Stuart Woods: Heat

“I’ve got better than a leash,” Barker said. “You’re to report to Kip daily on your way to St. Clair and every chance you get once you’re there. If you go too long without reporting in, I’ll fall on you from a great height.”

“Sure, Dan.”

“Get something straight, Jesse; you haven’t been paroled; you’re still serving your sentence. You’re just going to be doing your time in St. Clair.”

“Right up until you get your indictments,” Jesse said.

“That’s right, pal; right up until the president signs your pardon. Until that day, you’re nothing but an escaped federal prisoner. You got that?”

“Sure, Dan.”

“I can press a button, and there’s a nationwide manhunt for you in full swing; the Immigration and Naturalization Service already has you down for arrest if you try to cross any border, so don’t get it in your mind to tool on up to Canada or down to Mexico, got it?”

“Sure, Dan.”

“And something else you’d better know, boy; if this doesn’t work out — for any reason — if I don’t get good busts on those three men, then you’re going back to Atlanta, and you’ll never see the light of day again. If the cons don’t kill you, then you’ll never make parole; I’ll personally see to that.”

“I know you will, Dan,” Jesse replied. He stood up and turned to Fuller. “I’ll need a ride to a used car lot,” he said.

Barker stood up and turned to Fuller. “Call me when he’s on his way.” He picked up his catalog case and walked out of the room.

Fuller sighed. “I’m glad that’s over,” he said.

“Let’s get moving,” Jesse replied.

“Jesse,” Fuller said, “you’ve got a gun now; can I have the steak knife, please? The hotel would just charge it to my bill.”

Jesse found what he wanted at the third car lot; it was a two-year-old Ford pickup with four-wheel drive and a camper box filling the truck’s bed. He made the deal and counted out ninety-six hundred dollars. When he had the paperwork, Kip walked back to the vehicle with him.

“Are you driving West now?” Kip asked.

“I’ve got a few things to pick up — the license tag, some clothes, a sleeping bag. No need to come with me; I’ll be on my way by tomorrow.”

“Call me when you’re on your way,” Kip said. He looked embarrassed again. “I wish I could have done more for you, Jess. I wish I could have fixed it for you to be with Beth when she died. I know it must have been hell, locked up at a time like that.”

“You’ve done a lot more than anybody else, Kip, and I’ll always be grateful to you.”

“You understand that Barker thinks what you’re about to try to do can’t be done,” the agent said.

“Sure, I understand that; he always underestimated me, though.”

“That he did,” Kip said, smiling.

Jesse started to offer his hand, then surprised himself by hugging Kip.

“You take care of yourself, Jess,” Kip said. He handed over a card. “This is my home number; if you can’t reach me at the office, don’t hesitate to call.”

Jesse handed Kip a thick Ritz-Carlton envelope. “You’ll see that this gets to the adoption agency?”

“I’ll FedEx it before the day’s over.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” Jesse said, climbing up into the truck.

“I hope so,” Kip replied, waving as Jesse pulled out into traffic.

Jesse went first to the courthouse and got a tag for the truck, then, making several detours to be sure he wasn’t being followed, he drove to Hartsfield International Airport, parked the pickup in the short-term lot, went into the terminal and bought a round-trip ticket for Miami, with a two-hour wait before the return flight.

On the flight down, he went into the men’s room, opened the lining of his suit and removed a key that was sewn in place, then he had lunch and slept like a baby. In Miami he took a cab to the bank and told the driver to wait. He signed in at the safety deposit desk and an attendant took him into the vault; using his own key and Jesse’s, the man unlocked a large box. Jesse took the box into a private booth and opened it.

He removed a small satchel containing forty thousand dollars that he had stolen from a bust the week before he was arrested, then he returned the empty box to the attendant and turned in his key. He had a snack and a beer at the airport, then flew back to Atlanta.

It was too late to do anything else that day, so he checked into a hotel near the airport, had dinner and watched TV in his room. Television was wonderful, he thought.

Next morning, he was at an office supply store when it opened. He bought a small safe, the kind meant to fit between a building’s studs; then he found an army surplus store, where he bought a sleeping bag and some work clothes. He sold his suit to the man behind the counter for twenty bucks, then he rode around Southwest Atlanta until he found a small, independent car repair shop.

A mechanic slid out from under a car. “What can I do for you?”

“How much to rent some space, your welding equipment and some tools for half an hour?”

“I don’t know, man; there’s liability problems, you know?”

“I know how to use it; how’s a hundred bucks?”

The man smiled.

Jesse began by drilling a quarter-inch hole in the back of the little safe; he then wired into a spare fuse, then ran it to the cellular telephone charger inside the safe. He put the truck on the shop’s hoist, found a space in the frame and welded the safe in place. When he was sure the mechanic wasn’t looking, he counted out a thousand dollars, stuffed it in his pocket, then put his own forty thousand and the fourteen thousand he had left of the government’s money into the safe, along with the cellular telephone, which would be constantly on charge when the engine was running. He loaded the pistol and put that and the spare ammunition inside, then locked the safe and let the vehicle down. He memorized the combination, then threw away the paperwork.

“That’s it,” he said to the mechanic, handing over the money. Then he got into the truck and drove west on the interstate. When he had crossed the Alabama line, he stopped and called the 800 number, tapped in the extension and got a recording. “I’m on my way,” he said. “Calling from eastern Alabama; I’ll check in again tomorrow.”

He drove west, marveling at the light and the open spaces. Occasionally, he left the interstate and drove through small towns, grinning at their filling stations and fast-food joints. He’d thought he’d never again have a fast-food hamburger, and he wolfed them down joyously.

He reveled in driving the pickup, in charge, master of his own fate, sort of. No guard sat beside him; no wall barred his way; no citizen wanted to beat him to death. He was a free man again.

He stopped in Mississippi for the night, sleeping in the camper box, and called in again the following morning. He drove on, astonished at what a big country it was, trying to forget the oppression of a six-by-eight cell. He stopped feeling panic at the sight of a police car, setting the cruise control at sixty-five, enjoying the slow ride. He spent one night in Amarillo, and he kept waking up, thinking about Mexico, a day’s drive to the south. He lay there, pondering total escape. He had fifty-four thousand dollars and a used pickup truck, but that wouldn’t get him far. He didn’t want to be a bum in Mexico; he wanted to be a free man, able to go wherever the hell he wanted to go, and he had a chance of pulling it off in Idaho. He went back to sleep.

He spent a night in Santa Fe and another in Denver, alternating between motels and the camper. He stopped in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and allowed himself half a day to look around Grand Teton National Park. It was early autumn and the changing leaves were magnificent.