The Hunted

49

Payne was sitting in a cab, his head resting against the cold window. After leaving Waller cuffed to the subway car, he had boarded another train headed in the opposite direction. He then switched to the Red Line, took it into Maryland, and called a taxi service. He directed the driver to drop him at a small independent motel near Bethesda he had located in the yellow pages.

As the cab glided along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, he closed his eyes for a moment and saw the face of a woman in her midthirties, large brown eyes, and brunet hair. Full lips. “Lauren,” he said, opening his eyes. “That’s Lauren.”

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You talking to me?”

Payne sat up straight. “No, no. I just… I just remembered something.” He tried to lock on the memory and suddenly saw himself surrounded by snow-covered mountains with a group of men. They were wearing backpacks and skis… and then the image was gone. The harder he tried to concentrate, the more distant the memory became.

After leaving the interstate, the cab hung a few turns and pulled into a pothole-infested parking lot. The driver called out over his shoulder, “Hey, buddy, this is it. Presidential Motor Lodge.” He paused a moment, taking in the state of the motel. “You sure you don’t want something a little nicer? There’s a Best Western a couple miles up the road—”

Payne craned his neck and squinted out the dirty front windshield at the run-down structure. “No, this is perfect, thanks.” He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and paid the man, courtesy of Jonathan Waller. “Remember, I want a cab here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Boss already knows. Someone’ll be here.”

After the cab drove away, Payne waited outside the office door, pressing a buzzer and peering at the front desk through the cracked window. It was a small room, perhaps ten by twelve, crammed with tourist brochures and guides, a well-worn brown Formica counter, and a small black-and-white television propped in the corner, its antenna a twisted wire coat hanger.

An unshaven man with a torn white undershirt stretched across his large belly appeared from behind the counter. He stepped as close as he could get to the door. “Yeah?”

“I called forty-five minutes ago, about a room for tonight.”

The man nodded, then waddled over toward the counter and pressed a button connected to a buzzer. Payne pushed on the door and entered the office.

“Payment due up front,” the man said as he slapped a clipboard and registration form on the counter.

Payne filled in the blanks with completely false information. He produced his credentials and flashed them, hoping the man wouldn’t take the time to read the name. “I’m a federal agent,” he said, closing the case and shoving it back in his suit jacket pocket. “I’ll give you my credit card number, but I don’t want you putting it through till I’m ready to check out, is that clear?”

The man nodded.

“I’m doing surveillance on a suspect who’s staying in your motel. But he’s very clever and has an electronic linkup to the credit card companies. If you put this through, they’ll alert him within seconds that I’m here.”

The man nodded again. “It’s that guy in eighteen, isn’t it?”

Payne looked around. “I can’t divulge that information, sir. But you seem like a pretty sharp guy.”

The man nodded, a half smile breaking through his unshaven face. “So I guess you want either seventeen or nineteen.”

Payne reasoned that in a dive like this, both rooms were probably open. “I’d prefer nineteen. Better angle.” The more detailed the lie, the more believable it was.

“I got ya.” The night manager turned to a board with keys dangling from bent nails. He chose a set and handed it to Payne. “Charge won’t go through till mornin’.”

Payne thanked the man and walked around to room 19. As the door swung open, the strong odor of mildew flared his nostrils. “Great,” he said, flicking on a light. He hung his torn suit on the lone wire hanger in the closet, cleaned his oozing thigh wound, washed his abraded hands and face, and sank down into the soft mattress.

Within minutes he was asleep, again dreaming of the brunet woman he knew only as Lauren Chambers.