I felt it in my bones as the first rays of sunshine sparkled off the lake's surface with a flash of golden fire. The solid feel of Ballycor between my legs became ephemeral and I resigned myself to a bath or drowning.
"Hold on just another minute, Bally," I begged, and he did. At least, long enough for me to see the low banks of the shoreline. Trees grew up almost to the edge and I thought I saw the flicker of a flashlight.
Then, I was falling as something leaped off the bank heading straight for me. I gasped. Closed my eyes because I did not want to see the face of my killer. My father. His arms gathered me up in a grip tight enough to bruise ribs and pressed me close to his chest. I could not see. He smelled of perfume, a woodsy, pleasant scent and coconut shampoo over sweat and fear. I felt his heart pounding like a frightened rabbit in his chest. I wondered why he should be scared and of me?
He didn't smell like my Dad, like salty fish, sea air and smoke, sunshine and freshly oiled leather. Nothing like him. I couldn't see anything as he turned and splashed through the muddy water up onto the bank where he began to run. He ran as if he was a horse with its tail afire.
He yelled someone's name. Jake. I knew then that it wasn't my Dad, couldn't be him. He wouldn't warn someone else to run and from the way he carried me, as if I were precious.
He ran through the brush like a bulldozer, branches slapping at his arms, face and my back yet he never faltered. I could tell he wasn't on a trail by the way he twisted and turned as he ran. It wasn't until he heard a second voice that he stopped and listened. He ran, then, in a straight, purposeful line.
He stopped abruptly, slid around something and opened what sounded like a car door and he did it one-handed. Then, carefully, he laid me down on the back seat of a car, not caring that I was wet and the seats leather. It smelled new. Buckling me in, he sat next to me and placed my head on his lap. His pants smelled like swamp mud and sweat, greasy French fries and beer.
Someone else took the driver's seat and took off like a quarter horse at the post. Only backward. I giggled, thinking how odd it was that he was driving in reverse. I had never been in a car going that fast backward.
I could hear snatches of their conversation; the clearest was that my Dad had sent others after me in swamp boats and they were shooting at the car. The driver's name was Jake and the man that held me wanted him to go faster. I thought he had lost control of the car when we spun around so suddenly that my head thudded into his lap hard enough to make him grunt and me see stars. He braced himself with one arm and held me with the other. He did not say to slow down. He told Jake about me, but it was all too much so, I just let go. Let everything go. It was easier with my eyes closed, easier to drift off and let the darkness fill me. I didn't have to worry about my Dad, Johannsen, or the other men hunting me. I could just float and let everything happen without me being there or caring.
*****
"How's he doing, Matt?" Jake asked as he drove like an Indy 500 winner down the highway. "We're only 5.5 miles from I-95. There's a police station off the next exit, 12, I think, which is another two miles up the Interstate."
"He's unconscious. No response. I felt him moving when I held him but nothing now," he said, worry evident in his tone.
"We can outrun the air-boats but one or more must surely have set up traffic blocks to the highway in case he made it out. One of them has to have a vehicle. Keep an eye out for trouble, road blocks. Maybe even spike strips, Tempe is sure to have some."
"You think the Deputy's with him? Can I trust a cop car?" Jake asked as he pushed the SUV up to 95 mph. Any faster and the car would lose traction on the gravel strewn macadam road. There were shoulders that sloped to gullies filled with stagnant water from overflow off the road. The sun had risen high enough that visibility was good, but the humidity was such that it caused heat shimmers ahead of them. Still, it was clear enough for Jake to spot the big Dodge 4x4 before it had a chance to T-bone them.
With the skill of an expert stuntman, Jake jinked the car to the left lane and passed the truck with less space than the width of a feather. That put them close enough to see the startled and angry faces of two men in the front seat of the pickup. They were clearly twin brothers. Both held weapons. Jake passed before they could react fast enough to fire.
"There might be more of them ahead," Matt warned as he turned around to stare out the rear window. The black Dodge was coming after them.
“This isn’t going to turn into one of those redneck truck chases? Where they come out of the woods in monster trucks, big jack-lights and rebel flags where they chase us with sawed off shotguns?” Jake yelled. “Cuz I always wanted to shoot my baby!”
“Your baby?”
“Look in that bag under the seat,” Jake whooped as he hit 100 mph and left the Dodge behind as he headed into a long curve. Matt pulled out a hard-sided duffle bag, opened it and whistled as he took in the sleek AR-15 and the 40-shot banana clips. Over a dozen of them.
“There are hidden depths to you, my boy,” Matt admired, smiling. He assembled the stock and loaded the magazine.
“Uh oh,” Jake said. He slowed down as Matt looked through the windshield at the line of trucks barricading the road. Both sides and the shoulders.
“You know, the reasons that clichés are around is because they’re true,” he observed. He took in the big, bad pickups. “And I bet Junior Samples is coming up behind us.”
They swiveled to look back, but the curve of the road prevented them from seeing any sign of pursuit.
“What should I do, Matt? You want me to ram them?”
“This SUV isn’t heavy enough to force its way through those trucks. You’d need a tank or an 87 Cadillac. What’s the GPS say? Any routes cut through before them?”
A small voice interrupted them, and both men swiveled to stare at the child in the back seat. He looked terrible, his face white, his cheeks flushed red and his skin dry. His lips were chapped and bleeding, his eyes glittered with fever yet there was a fierce intelligence in them even through his fear.
