bank accounts.
As much as Drew could determine from what his prisoner told him, that procedure had been followed in this instance. The man convinced Drew that he'd been hired by what amounted to his agent, whose name he'd never learned. The agent knew where to get in touch with his talent, though his talent didn't know how to get in touch with him, and of course, the agent hadn't told his talent who was paying for the hit or why. A job was a job. Bizarre in this case, granted. However, the down payment had been generous.
Drew had frequently needed to rouse the man from his stupor, using smelling salts from the medical kit. Now he let him drift off to sleep, making sure that he had ventilation.
He brooded, discouraged. He'd desperately hoped to find the answers easily, but God had determined otherwise. His ordeal was to be prolonged. Yet another penance.
All right, he'd tried but failed here. Still, the failure wasn't his fault; if he hadn't tried, he'd have been foolish. But now he'd stayed too long. He had to get moving. Boston. His contact, Father Hafer. He had to tell his sponsor what had happened. To warn the Church and be given sanctuary.
He took the radiator hose off the end of the exhaust pipe, removed the sleeping bags from the back door, and closed it. As the man slept sickly beside him, Drew steered the van from the picnic grounds and continued through New Hampshire, heading southeast now, toward Massachusetts.
Chapter 4.
It was twilight when he came to Boston. He took his prisoner's wallet, then left the van and its unconscious occupant on the nearly empty top level of a parking ramp at Logan Airport. He had to do something with his prisoner, after all, and he had made promises. But that didn't mean he couldn't cause trouble.
Dusk had turned to dark when he found a pay phone near a bus stop in front of the airport, and called airport security, telling them where the van was parked (he'd taken care to wipe off his fingerprints) and what they'd find inside.
"He's a terrorist. I'm telling you, it's twisted, sick, perverted. You just ask him. He's got all these guns and - hey, he bragged about how he planned to hijack an overseas plane, make it fly to Florida, and crash on Disneyworld. Sick. So what could I do? Just put yourself in my place. I had to shoot him."
Drew hung up. Smiling inwardly, he got on a downtown bus, paid the driver, and took a seat to himself in back. The other passengers stared with disapproval at his stubble and grimy clothes. They'd remember him, he thought, and imagined the activity back at Logan.
Airport security's equipment would be sophisticated enough to trace even his twenty-second call, because a jamming device would keep the line open as if he'd never hung up. By now, a security team would have found the van, and another would be rushing toward that pay phone in front of the airport. They'd question people near it. Someone was bound to remember a disheveled, grungy-looking man in jeans and a padded outdoor vest coming out of the phone booth - and possibly even remember that the unshaven man had boarded a bus.
He was leaving a trail. If he intended to disappear, he'd have to get off the bus and do something about his appearance, change it, improve it. Soon. Only then could he go to Father Hafer.
He glanced out the back toward traffic in the Boston night. No flashing lights of pursuit cars sped this way. Not yet at least. But how long... ?
The stores were closed; he'd have to wait till morning to get unobtrusive clothes. Meanwhile? Assessing his options, he rejected a hotel, even a sleazy one. Not the way he looked. All hotel clerks had memories. Right now, he needed camouflage.
He amused himself by imagining the questions that his prisoner would have to answer when the security officials found him. What kind of story would the man invent to explain the bullet-proof van, the weapons, the radio equipment? Whatever the story, Drew thought, the one thing the man didn't dare
As much as Drew could determine from what his prisoner told him, that procedure had been followed in this instance. The man convinced Drew that he'd been hired by what amounted to his agent, whose name he'd never learned. The agent knew where to get in touch with his talent, though his talent didn't know how to get in touch with him, and of course, the agent hadn't told his talent who was paying for the hit or why. A job was a job. Bizarre in this case, granted. However, the down payment had been generous.
Drew had frequently needed to rouse the man from his stupor, using smelling salts from the medical kit. Now he let him drift off to sleep, making sure that he had ventilation.
He brooded, discouraged. He'd desperately hoped to find the answers easily, but God had determined otherwise. His ordeal was to be prolonged. Yet another penance.
All right, he'd tried but failed here. Still, the failure wasn't his fault; if he hadn't tried, he'd have been foolish. But now he'd stayed too long. He had to get moving. Boston. His contact, Father Hafer. He had to tell his sponsor what had happened. To warn the Church and be given sanctuary.
He took the radiator hose off the end of the exhaust pipe, removed the sleeping bags from the back door, and closed it. As the man slept sickly beside him, Drew steered the van from the picnic grounds and continued through New Hampshire, heading southeast now, toward Massachusetts.
Chapter 4.
It was twilight when he came to Boston. He took his prisoner's wallet, then left the van and its unconscious occupant on the nearly empty top level of a parking ramp at Logan Airport. He had to do something with his prisoner, after all, and he had made promises. But that didn't mean he couldn't cause trouble.
Dusk had turned to dark when he found a pay phone near a bus stop in front of the airport, and called airport security, telling them where the van was parked (he'd taken care to wipe off his fingerprints) and what they'd find inside.
"He's a terrorist. I'm telling you, it's twisted, sick, perverted. You just ask him. He's got all these guns and - hey, he bragged about how he planned to hijack an overseas plane, make it fly to Florida, and crash on Disneyworld. Sick. So what could I do? Just put yourself in my place. I had to shoot him."
Drew hung up. Smiling inwardly, he got on a downtown bus, paid the driver, and took a seat to himself in back. The other passengers stared with disapproval at his stubble and grimy clothes. They'd remember him, he thought, and imagined the activity back at Logan.
Airport security's equipment would be sophisticated enough to trace even his twenty-second call, because a jamming device would keep the line open as if he'd never hung up. By now, a security team would have found the van, and another would be rushing toward that pay phone in front of the airport. They'd question people near it. Someone was bound to remember a disheveled, grungy-looking man in jeans and a padded outdoor vest coming out of the phone booth - and possibly even remember that the unshaven man had boarded a bus.
He was leaving a trail. If he intended to disappear, he'd have to get off the bus and do something about his appearance, change it, improve it. Soon. Only then could he go to Father Hafer.
He glanced out the back toward traffic in the Boston night. No flashing lights of pursuit cars sped this way. Not yet at least. But how long... ?
The stores were closed; he'd have to wait till morning to get unobtrusive clothes. Meanwhile? Assessing his options, he rejected a hotel, even a sleazy one. Not the way he looked. All hotel clerks had memories. Right now, he needed camouflage.
He amused himself by imagining the questions that his prisoner would have to answer when the security officials found him. What kind of story would the man invent to explain the bullet-proof van, the weapons, the radio equipment? Whatever the story, Drew thought, the one thing the man didn't dare
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