too easy to spot a tail out here on these country roads. With two of us, though...”

  He let his voice trail off there, hoping they would draw on the insinuation he was trying to make.

  Their task was to find the target, get a firm visual, and then report to him, who presumably would be following along as well, trading off with them whenever necessary.

  Not that he had any interest in doing such a thing.

  He just needed to know if they were going somewhere else that he could use as a pinch point later.

  “What are they driving?” the young man beside him asked.

  “Tan Bronco,” Creel replied, “the emblem and name of the Sheriff’s Department stenciled down the side.”

  Pretty much the only vehicle in the county with such markings, though he didn’t bother adding that.

  Right now, he didn’t want them realizing that he was viewing them us chum and nothing more.

  “And when we spot them?” the one directly across from him asked.

  Pondering the question a moment, Creel let a thin smile appear. Shoving back from the bed of the truck, he patted it twice, drifting toward his rig.

  “Well, you know how much the boss appreciates initiative in his employees.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Riding the subway?” Lou asked, the look on her face letting me know she thought I was just feeding her a line of crap. “Is that some sort of military thing?”

  Close, in that it was a government-sanctioned term, but light years off in terms of which agency and what it actually meant.

  “No,” I replied. “It’s a Witness Protection thing.”

  I hated speaking in half sentences, doling out tiny bite-sized morsels at a time, about as much as I liked talking about any of this in general.

  If I had my druthers, none of this would be necessary. I would have bounced from the cabin ten minutes before Lou arrived, would have retrieved my duffel from the woods and the Charger from the motel, and been on my way.

  Where to, I had no idea, but that was beside the point.

  I damned sure wouldn’t have a law enforcement escort riding shotgun along with me.

  None of those things seemed feasible at the moment. She had caught me exiting a crime scene, a bag of weaponry she didn’t yet know about in hand.

  Already I was hiding from one agency, I could barely afford to add a second.

  Not if I had any hope of finding who had tracked down Uncle Jep, tortured and murdered him.

  “Witness Protection?” Lou asked.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. Turning to face her full, I added, “I didn’t die in the military, that was just the easiest cover story for me, given my recent discharge.”

  “Cover story? Subways?” Lou said, her face scrunching up, frustration visible. Shaking her head quickly, her eyes bunching up, she said, “I thought you mentioned something happened? What the hell are you trying to say here, Tim?”

  “Eric Baxter,” I replied, spitting the name out, hoping it would strike a chord with her, would be sufficient to at least put her at bay for a few more minutes.

  “Eric Baxter,” she repeated, her eyebrows rising. “As in, wanted arms dealer that went away for attempted murder, Eric Baxter?”

  The disbelief was clear in her voice, though that part didn’t register too much with me. Instead, I was focused on the fact that she knew he was, was familiar with the backstory.

  That alone would save me a great deal of time and explaining.

  “That Eric Baxter,” I said, “the one who went away thanks to an unnamed person intervening and later testifying at trial.”

  Again, I fell silent, hoping I had given enough for her to put things together.

  Not since sitting down with Uncle Jep years before had I told anybody the story. Playing it back in my mind in the time since, there were moments when it had all started to seem a bit surreal, like I was detached, a side observer rather than an actual participant.

  Stepping out of the bar where my friends were, the line for the bathroom too long so I went to the alley to take a piss.

  Seeing the man on his knees, Baxter and his lackey standing over him, gun extended.

  Picking up the length of pipe and hurling it their way, drawing just enough contact to deflect his shot, the bullet hitting the man’s shoulder instead of his head.

  Fighting the two of them off, lasting just long enough for someone to hear the commotion and call the police.

  The process of being brought to the police station, held as if I too was going to be prosecuted, before being approached by an attorney from the Department of Justice.

  “And you’re telling me that was you?” Lou asked, her brows rising a bit higher on her face.

  Matching her gaze for a moment, I turned to look back through the front windshield, the dead and brittle grass along the roadway drifting slightly in the breeze.

  “Uncle Jep told me I was crazy, asked me not to, but I didn’t see any way around it. I knew someone like Baxter would eventually figure out who had been there that night, would come after me anyway.”

  Falling silent, I glanced to my lap, my fingers laced up, grime lining the nails.

  “And boy, those government flunkies knew all the buttons to push. Told me I could be on the hook for a whole list of crimes, too, based on what went down that night.

  “Really tapped into the whole just-getting-out-of-the-service thing, punching up the patriotic angle, asking me why I had been overseas fighting when we had garbage like Baxter here.”

  So much more could be said, so many details that could be tossed in, but I fell short.

  She was a smart lady, I didn’t need to spell it all out for her.

  Looking at me another moment, waiting to see if there was more to be added, Lou eventually nodded, her gaze moving to the front window as well.

  I could only guess at what she was thinking, the story sounding just as wild out loud as it had in my head all those years. Point by point I could almost visualize her going through it, trying to balance what she knew with what I had just told her, seeing how it jived.

  If it did at all.

  Every bit of earnestness I could muster had gone into the retelling, even if those emotions were the furthest thing from my mind.

  “One of my conditions,” I continued, “my only condition, was that I was allowed to speak with Uncle Jep once a month.”

  “And that’s how they eventually caught him,” Lou added, nodding, as if it all suddenly clicked into place.

  “No,” I corrected. “We ran through the line through a series of false relays, even had it end up somewhere in Maine, told WITSEC it was an old army buddy.

  “That man was in Vietnam, as old-school paranoid as they come. I don’t know how the hell they ever found him, but it wasn’t through the calls.”

  Processing in silence a moment, Lou said, “Probably staked out his house, managed to wait for him to eventually show.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “No. I’ve been there, too. They somehow figured out where his wife was buried, caught up to him there. How they did that, I don’t know, but it wasn’t the call.

&nb
sp; “That’s how they got to me.”

  Beside us, a small truck pulling a fishing boat sped past, looping wide to give us plenty of space along the shoulder. A variety of gear stuck up at angles from the back, swaying with the movement of the vehicle.

  A few inches away, the vents continued to push out artificially cooled air, my skin dry to the touch for the first time since arriving back in Tennessee.

  “How they got to you?” she asked.

  Flicking a glance her direction, I said, “They got his phone, changed the voicemail. To anybody else hearing it, it was just a simple change, but to me, it was basically a taunt.

  “We have your uncle, come and get us.”

  As had been the cadence of the conversation, silence fell in, the vents the only sound. Me, on one side, hoping it was enough, wanting to get out of the Bronco and on our way so I could go back to finding Baxter.

  Lou, trying to determine what to make of what I’d just shared.

  This time, it was her that broke the silence first.

  “And so that’s what you’re doing?”

  I never got a chance to reply.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The story was salacious, like equal parts daytime television and Harlan Coben novel. One bit at a time, Talula Davis listened to what was being fed her, unsure if it was the most outlandish tale ever concocted, or just crazy enough to actually be true.

  Parts of it were no doubt rooted in actual events. Some of the things just couldn’t be explained otherwise, starting with how he had been presumed dead and including a dozen others along the way.

  It was the rest of it, like Tim claiming to be the mystery man that had put Eric Baxter away, that was a bit too much to wrap her head around.

  Baxter was a known figure, both on the reservation and in the law enforcement community of the multi-state area. Working with his brother, the duo had set up a network of illegal weapons that stretched across much of the south.

  It was the sort of thing everybody was well aware of, the two wearing their reputation like a badge of honor, heroes in the low-end communities that dotted the landscape.