“Turn around. Go back a mile or so to that last curve where they can’t see us and turn off onto the shoulder. I’ll show you an old logging trail that no one knows is there. It’ll cut off a couple of miles and bring you out above the block, parallel to the Interstate,” Cris said. He closed his eyes as he rested his chin on his chest. “I’m thirsty.”
Matt searched the rear cargo area and found the remains of their snacks, a half-empty bottle of water and a full six-pack of Gatorade.
“Matt?” Jake asked.
“Do it, Jake. What have we got to lose?”
He spun the car around and headed back in the direction from which they had started, hoping that the rear guard didn’t catch up in time to see them go off-road.
Matt held the bottle for Cris as he swallowed tiny sips. “How are you feeling, Cris?” he asked gently, smiling at the fragile boy. “It was an amazing thing you did – all this way on horseback.”
Cris opened his eyes and searched Matt’s for a long minute. “Do you know who I am?”
Mathieu nodded. “You’re Crispin Lacey and Cris Snow. I’m your father. I was once Captain Faille Lacey as Neige was once Johannsen. I won’t let him take you. I won’t let him kill us again.”
“What’s your name this time?” the boy murmured as he sunk lower on the seat.
“Mathieu Eachann. I’m a Detective with the New York Police Department. I’m not married, nor do I have any children.” Cris looked at Jake. “Jake Jacobs. He’s a first-year cop and assigned as my driver. I’m recovering from an auto accident where I broke my legs.”
“Like me. No one signed my cast.”
“All the cops in my precinct signed mine. Even the Mayor,” Matt returned. “When we get you back, I’ll have all of them sign yours, too.”
“Turn here, Jake,” Cris said as they approached the curve where there was a large gravel shoulder. The boy had Jake drive-through the huge mat of saw grass which sprang back after they drove past, hiding their exit from view. Trees crowded the sides of the faint trail, within a dozen yards they were creeping along a forest of neat, orderly pines that had been planted in rows. An occasional trunk had toppled over causing Jake to find a way around, but for the most part, it was easy driving.
He drove for a quiet twenty minutes, going no more than 5 mph, less than a mile when Cris told Jake to stop. He did so without question. They heard the soft ticking of the engine and the utter stillness of the forest as it recognized an invader.
The ground sloped gently away from the front bumper and through the trees both men could see an opening that showed a paved road. The distant sound of traffic came to them as Jake took his foot off the brake and eased the car down the slight grade.
He waited at the edge of cover before he broke it, waited until Cris said it was safe before he left the woods to drive onto the paved road.
By the time he had pushed the car back to 70 mph, other vehicles drove past while others stayed behind. To their surprise, they discovered that they were not the only make and model of the same SUV on the highway. Over half a dozen, most had out-of-state license plates, too.
Matt had given up on the number of strange and welcome coincidences. If Fate wanted to hand them a winning lottery ticket, he would take it and run.
“Where are we, Jake?” he asked.
“The GPS says South of I-70. We’re heading to Florida’s Gulf coast.”
“Any stations on our way?”
“There is a State Troopers barracks twenty miles up the road. A rest stop closer, about five. Places to eat, gas up and call.”
"You think we're safe stopping? Neige is in with the Sheriff's department. He could be telling them we've kidnapped his son. Shoot first and then ask questions," Matt worried.
Signs appeared indicating off-ramps that led to small towns with names like Gators Ridge, Cedar Ferry, and Old Knoll. They agreed that it would be safer to head for a large city rather than risk meeting one of Neige's cohorts.
Matt checked the boy's pulse and it seemed weaker, his skin overwhelmingly hot, his temperature in excess of 104˚.
"We have to get him to a hospital, Jake. ASAP. Take the next exit and find a phone."
“Okay,” he agreed. He was on exit nine before five minutes were gone and just as he slid onto the off-ramp, a Sheriff’s car passed them lights and sirens. Jake slowed compulsively and heaved a sigh of relief when the car blew past them.
A long curve brought them around and under the highway, across to the other side. Two miles down the rural, winding road they came to a large truck stop, a 76, its huge sign not visible from the highway. It featured a Denny’s, Burger King, motel with Wi-Fi and showers, and a parking lot large enough for Sunday football fans.
Hundreds of semis were parked in neat rows, license plates from all over the US, Mexico and Canada. Jake pulled around to the back lot and parked with his rear end in, so he could make a quick getaway if needed. Shutting off the engine, he turned to look at Eachann. “Now what?”
“Find a pay phone. Call the nearest FBI office and find out where the closest ER is located. Have the agents meet us there,” Matt said. “Buy some Children’s Tylenol, if they have it. Water, too.”
“You want anything to eat? Shall I call Sanderson and Jane, too?”
“Good idea. Get something quick, fast food. I don’t like stopping this close to Neige’s crew. You have any cash?”
“Some,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m not in my own clothes, I ran off before I could grab anything. I left my wallet on the nightstand along with my cell phone.”
Matt looked horrified. “You mean you’re driving without a license, Officer? You deserve a ticket.”
Jake snorted. “And you’re holding an AR-15, Sarge. That’s a felony without a permit.” He got out and waddled toward the restaurant still in the ungainly hip waders which caused a few heads to turn as he passed them.