Stuart Woods - Heat

When he was sure he was alone in the building, he went to the registrar’s office and began work on the lock. This one was unfamiliar and very frustrating. He tried three sets of picks before he got the hang of it. Finally, the door swung open, and he had the place to himself. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he could see quite well without resorting to the flashlight. There, on the opposite wall, was a lucky break. He walked across the large room and examined the steel cabinet closely; the lock was nothing more than a common desk lock, and he had it open in seconds. Arrayed before him on hooks, clearly labeled, were the keys to every filing cabinet, desk and cupboard in the office.

He started with the filing cabinets. Switching on his little flashlight, he opened drawers until he had found both Jenny’s and Carey’s birth certificates. He took them to the desk of the clerk who had helped him the day before, then worked on the desk lock. Soon he had the certification stamp she had used on the copy of Carey’s certificate.

Now he needed something else, and rifling the clerk’s desk didn’t produce it. He began a systematic search and finally found what he was looking for in a bank of pigeonholes that held office stationery. He went back to the desk and switched on the electric typewriter that sat on a wing.

He needed names, names that were new, but close enough to their real ones. He rolled the first form into the machine and, under the space for a name, typed Jeffrey Warren. He invented names for parents close to those of his own, chose a birth date a year later and shortly he had a brand new birth certificate.

Then, working from the original forms, he created new certificates for Jenny and Carey. He carefully forged the necessary signatures of the doctor and recording clerk, then went to the copying machine and made two copies of each certificate. He then applied the certification stamp and forged the illegible signature of the clerk. All that remained was to file the new certificates in the proper place in the filing drawers, and it was as if these three brand new people had always existed.

He was about to leave, when he had another thought. He located the files for marriage certificates, found the proper form, made copies and filed the new certificate in the proper place. No one would ever suspect.

He put everything back in its place, locked the key cabinet, the desk and the door and he was about to leave the building when he had an inspiration. Directly across the hall was a door painted with the legend, “Idaho State Police, Licensing Division.”

He got the door open and entered the room. There were benches lined up for the waiting public and there, on the high desktop separating the public from the workers, was the machine, the one that photographed, laminated and recorded driver’s licenses.

He sat on the stool behind the machine and tried to figure it out. There weren’t a lot of controls, but none of them made sense. This was too good an opportunity to pass up, though, and he began a search. Shortly he had found the instructions for the machine, nicely printed on a single sheet of paper and laminated. After that, it was simple. He typed out the license application, stood himself before the machine, took his own picture, flinching at the flash, then waited while the thing hummed and worked and produced a laminated Idaho driver’s license in the name of Jeffrey Warren. He put everything back in its place, and, as a final touch, added his completed application to a stack waiting to be entered into the state’s computer network. Tomorrow some clerk would do his job, and Jeffrey Warren would exist with the state, as well as with the county.

He had just let himself out and locked the door behind him, when there was the loud bang of a door closing.

Jesse grabbed his shoes and ran soundlessly down the hallway. At the end he stopped and saw the beam of a flashlight from around the corner. He took refuge behind the nearest door — the ladies’ room, as luck had it. He ran the length of the room and ducked into the last stall, stood on the toilet seat, crouched and waited, breathing deeply to get his pulse and respiration down. He could hear the footsteps of the searcher, hear each door as it opened and closed. When the ladies’ room door opened, Jesse stopped breathing.

“All right, you son of a bitch,” a male voice said. “You come out of here right now, because if I have to look in those stalls I’m going to shoot whatever I see.”

Jesse squatted on the toilet seat, put his hands on the walls to either side and got ready to spring. He’d have to overpower the guy and hope he didn’t get shot while doing it.

“Last chance,” the man said, and took a step, his shoe leather ringing on the marble floor.

Then the floor under Jesse was illuminated as a strong flashlight searched for feet in the stalls.

“Shit,” the man said. There were more steps, and the door closed behind him.

Jesse tried to make himself comfortable; he was not going to move until his muscles forced him to, and he figured he could last a while. He waited and listened as the cop radioed in; the voice was faint from the hall, but he could make out the words.

“It’s Prentice,” the cop said. “Call somebody who has the keys to the courthouse and get him over here. I found a side door unlocked.”

There was a rasp and an unintelligible squawk as the reply came.

“I thought I saw a flash of light from inside the building, so I investigated,” the cop said back. “But everything seems okay, except the open door. I’ll stick around until somebody comes and locks it. Ten-four.”

His footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Jesse heard the side door open and close. Painfully, he straightened up, then sat down on the toilet seat to wait. Half an hour passed before somebody showed up with the keys and locked the door. Jesse waited another fifteen minutes before letting himself out of the building and heading for the truck.

The first light of dawn was in the sky before he crept back into bed with Jenny.

As Jesse was loading Jenny’s car for the trip to the Spokane airport, Kurt Ruger drove up and got out, carrying a briefcase.

“You’re up early, Kurt,” Jesse said. It was not daylight yet.

“Jack Gene sent me, Jesse,” Ruger said. “He’d appreciate it if you’d do him a favor while you’re in New York.”

Jesse wasn’t sure how Coldwater could know that he was going to New York, but he smiled. “Sure, glad to.”

Ruger handed him the briefcase. “He’d like you to deliver this to an address in midtown Manhattan at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He handed Jesse a card with the address typed on it. 666 Fifth Avenue, suite 7019, and a name, Mr. Enzberg.

“I can do that; my appointment isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Jesse, the contents are very important; you’re not to let the case out of your sight, not even to put it in the overhead luggage rack on the airplane. Keep your hands on it at all times. When you arrive in New York tonight, put it in the hotel safe and get a receipt.”

“All right, I’ll do as you say.”

Ruger nodded, got into his car and drove away. Jesse looked at the briefcase. It was black aluminum, the sort of thing that might usually hold cameras, and there were two combination locks, one for each clasp. He hefted the case; heavy, something solid inside.

The airplane set down at La Guardia in a light rain, and by the time it had taxied to the ramp Jesse was practically having to hold Jenny in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to be patient, “but I’ve never been this excited before.”

“La Guardia is the least exciting part of this trip, believe me,” Jesse said, laughing.